Assassin's Creed: Raptor's Bane
Chapter 3
Filtered sunlight shone onto the young Assassin's face through the latticed wood above him and he blinked, suddenly missing the shade of his hood that was currently bunched down around his neck. Slowly, he pushed himself up against the cushions he had been laying against, noticing with great relief that he felt well and whole, with only a barely noticeable tightness in his chest as remnant of the toxin's assault. Steadying himself on his elbows, he noticed his weapons lined up neatly next to him, save the hidden blade that his brothers had graciously left with him. They knew no other was allowed to touch it.
Altair relaxed and shut his eyes, relishing in the return of his senses, listening to the early morning market-goers outside the walls of the Bureau. At his shift in position, he heard the wooden door to the inner room open, and he sensed the approach of the rafiq.
"You really have the devil's luck, don't you, Altair?"
He opened his eyes and turned his head calmly towards the voice. The black-cloaked rafiq was watching him from the doorway, a gentle smile visible under his short, dark beard. Altair started to speak, felt a slight constriction in his throat and instead settled for nodding in acknowledgement. He consciously touched his hand to his neck and cleared it uncomfortably. An aftereffect of the poison he assumed.
"Arsenic," the Keeper supplied, answering the younger Brother's unspoken question and moving to sit on one of the larger pillows by his side. "Exactly the same used on the other Assassins we lost, but theirs were given orally after they had been knocked unconscious. Yours was a much lower dose thankfully, but it was enough that we nearly lost you to a coma. You've been sleeping for almost a week now."
Altair remained silent, then, speaking slowly to ensure the clarity of his voice, he said softly, "I owe you my life, rafiq." He flicked his gaze uncertainly to the man's face then away again. "Thank you."
A week. So much time lost, never to be recovered, and his mission was nowhere near completion. Maybe even jeopardized by now. The Master Assassin tepidly focused on the elder one by his side; saw he was watching him patiently, waiting for him to speak. For his report, he realized. He needed to deliver the long overdue recollection of his findings and… encounters that had happened the day that ended with his collapse.
Altair took a breath and began to tell of his run-in with the clan member, carefully recounting the enemy's skill level and seemingly double persona, his countenance and odd behavior. He spoke briefly of the poisoning, words stayed by his disgust towards the cowardly method, as well as by his shame at falling to it so easily. The rafiq was thoughtfully quiet throughout his monologue, his face emotionless, and only nodded slowly upon his conclusion.
"We may have underestimated this group a little," the older man said with a tinge of regret, standing and folding his arms into his black coat. "I have sent word of your attack to the Master and he agrees that several more Assassins are needed to take them—they should be arriving here within a couple of days. Also…" the rafiq trailed off and looked away towards the entrance of the Bureau. "Also, al Mualim has ordered you back to Masyaf."
The young Assassin's head shot up and he looked at the Keeper with some alarm. "But my mission-?" he started, hit with sudden apprehension to the disgrace of returning to the headquarters with his mission unfulfilled. He would never hear the end of it from his brothers. The rafiq held up a hand to stop his objection. "This is for your own safety," he said sternly, giving Altair a warning look as he attempted to speak again. "The arsenic can have a lasting effect on your breathing, your endurance might not be as high as it was before the attack. You'll need several months before you fully recover."
Altair caught himself and, carefully blanking his expression once more, nodded obediently. He sighed inwardly, defeated, as the rafiq stood up and returned to his desk. He should have expected this. An eagle with clipped wings was of no use to al Mualim, simple as that. He should consider himself lucky for not being punished for his failure, and instead given time to recuperate.
Despite his own attempts to placate himself, Altair felt a sudden need to leave the Bureau, to run, to move—the frustration of a bird in a cage. Glancing at the bowed head of the rafiq intent on his work, he reached for his weapons, securing them upon himself before rising. He lifted his hood and took several quiet breaths, feeling the restriction of his lungs but knowing, with some stubbornness, that it would slow him little. It would take more than a coward's poison to confine him.
The Assassin took off in a burst, clearing the entrance of the Bureau in two leaps, not noticing the disapproving shake of the Keeper's head as he listened to him leave. He ran across the rooftops in a flurry of white robes, stretching his long-unused limbs, climbing and leaping gaps with an empty mind, directionless. All he felt was the rush of wind as he flew, running as if to leave his torments behind. He finally came to a stop in the shade of a terrace, well shielded from prying eyes by its wood pillars and the ragged white cloth draped between them. Altair panted, feeling and accepting the unfamiliar gasp in his throat. This was the price of his past carelessness.
He looked down at the alleyway under him, thinking distractedly that this was a good vantage point to watch those below without being seen. Altair pushed away the fluttering curtain with some annoyance, irritated as the torn and beaten fabric obscured his view. It was a rather sad sight, the material so old and weathered that pieces seemed ready to tear off at the slightest wind. Abruptly, a flash of recognition hit him as he stared at it, the texture of the dirty white bringing to mind a similar cloth, a scrap he had seen atop a crate, only to be picked up and used as a bandage…
Hackles rising now at the memory, the robed man tore the drape out of the way to look fully down at the side street and finally recognized it as the scene of his attack. The body had long been cleared, but he could still remember the collection of crates and barrels systematically stacked at the wall, and could still see the dried puddle of blood where his enemy had lain, now little more than a large smudge on the stones.
Altair turned his attention to the abandoned balcony upon which he stood, noting it was large enough to hide three or so men from unfriendly eyes. Perhaps men who had wanted to observe an attack, one planted and timed to occur exactly where they could see their target. …And follow him after it had come to a close.
The Assassin's breath hitched in his throat. Oh Allah… he had led them straight to the Bureau.
Altair had taken off at a run again even before his mind had formed coherent thought. The enemy clan had known the location of their base for about a week now, he analyzed swiftly. More than enough time to gather their force and storm the building. That they had waited this long already was a miracle—had their roles been reversed, al Mualim would have deployed the Assassins within a few hours of the discovery. They were lucky then that these snakes were not as quick as they.
He dodged an archer sentry on duty, ignoring his enraged demands for him to get off the roof, eyes instead sweeping the area for a group of armed guards moving towards the middle district, any sign of the possible attack. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but this did not comfort him in the slightest. The air passing through his lungs felt heavy, more hampering than rejuvenating, but the Assassin thought little of it, instead focusing on his objective with a single-minded determination.
The young Assassin slowed down as he reached the base of the dome atop the Bureau, scaling it with slight difficulty, and coming to a halt on the scaffolding. Perched there, he stilled his body and instead strained his senses, listening, watching, scenting, but no sign of danger came. Unsettled, he straightened standing at his full height for another look.
Only then did he see it, a suspicious group of six men was gathered no more than two streets away, sheltered by a half-demolished building that was little more ragged stone walls sticking up like broken teeth. Dark eyes narrowed as Altair studied them, seeing no weapons on or around the faction who seemed in deep discussion. Instead, all he could see was a neat stack of wax-tightened barrels, carrying to him a faint whiff of oil—perhaps for kindling and torches. They planned a night attack, no doubt.
Shaking his head slightly, he paused, seriously considering approaching and killing them all where they stood. He thought against it however, reminding himself that it was likely there were more, similar groups gathered elsewhere. It would be safer to root all of them out first before striking. For that, he would need help.
He glanced briefly down, before leaping from the ledge, past the trellis of the Bureau entrance, to land in a gentle crouch by the fountain. He was greeted by the scrape of steel on scabbard and glanced up past his hood to find the rafiq before him, blade drawn and clearly startled to see him—he had not expected him to return so soon, if at all. The Master Assassin straightened slowly as the sword was lowered to its wielder's side.
"Altair?" the elder intoned blankly, likely having dismissed the Assassin to have run off to brood alone or perhaps even head off with unnatural obedience to Masyaf. The addressed man hesitated, quite unlike him, before saying flatly, "They are planning an attack on the Bureau. Perhaps tonight."
The rafiq looked at him incredulously as this fact settled in, knowing he could only be referring to one thing. He did not question the validity of the younger one's claim, merely assessed it, and accepted it as the truth. Altair stood motionless; gaze steady as if awaiting judgment, expecting a sharp word at the very least, or perhaps even a blade to his throat for compromising the Brotherhood. However, neither came as the equally silent Keeper turned abruptly, calling into the inner Bureau.
Two figures appeared at the doorway in response to his summons, one a white-robed master and the other still bearing the gray of a novice. The younger one he had never met, but Altair recognized the former to be Malik, a brother he had often trained with when they were still initiates. However, upon their graduation of sorts, they had seen little of each other, al Mualim once commenting lightly that he had seen a need to separate the pair of troublemakers. Their eyes met and they exchanged a short nod, the happiness of their reunion dampened by the situation.
The two brothers looked on as the rafiq rounded his attention on Altair again. "How many did you see?" he asked, his eyes hard, warning him that he would take no hesitancy or nonsense. In this gaze, Altair was reminded rather vaguely of their master.
"Six men," he responded briskly, bringing to mind the brief glance he had managed to get of the soldiers. "Situated not far from here, to the east of the market. They were not outwardly armed, much like the member I encountered before, and they had barrels of oil with them. I expect the presence of at least two other such groups, though I have not been able to locate them yet."
The rafiq nodded and turned to the novice Altair did not recognize. "Isam, send a pigeon to Masyaf and alert them to the enemy's intention. We wouldn't want our brothers to fall into a trap if we fail here." The boy turned and disappeared into the Bureau obediently. "As for you two, scout out the surroundings and find the rest of those murderous serpents. I'm giving you five minutes to locate all of them, and at my signal, you are to attack them together, each to one group at a time. Leave none of them alive."
Altair bowed deeply, a hand to his chest in the Assassins' salute before leaving the shelter of the safe house at a run, Malik close behind him. He stood at the lip of the entrance; head swiveling as he checked to make sure the enemy wasn't staging their attack now. There was a heaviness in his chest as he thought this. If the four of them died here, it would be his fault.
A hand touched his shoulder, little more than a brush to catch his attention, and he turned to see Malik looking off towards the group Altair had spotted earlier. "The rafiq does not blame you, you know," he said quietly, avoiding his eyes. "You should not blame yourself either."
There was a slight smile now, just visible behind the edge of Malik's hood. Altair returned it in kind, offering a nod in response. Then without another word, they took off simultaneously, running in opposite directions in search of their prey, minds set again to their oft-practiced rivalry, their contest of accomplishing their task before the other.
The two systematically swept the area, leaping from rooftop to scaffolding and back as they searched several streets in all directions, circling a large circumference around the Bureau. Altair carefully kept the far-off, barely visible white form of Malik in sight, noting his pause each time he found another group. He did the same, committing the coordinates to memory. Each cluster of soldiers he came upon seemed hard at work preparing torches and handing out small weapons, daggers and near-invisible needles bearing an abnormal sheen. Likely poison-dipped weapons much like the one he had fallen to. His lip lifted in a slight snarl each time he saw the craven arsenal.
Finally, just before the time limit was up, the two met again on the roof of the safe house. They confirmed the presence of five groups and divided them between themselves, leaving the farthest one for last.
"Keep your distance from them, brother," Altair said a bit impulsively, unnecessarily as they prepared to separate. "They seem only trained in close combat. Don't give them a chance to—"
"I know, Altair," Malik said with a small smirk. "I am not a novice like you."
Altair rolled his eyes, a concealed smile at his lips. Again silent, the brothers parted once again and moving to position themselves at their first groups.
The Master Assassin perched upon a corner of the wrecked building shielding the soldiers, glowering unseen from above as he watched them ready themselves. He slowly released his Hidden Blade and threw a glance towards the Bureau. From an arched window in the dome, a flock of three pigeons appeared and winged towards Masyaf, released from the coop by the novice Isam. The signal.
Altair leaped, blade hungry for blood. He landed in the midst of the group, feet planted against the shoulders of one of the men, knife buried in his neck. The strangled scream froze everyone else in their actions, and the Assassin took the opportunity to draw his saber, slashing widely in the enclosed space and bringing down two with slit throats.
He saw the glint of silver, wary of it now, and deftly cut off the hand holding the needle, stopping it before it could stab into his back. Another yell as blood pooled thickly at their feet, mixing with the heavy dirt and turning it to mud. He kicked the now one-handed thug into the stack of barrels against the wall, the solid wood and oil crushing him beneath their weight.
The white-robed man turned to see the last one attempt to flee, stumbling over his fallen comrades towards the exit. The coward was killed in a flash of metal and he collapsed, the thrown knife through the center of his back. Altair swept the room with a quick glance before swiftly wiping and sheathing his sword. He cleared the wall with a running leap, hurrying for the second faction before they discovered the attack.
The second concealed group also fell with hardly a fight, and the young Assassin paused for a short repose, breath grating through his throat. He was tired, he realized with some frustration. There was still one group that remained, and he was loath to let Malik get to them first. Shaking his head to clear it, he climbed the street wall, feeling his fingers slip unnaturally on the stone and taking longer than usual as he attempted to steady himself. He pushed on relentlessly nevertheless, stopping atop the building to collect his strength.
It was there that, for a second time that day, a sight on the horizon stole his breath and stilled his heart. It was high afternoon, and the roof of the Bureau was wreathed in flames.