Assassin's Creed: Raptor's Bane
Chapter 7
Altair knew he was bleeding even before he felt the crimson warmth spread across the white of his robes, even before he could register the biting pain. His left arm shook visibly from where he held it outstretched above him, both his and Ra'id's blood dripping down his sleeve and spattering his face. The scream died in the soldier's throat as the Assassin mercilessly shoved his hidden blade further into sinew and flesh, the voice ending in a quiet gurgle as the man collapsed beside him and lay still. The narrow dagger that had come within inches of ending Altair's life fell from his hand and clattered oddly loud against the stones.
The young Assassin extracted the blade from his enemy and rolled over, trembling as he gripped onto his bleeding left wrist, the hidden blade protruding sickly out of the back of his palm. He grunted quietly as the knife retracted back into its cradle, scraping sharply against bone and the manacle that had deflected it into its wielder's arm. Altair felt lightheaded, beset by the pain that seemed to twine and entangle itself about his left arm, the stab wound bleeding heavily and the fracture from the jerk on the chain still fresh.
Vaguely, he heard tentative footsteps and he looked up past his hood to see about a dozen men, standing in a cluster and gaping at the scene of carnage. Altair's eyes narrowed at the last of the snakes, seeing four of them still sporting the injuries he had inflicted on them earlier, and had the sudden urge to rise, to finish the job. Though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak, and the eagle in him screeched in frustration as the men took one look at their fallen leader and scattered, none even thinking of trying to approach the Assassin to finish him off.
Altair listened to them leave, unsure if he was relieved or irritated that they did, and winced at the banging of a large door as they slammed it open and closed in their hurry. Gathering himself, he turned to his injuries and reached towards one of the fallen soldiers lying by him, tearing a length of the white tunic to bandage the heel of his palm. With the bleeding stemmed to some extent, he concentrated on attempting to get upright, unable to put any weight on his left arm, barely able to even move it. He groaned softly as he managed to move to a sit, cradling his wounded limb against his chest.
The Assassin blinked sweat and blood from his eyes, shakily collecting his strength. The chain dragged down on his injury, sending splinters of pain up his arm every time he shifted. Scowling at the accursed piece of metal, he took up the dagger Ra'id had dropped and began to pick at the rusty lock of the shackle, concentrating on the clattering turn of the pins with some difficulty.
When finally the blood-drenched iron fell from his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief, kicking it away from himself with slightly childish contempt. He settled his arm against his chest and bluntly ignored the slowly spreading scarlet blot on his sleeve, intent only on keeping his limb as still as possible. Altair rose carefully, gingerly, accepting the signals of pain his body sent him and absorbing it to deal with later.
He walked unsteadily past the walls of boxes, taking note of a few tables and chairs, most sporting newly lit candles, and a small stockade of weapons that the soldiers had forgotten in their flight. It was this he approached and dug through, shifting through the knives and short blades until he found his own familiar saber and dagger, still comfortably sheathed in their eagle-motif scabbards. He awkwardly bound both to his belt, unable to strap on the shoulder harness in his state, but nevertheless felt contentedly whole again.
The Master Assassin looked towards the darkness gathering at the edges of the warehouse, announcing the coming evening. The cold wind off the sea filtered in through the windows, chilling him and flickering the dancing candle flames into frenzy. It was time he returned to the Bureau, he decided evenly, looking around for the exit. He found it in a large, solid wood and metal affair, twice as large as any normal entrance, built to allow cargo to pass through. He set a hand against the wood, but as he pushed, he realized it had been barred from the other side, likely the cowardly soldiers' attempt to seal in the phantom of death.
Altair frowned in slight worry, unsure if he could make the climb to the high windows with only one usable arm. He swept a scrutinizing gaze over the random arrangement of crates throughout the warehouse space, trying to find a stack that he could climb without too much difficulty. He settled on the ones across from the corner he had just vacated, the metallic tang of blood still heavy in the air there from the three bodies that littered it. The Assassin pulled in a breath in preparation and approached the first stack at a run, stretching a hand out to the lip of the topmost box that was just over his head.
The wood creaked forebodingly under his weight as he fought to pull himself up, boots slipping against the near-ancient wood for any small leverage. Altair succeeded after a few long seconds of struggle, rolling onto his side atop it and inwardly cursing his wounds. He paused to catch his evasive breath before regaining his feet, minding his arm carefully. Dark eyes focused on the nearest window, level with him now, but a wide leap away from the stack he was balanced on. Normally, a quick jump would allow him to grab onto the edge, but he doubted his right arm alone could hold his weight long enough for him to climb out.
The Assassin crouched pensively, gazing around the area for anything else he could use to reach the window, but no other point in the room would allow him to get this close to escape. He frowned and decided to take the chance, only praying that his strength would hold out. As he stood, a short, sharp crack rent the air, and he tensed, looking around for its source. Suddenly alarmed, he realized that the sound had come from the crates that held him, the dry old wood having lost most of its structural integrity over time.
Throwing caution to the winds and his fate to the talons of his eagle, Altair took off at a sprint, feeling the crossed boards give slightly under each step. The cool night wind swirled past him and tugged at the tails of his robe, somewhat invigorating his failing spirit. He reached the end of the neat stack and pushed off against the last box forcefully, feeling portions of the crate shatter under him, staggering him slightly and absorbing precious momentum. The stone ledge of the window seemed further now, but he reached for it nonetheless, bracing for the coming impact.
The Assassin managed to curl half his right arm over the lip of the window as he fell and the rest of his body slammed against the wall, stopped abruptly in its descent. Gritting his teeth to keep in the yell of pain as his injured left took the brunt of the blow, Altair scrambled to hold his position, tensing his arm until he near felt his tendons rip, feet braced desperately against the stones.
For a brief moment he thought he would fall, collapse back into the hell of a warehouse too drained for a second attempt. But the eagle of him gave a shriek, indignantly flaring its wings against death, and Altair gave a final pull, managing to jerk his yielding body out into open air. The drop was short, passing by in a blink, and the Assassin suddenly felt a shallow pile of hay enclose him gently, welcoming him with a barely audible rustle of strands.
He lay still for a moment, breathing in the musty, dry smell of the straw and staring up at the clouded night above him. Everywhere there was silence, only broken by an occasional chorus of steps and voices as small gangs of sailors and merchants and boatmen passed him on their way home. Altair waited for a lull in the crowd before rolling to his feet, stray fibers clinging to him, and noted stoically now that the bandage he had tied around his wrist had all but soaked through.
The young man headed precariously towards a deserted bench to sit, to rest as he rebound his wound, but he barely made it halfway when a sudden flash of white on the corner of his eye caught him. Visions of Teutonic knights descending on him made his adrenaline spike once again, he already seeing the white and black tunics blaring like beacons in the dark. With his left arm still incapacitated and curled against his chest, he reached over and snatched clumsily at his short blade. He drew the steel in a half-frenzied forward slash, whirling around towards the threat.
"Wait, Altair-!" The cry, the familiar voice stilled his hand more efficiently than a counter attack. Altair froze, staring rather blankly at the man in front of him as nearby torch light glanced off his sword, illuminating Malik's startled face and outstretched hands, poised to keep the blade from laying open his throat had it continued in its arc.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he unsteadily lowered and sheathed his weapon, breath coming in clipped, steady gasps. The young Assassin stood motionless under the other's scrutiny, seeing the shock register clearly in his brother's gray eyes as they passed over the darkening bruise on the side of his face and the blood doused rag wrapped around his awkwardly positioned wrist.
"You… What the hell happened to you?"
Altair blinked at him, emotionless, his reaction numbed along with the rest of his body. "Malik," he stated idly, the name almost a question. "Why are you here?"
The older Assassin's eyes were still wide, but at the dull response, a glimmer of anger flared. "Is that all you can say?" he demanded in a harsh whisper, unwilling to draw attention to them despite the rush of emotion. Altair staggered back slightly as the other grabbed onto his shoulders at the sleeve, forcing him to look at him. "I've been searching everywhere for you, you fool! Your horse never left the stables, and you didn't even pick up the saddlebag you hid outside the Bureau! What in Allah's name were we supposed to think?"
Altair fell into a subdued quiet, unresponsive throughout Malik's outburst and barely hearing him over the tedious pounding in his ears. Suddenly dizzy, likely from the severe blood loss, he slowly reached out a hand and gripped the older Assassin's sleeve, attempting to keep his balance. "Thank you for your concern, brother," he murmured with a hint of sarcasm, his voice almost inaudible even in the hush of the darkly cloaked port and eyes not quite focusing on the other. His face must have grown pale, for his brother's fury vanished as abruptly as it had reared, replaced now with alarm.
"Altair!" The hold on his sleeves tightened, supporting the injured Assassin as his legs gave way, buckling despite his valiant efforts to keep upright. Malik glanced around swiftly, hearing the sounds of a small, chattering crowd approaching and searching for a place he could treat his brother's wounds out of danger of being seen. Like all the other raptors of Masyaf, the safest haven that called to him was the sky.
"Can you climb, brother?" he urged Altair, peering down at the other man in his failing consciousness. The younger Assassin shook his head mutely, struggling, but still clinging stubbornly to wakefulness. Malik gave a short, impatient sound. "Fine, then just try to keep your wrist still."
He obediently held onto his fractured wrist to immobilize it, starting to open his mouth in a question until he felt Malik's grip on him shift. The other man crouched slightly then rather deftly threw his younger brother over his shoulder, taking off at a run as soon as he had a firm hold on him. Completely startled, Altair could only hold on, feeling a gentle lurch as the elder Assassin leapt, bounding skillfully from a nearby stack of barrels to the roof of an ocean-side hovel.
Malik set him down against the wall of the adjacent shack, ignoring the rather indignant look Altair managed to give him from being carried. "Drink," he said instead, concealing a small smirk and proffering the water skin from his belt. "No doubt you're anemic by now."
The Master Assassin complied passively enough, admittedly relieved by the cool liquid against the smothering fog of fatigue. He watched Malik crouch by his left arm, taking it and gently undoing the hasty bandage to replace it with the clean dressings he had brought with him. As he worked, he seemed appalled at the strangely situated stab wound and he met his brother's gaze tentatively. "Did you do this to yourself?"
A moment's hesitation. "It was necessary," Altair responded simply.
Malik nodded and did not question him further, turning his attention instead to the rest of his injuries. He ran a practiced hand over the dark, swollen bruise circling the younger Assassin's wrist, feeling the displaced bones and gauging the extent of the fracture. Altair attempted not to flinch, momentarily worried that he would release his hidden blade reflexively if he did so.
"Well, luckily for you, it's not broken," Malik finally announced, looking up from his deep concentration to meet Altair's eyes. "A sprain at the most, but it should be swollen for a while. Also…" With some uncertainty, he tapped the younger Assassin's hidden blade. "You should take this off for now. The extra weight won't exactly help the healing."
When the other Assassin didn't move, Malik scowled abruptly. "Look, would you rather lose your entire left arm or lose your blade for a few days? Don't be so stubborn, brother. We are Assassins, we must always be ready to adapt."
Altair bristled a bit at the lecture, offended at having to be reminded of the Creed. "I know, Malik. I'd appreciate it if you didn't put words into my mouth," he said hotly, working on the clasps and buckles binding his blade to his arm. He had barely ever removed it since it had been entrusted to him during his initiation, but willingly parting with it for a while was much more desirable than losing the ability to use it.
Malik smiled faintly at his brother's outburst. "You sound like you're recovering already," he said nonchalantly, settling his back against the wall beside him to wait, relaxing for the first time since the two of them had met. As Altair rather reverently set the mechanism at his side, his fellow Assassin began making a simple splint for his injured arm, little more than a tight bandage to immobilize it.
As he worked, Malik, seeming unable to keep in the question any longer, asked, "What happened since we parted this morning?" His tone was serious, knowing the incident must have been severe for Altair to leave it as wounded as he had. There was no faltering now as the younger Assassin told his brother what had happened, his tone considerably blank as he gave as many details about the enemy as he could.
At the mention of Isam's betrayal, Malik seemed disbelieving but did not voice his opinion until Altair had finished. "I would never have thought," he said quietly, eyes averted. "To raise a hand against a brother…"
The younger Assassin left him to his thoughts, shifting his arm into a comfortable position in the loose sling Malik had bound about his shoulders. A sudden thought passed him and he blurted abruptly, "Where is the novice now? Do you think he returned to the Bureau?"
Malik stared at him in confusion, a second behind in the realization. "We need to warn the rafiq," he said darkly, rising swiftly and gathering the supplies he had used for Altair. The other Assassin stood as well, scowling against the protesting weakness in his body. As he deftly stowed his hidden blade against his belt, he felt his brother's eyes on him, probably indecisive of whether to leave him behind.
"Isam is not beyond using poison," Altair said bluntly in answer to the unvoiced question. "The rafiq could be in danger. Run ahead while there is time, brother, I won't be far behind."
The Master Assassin could sense more than see Malik's wavering resolve, unsure whether to protect his senior or his friend. Altair glared at him steadily, silently but clearly reminding of his duties. The message passed between them, and the older Assassin finally gave a short nod, swiftly vanishing into the distance and darkness in a fading blur of white.
Alone again, Altair made his way off the building, dropping a short distance onto a bench set against the wall and frowning as the drop jarred his arm. He would be bound to the streets, but he refused to be a liability. As he turned and headed briskly towards the walls separating the port from the middle district, he passed by the entrance of the warehouse he had been encaged in.
The Assassin paused, seeing the stack of barrels that had been barricaded against the door, the reason that he had been unable to leave earlier. A thought flashed in his mind and he moved towards them, rolling the barrels away with some difficulty to unblock the entryway.
He spent less than a few seconds inside the building, doing little more than knocking over one of the wood tables before leaving at a swift pace. As Altair distanced himself from the enemy's headquarters, the flame from the candle he had overturned bit into and swiftly climbed across the old wood crates. Within minutes, it had surged to a dangerous height, safely contained by stonewalls, but devouring all inside with a vengeful appetite.
There was little satisfaction as the roaring orange shone through the high windows of the warehouse, blazing until the building was little more than a burnt out husk, but Altair held a grim smile all the same.
Author's Note: The end should be near, only a few more loose ends to tie up now.