"We await your signal," whispered a Mohawk scout as I edged past him.

He was not the only one whose anticipated eyes surveyed me. All three of the Natives peered up at me from where they had stashed themselves in hiding places. I must admit, I was inspired by the third man's guise. He crouched low in the overgrown ferns. His khaki tunic looked inconspicuous against the green vegetation. A very clever trick of nature, I thought.

Now, to reach Braddock undetected, I need to be disguised. For that, I'll need a uniform.

I groaned inwardly. That meant a bit of bloodshed. But were there any stray redcoats near enough to kill?

I would have to come closer and see. I stooped through the swishing ferns, shielding my face with my hand. The Mohawk already in the ferns could sense what I was looking for straightaway.

"There, in front of us."

I winced through the leaves to see where the man was pointing to. It was to a small band of men a short distance down the hill. One of them stood slightly further away from his six or seven comrades. Only a little further back, but far enough for me to distract him.

Now I needed a spot to kill my target. That question didn't take me long to answer either: almost next to the stray redcoat was a small pile of rotting leaves. It was only just bulky enough to hide my entire body, I calculated.

I sidled silently along the ferns and dived into the pile of leaves. They made a crunch as I landed...but that was all it needed. A not-too distant voice came closer and closer to the pile. I waited with a ready blade. At last I seized my chance, lunging forward, ejecting my hidden blade. The deed was done before the man could cry for help. Well, that was one job out of the way. Now, just somewhere to put the disguise on...

ZIIO

I cannot even remember why I was walking past my tribe's barricade. Perhaps it was to check up on my comrades, or to find another weapon. Whatever the reason was, it was trivial compared to the distraction. I would've minded my own business, like I usually do. Until I heard my father's name.

My legs were paralysed before I realised what I was doing. But now, I wish I had not listened.

Behind a bush, Alo was having a hushed conversation with Kitchi. Nobody else was around. Curious upon hearing my father's name, I crept closer.

"But...Kitchi...are you sure?"

"I'm certain," came his reply.

"It was a long time ago, Kitchi. How do you even remember what he looked like?"

What are they talking about?
Listen, Ziio. You will find out.

"It's the accent," Kitchi hissed. "The accent from...oh, I cannot remember the name of the land. Near where the Englishmen come from."

"Ireland?"

I froze. A terrible feeling clawed my stomach.

"Yes, that's the one. I'm certain it was him. He was the one there on that terrible day!"

"It was not one of the Bulldog's militia?"

"No. His coat was brown! I promise you, Alo!"

My throat began to tighten with every word.

"Which one do you mean? The one with the black hair that rescued Koshisigre?"

Haytham. Where does Haytham come into this?

"No. Not the one that Ziio keeps running off with. I mean the one with the brown hair and bushy beard."

My heart was hammering so loudly that I was afraid they might hear me. I shuddered like winter had come early.

"Are you sure?"

"How many times?" Kitchi snapped. "I'm convinced. It was one of their organisation."

"The Templars?"

Templars. Is that a word I have heard before?

"How do you know the name?" Kitchi sounded surprised above anything.

"I cannot remember. I have heard it said before, though. I thought you might know as you were the one shot by the man?"

"No. All I remember is that there were five or six of them on the day. Helaku shot one of them, by instinct. His father told him to stop, and –"

A sickening boom splintered the air. All three of our heads jerked in surprise. I tried to figure out where the epicentre of the explosion was...but I was too far away. Birds squawked their warning cries to one another and burst from trees.

"What was that?" whispered Kitchi.

"I don't know," replied Alo. "But whatever it was, it did not sound too promising."

I knew it could mean one of two things: the ambush had begun...or (my heart began to beat faster) Haytham was in danger. No. That was assuming the worst. Haytham could take care of himself. Whichever one of the two the explosion meant, it was my call to action. I drew my knife out of its case, and headed for the source of the noise.

HAYTHAM

At last. I had this savage of a man, who bathed in his confidence and blood of others, at gunpoint. Adrenaline seared through my body like the bullet Edward was about to receive. The smugness had vanished from his face; anxiety played across his eyes. This was what I had been waiting for. This was the moment that I would finally end the misery of the Mohawks. My head chanted a mantra; a battle-cry that became louder and louder with my every heartbeat.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

"Come on, then!" roared Edward, letting go of his horses' reins.

Do it! Do it! Do it now!

My finger latched onto the trigger. But the shot did not come from my gun. Before I knew what had happened, my horse gave a blood-curdling squeal, and I felt myself falling, falling...

I hit the earth with a dull thump. The lifeless horse's flank was cushioned by my leg, as it too toppled to the forest floor. I writhed myself free from under the dead animal, whipping around in alarm.

What faced me now made my heart stop dead. My lungs became paralysed; I couldn't breathe.

Staring back down at me was the glinting musket of George Washington.

ZIIO

I didn't stop to think what I was doing. I didn't care if I'd been heard or not. I sprinted down the hill towards the river. Aggressive male voices rose like the steam from the water. I could tell they were both English.

Boom. Another gunshot crackled through the air.

"Such, arrogance," I heard a voice hiss, "I always knew it would be the end of you!"

The voice did not belong to Haytham.

Which means...
He's in trouble!

"Haytham!" I cried aloud without thinking. I burst down the steep hill; past the Natives like me and barricades; bushes and trees; earth and grass. My heartbeat was in time with my own footsteps. Brambles tore at my boots, but I didn't care. Haytham could be dead, or dying. No. Not if I hurried.

A clearing emerged from behind a fringe of leaves. It was the riverbank, where stood three horses and three men: some apparently dead, some alive and one floundering on the bank.

I was close enough to see what was happening, now. Enclosed in a circle of two men lay a limp horse and...Haytham. I gasped in terror. It was George Washington, who held him at gunpoint.

I charged with all my strength, leapt up behind Washington and shoved him clean off the saddle. I didn't wait for his body to fall, either: I knelt, whipped out my knife and pressed it against his throat. I glared up at the stunned Bulldog.

"Don't." I spat at him fiercely.

Haytham looked sideways at me in relief and gratitude, but Braddock saw his chance. He slipped off his horse and began dashing through the river at breakneck speed.

"Hurry, before he gets away!" I bellowed at him, furiously beating back Washington. He wriggled and kicked out like an angry infant, his fist eventually colliding with my forehead. It throbbed for a moment, but my distraction levels did not falter. For Haytham, this wasn't the case. He didn't move.

"I SAID GO!" I roared over the blood pounding in my head. Washington continued to struggle in vain; my knife slipped from his throat. I quickly recovered as I thrashed the hilt of the weapon against his head. He squirmed like an insect; I stuck him again and again. At last, when he was unconscious, I whipped my head around to see where Haytham was, panting.

But this was no time for sightseeing. A distant warning call from one of my own tribe told me that some of Braddock's men were coming. I dived for the nearest cover: back into the thicket, as quickly as I possibly could. The mission was complete.