SEVEN MINUTES
This is ridiculous luck, Ziio thinks in a panic. They must be in this tower. They must be!
Her hands seem unattached from her body, fumbling and sweeping through the mounds of ammunition in the cabinet. Behind her lie two unfortunate Templars with throats dried of life. Behind them still, the ruthless racket of battle. Not even these stone walls can block or ignore it.
Yet Ziio stays focused. Where would the artefacts be? In the past three minutes she has checked two towers, one of which she saw collapse behind her as she made her lucky escape.
None of it makes sense. Where the artefacts would be, why the fleet are shooting when they know Assassins are in there...none of it.
Perhaps Haytham was right. Perhaps Charles does have the Precursor box and amulet with him for safe-keeping. In that way, Haytham is seeing to them, at least. But she refuses to give up her search. The lives of her entire tribe (at the very least) could be at stake here.
She kneels to a chest balanced atop a layer of barrels. It's locked, and she doubts she will truly have time to pick it. But this woman's pride is her blessing and curse: she draws her frivolous weapons — her lock-picking tools — and works with hurried skill, unfazed by the threat of being crushed; the din of death.
She cannot bear to think about who has died. She cannot bear to think about her husband, probably at current caught in a savage swordplay. Her son. No...she mustn't think of them.
Come on, she frets, move! Unlock!
Finally the metal jerks — and Ziio wrestles the lid only to find nothing. She curses aloud...and scrambles to her feet. Where else could they be?
No. They couldn't be at the top of this tower...could they? There is no-one guarding it...is there?
Ziio knows that this building has more hits to take yet. She may just be the unlucky one living as she is crushed beneath the stone. She won't let that happen. Not to her.
She ascends the winding stone steps, hardly aware that her feet are moving. The sounds outside become crisper and crisper, closer and closer. Any step she takes could be her last.
There is the door. She has no need to be stealthy in this: she is fairly confident she has killed the only two guards in this particular tower.
She steps out into the afternoon air...although it does not feel as such. The sky bleeds a bitter coldness, like a fresh wound between two clouds. Clearly it is not the only wound: Ziio dares not look down upon the bloody battlefield. She does not want to know who still stands (moreover, who might have fallen). Her eyes rest quickly on a chest behind the cannon, surrounded by turreted bricks. No ship has hit this tower yet; she wonders why.
This one is not locked. Quickly she wrenches the lid again...but empty. Nothing but daggers and dust.
Now she feels the beginnings of anxiety: where can she go next?
Where have I not looked?
Subconsciously, she gazes out to sea — and it is just as rough. The ships, in a furious bullfight, charge not towards each other...but at the fort. They are at war with the stone and the waves.
Ziio blinks.
Themselves.
But where is the Aquila? Where is the fleet?
Her heart jumps her to her feet; she scans desperately like a mother who loses a child in a crowd. But nothing. Only Colonial Templar frigates; a dozen of them...and two man-o'-wars from either side of the blue horizon.
And then she realises what this must mean. She wonders if Ratohnhaké:ton knows; has known. She wonders where he is...and in an instant her heart becomes his. She feels every single drop of aching poison; her throat turns to acid at the thought of all those lost souls.
The Aquila is gone.
All of our fleet. All of our navy. Dead.
She has so many questions: where the ships came from, how they went unnoticed, if any of the fleet were still afloat...but they will have to wait. She still cannot comprehend the enormity of this loss.
One of the ships — the one closest to the fort — flashes its red sails savagely. Ziio knows it is about to fire...but she is paralysed. Horrified. It is only when chain shots boom from the distance, flying past the side of her vision a good five hundred yards away, that she kicks herself into action.
She needs to find someone. She needs to warn them of what she has seen. The Assassins are losing; if they triumph in this battle then the victory will be a pyrrhic one. Without looking back she dives for the door...and begins to descend.
I knew it. I knew it would be this way...why did I not foresee this, too?