Masyaf, September 1191
The garden at the rear of Castle Masyaf was a sight to behold. High up in the Jabal Bahra mountains, it overlooked the shimmering river below. It was adorned with exotic flowers, with a beautiful marble floor.
However, despite its beauty, it was far from an oasis of peace, as two combatants were locked in battle for the fate of an ancient order. One of them was a young man with a scar on his lip, adorned in white robes. The upper half of his face was covered by a hood, shaped similar to an eagle's beak.
The other was an elder – one-eyed, with a long, white beard. He wore similar, yet much more ornate robes, coloured black and red. A dim, golden glow surrounded the old man, who looked at his former student with an amused expression on his face.
Both of the men were exhausted from the battle, yet despite the vast gap in experience and power, neither of them seemed to have an advantage over the other.
This would soon change, as the old man attempted to stab his student with a forward thrust of his sword, which was sidestepped. That was the last mistake he made before the famed hidden blade drove into his stomach, causing him to drop his weapon and collapse onto the floor below.
As he was tackled onto the ground, he was forced to release the grip on the round, golden artifact. He tried to catch it, but it rolled away from his grasp. The old man dropped his hand in defeat.
"Impossible." He muttered, before looking at his opponent. "The student does not defeat the teacher."
"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted." Altaïr hung his head, keeping his voice even despite the emotional turmoil within. He couldn't bear to look at his dying master in the eye.
"So it seems," Al Mualim acknowledged. "You have won, then. Go and claim your prize."
"You held fire in your hand, old man," the Assassin shot back. "It should've been destroyed."
The traitor scoffed. "Destroy the only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never."
"Then I will." said Altaïr, before releasing his former master.
"We'll see about that." He snarled before finally drawing his last breath as his head rolled onto the side.
With a heavy sigh, the Assassin turned around, walking towards the dropped Piece of Eden. However, by some miracle, he could still hear the old man's voice in his head, as if his mind was still alive, preserved by the Treasure.
'I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also was chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.'
Altaïr stood silent, mesmerised by the artifact. He hesitated to move, not knowing what to do. The Piece was dangerous – that was much certain. And yet… he couldn't bring himself to actually do it, as if bewitched by it.
'Destroy it!' he heard Al Mualim's mocking voice once again. 'Destroy it as you said you would!'
"I…" he struggled to find words. "I can't."
'Yes, you can, Altair. But you won't...'
The voice faded away, leaving the Assassin alone with his thoughts.
He picked it up, causing it to light up with a golden glow. It was as if it came to life in his hand. The Piece of Eden throbbed in Altaïr's hands and began filling his mind with images. Incredible, incomprehensible images.
He saw a grand city unlike any he'd ever seen before – located on an isle and surrounded by a vast lake, it was a beauty to behold. Built from marble, it had a perfectly circular shape, its districts evenly divided by internal walls. And in the middle of it all – a tall, majestic tower.
The image shifted. The sky changed from a tranquil blue to a hellish red, and and the inside of the city was dotted by strange, burning gates, out of which creatures beyond Altaïr's comprehension poured by the droves. They caused untold destruction, slaying anyone who stood in their path. One such creature was the most noticeable – an oddly human-like giant with a monstrous visage – its skin colored blood red, it had four arms, one of which held a large battle axe while another had metal claws protruding from it. While the Assassin was no pious man, the only word he could use to describe this creature would be 'demonic'.
One image changed another, as the demon was engaged in battle with another creature – one quite literally made out of fire as its light illuminated the area. It was shaped like some sort of serpent – yet it had wings and legs. Its 'teeth' were razor sharp, and long, pointy horns could be seen on its head. Altaïr's mind equated it to the ancient Greek hydra – while it only had one head, it was the closest thing he could compare it to.
The demon swung its weapon at the serpent. The strike missed as the serpent dodged, only to rapidly dash right through the giant's body in a burst of flames, causing it to roar in pain. The giant was on the attack yet again, trying to stab the serpent with the claws on its fist, staggering it.
Emboldened by the successful strike, the demon went on the offensive, swinging its axe once again, this time managing to hit the fiery reptile. Another hit followed as its fist connected with the serpent's head. The demon raised its axe to strike once again, only for its adversary to release a torrent of incinerating flames out of its mouth, causing it to cease its assault. The serpent then reared its head back, before swiftly lunging at the demon's neck, clasping its teeth around it with a sickening crunch.
This seemed to do great damage to the demon, which looked exhausted after its brief offensive. The serpent opened its mouth once again, this time releasing a white mist at its opponent. This caused it to roar in agony as white light began leaking out of its body, and turning to nothing.
The victorious serpent lowered its head. It was breathing heavily with exhaustion, but not for long. It looked high up into the sky and released a monstrous roar which shook the land, glowing brighter than ever. As the light dissipated, the creature had turned to stone, leaving nothing more than a statue in the aftermath of the battle.
What… what is this? What is the Treasure trying to show me?
Altaïr was entranced by what he saw. It was all so surreal, none of it made sense. Surely, none of this is real. The brief battle between the two strange creatures resembled something out of those 'holy' books the Saracen and the Crusaders were killing each other over, and yet… it felt real. He could feel the ground shake as the goliaths fought, the intense heat of the serpent's flames, and the heavy scent of smoke in the air. No… This is an illusion. It has to be.
That was the last thought in the Assassin's mind as his consciousness slowly began to fade. The Piece of Eden shined brightly as its light enveloped Altaïr in a golden aura, before his vision went dark.
Altaïr was no stranger to cold weathers. Masyaf had been built on top of a mountain, after all, and the Assassin robes usually protected its wearer from such harsh conditions.
However, this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.
The air was freezing. It was as though the sun itself had been blotted out from the sky, and he felt the chill in his bones. The Assassin was shaking, his teeth clicking into place as he was laying in a prone position, in what felt like snow.
Where am I?
His eyes finally opened, and the first thing he saw was how white the area seemed to be. The wilderness around him was unfamiliar – the landscape was hilly, surrounded by large mountains and adorned with tall trees, all covered in snow. The only evidence of there ever being human presence on this land was the stone footpath in between the rows of trees.
Heaving a sigh, Altaïr finally stood up, looking around for any signs of inhabited life nearby, to no avail – this place was deserted. Only thing that was left to him is to determine what direction to take, which made him look up into the sky into the sun above. The position of the sun gave him the answer – he was facing north.
What brought me here? The Assassin thought back to his battle with Al Mualim, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It did not take him long to realise. The Treasure!
Altaïr immediately closed his eyes and activated his hidden gift. However, the world went completely grey as nothing lit up. Not even a hint of that familiar golden glow in his Eagle Vision. Nothing whatsoever.
Gritting his teeth, Altaïr released an angry growl. He still couldn't process what was happening, but one thing was for sure – he was all but stranded here, all thanks to the old man's damned artifact!
But what if all this is yet another illusion, created by the Treasure?
It certainly was possible. If the artifact could manipulate people's minds, in order to subjugate their will, then wherever he was might not have been real in the first place. It wouldn't be the first time it created such lifelike illusions – his mind went back to that shameful day, when his arrogance cost Malik his arm and his brother's life. Al Mualim seemingly stabbed him for his insubordination – only for Altaïr to find out that none of it was real.
"You felt what I wanted you to feel," he remembered his former master's words. He felt the embrace of death as the Mentor's blade was driven into his stomach – and yet, the next thing he knew, he was unharmed, standing in his mentor's study as he was stripped of his rank.
Altaïr knew very little of the artifact, but his very few interactions with it told him that there was precious few he could do to snap out of the illusion. When he was stabbed, he lost consciousness, and the Treasure's effect on his mind was dispelled. The second time he saw it being used was during his fight against Al Mualim – and while he withstood its attacks on his mind then, and successfully repelled the illusory enemies that it created – this was something completely different
However, instead of waiting for it to dissolve on its own, he decided to at least explore it. He didn't have a lot of options – the road went from north to south, as he'd gathered from the position of the sun. After some deliberation, the Assassin decided to go north – not for any particular reason.
A very small part of his mind was curious as to where he'd ended up. If all of this truly was in his mind, then he expected something more… familiar. Altaïr was no stranger to travelling – his missions required him to travel all across the Sultan's lands, from Jerusalem to Alep. But this was something he'd never seen before. The terrain was alien. Nothing came to mind as he tried to remember anything similar to this strange land.
If the Treasure creates a paradise for those it afflicts, then why is it so damned cold here?
This definitely did not seem like any place in Salah ad-Din's domain, He remembered his former mentor's teachings – to the north of it was the Sultanate of the Seljuks. To the east – the Abbasids and the Persians, and to the south – the vast desert. From what little he'd heard of these lands, nothing seemed to come to mind as he eyed the terrain.
As he traversed this frozen land, Altaïr couldn't help but be on alert. Wilderness like this would not be without its predators, and as such his hand was firmly on the hilt of his sabre, still attached to his hip. His fears, however, were for naught as time passed - the only threat to his safety was the freezing cold air. Slowly, but surely, he was following the road in hopes of finding… something, in this domain. As time went on, it seemed more and more likely that whatever he was witnessing and feeling, it was real. He did not know the inner workings of the Piece of Eden, but the supposed illusion was going on for far too long. This only raised his concerns as he continued onwards. Another thing that troubled him was the hunger – the Assassin hadn't eaten a thing after his journey from Arsuf to Masyaf.
His sharp eyes finally caught something in the distance – at first, it was hard to define, but as he moved closer, he could see a large, wooden gate between two large cliffs, and finally – live, human beings! Two of them were in front of the gate, and two, who he'd correctly guessed were archers, were positioned on the platform above it. Those men were warriors, that much was certain. Soldiers, perhaps – as he moved closer, he finally saw what they wore. It was a kind of light, leather armor, colored mostly red and brown. He looked at their faces – their skin was lighter than those of the people in his land. He gathered that those were Franks – men from the same land the Crusaders came from. Obviously, none of them wore the distinctive armour, which put his mind at ease.
The men noticed him as well, and were immediately on alert. As Altaïr approached the gate, one of them moved from his position, with his hand raised.
"Halt, citizen," he ordered with a commanding voice. To the Assassin's surprise, whoever this was, he was not speaking French. He spoke fluent Arabic. "Remove your hood and state your business in Skyrim."
Skyrim?
Altaïr put his thoughts aside for now as his training in deception allowed him to fabricate an excuse on the spot. "I am a travelling scholar, hoping to learn more about… Skyrim, and its people."
The guard analysed him with a scrutinising gaze, looking him up and down and taking notice of the sword on the Assassin's hip and the pouch full of throwing knives. "You're quite heavily armed for a scholar."
"The roads are not safe. I would rather be prepared in case of an attack," the Assassin affirmed.
"Fair enough, I suppose," the guard surprisingly relented, but still kept his gaze on him. "Name?"
"Altaïr ibn la'Ahad."
"And you've crossed the entirety of Pale Pass on foot?".
"…No. My horse died as I was crossing it," he lied once again.
"I am sorry to hear that," the soldier's expression softened. "Very well, you may pass. And stay out of trouble."
Altaïr nodded gratefully, raising his hood once again. The other guard opened the gate, allowing him to pass through. However, before he could proceed, he turned back to the soldier.
"Could you tell me where the nearest settlement is?"
"If you follow the road to the north, it will take you to Helgen. It's not too far from here."
The Assassin bid him thanks and followed the border guard's directions. The names mentioned by him only served to confuse Altaïr more. They sounded foreign in his mind. And yet… those people spoke his language. He did not have to converse with them in French as he did with the Crusaders. Perhaps I am closer to Masyaf than I thought.
However, his confusion only increased as he came to a crossroads. There was a sign by the side of the road – a simple pole in the ground with wooden, pointed boards, each one directed to a different side. Altaïr approached it with interest.
What is this place?! The people speak Arabic, yet the letters are Latin, written from left to right!
Indeed, the board pointing north read 'Helgen'. Written in the script of the Romans, which Altaïr was thankfully able to read. Helgen, however, wasn't the only town listed on this sign.
"Falkreath. Ivarstead. Riften." Altaïr read them out loud.
None of these places were familiar. With an annoying sign, the Assassin decided not to disregard the soldier's advice and continued his northward trek.
Hopefully I can learn more about this land there.
As it turned out, the guard was correct – he didn't have to walk for long after discovering that sign. He could see a wooden gate similar to the one he passed through on the border. And once again, there were guards posted there. The guards here were much more lenient than the ones at the border, and let him through without much questioning.
Helgen was quite a sizeable village, comparable to Masyaf. It was quite well-fortified, with several watchtowers and a stone wall surrounding it. Unlike his home village, the buildings here were mostly made of wood, rather than stone. It was nothing impressive, but Altaïr couldn't complain after spending most of his day wandering the wilderness.
One thing he had noticed was the military presence – the watchtowers had archers, and the village was patrolled by a decent number of soldiers. It seemed almost excessive – the village didn't seem that important, at least at first glance. Another was that the people here were even more light-skinned than the soldiers he'd encountered at the border. They oddly resembled Sibrand, the Teutonic knight from Acre – most of them had fair hair.
However, more pressing matters were requiring his attention, as one of the most basic needs made its presence known yet again. Not knowing where to look, Altaïr approached one of the soldiers – a tall, red-haired young man, no older than twenty.
"Greetings. Could you please tell me where I can purchase some food?" he asked politely.
"New in town, eh?" the soldier said, before pointing towards one of the buildings. "See that big house near the courtyard? That's the Helgen Homestead. Vilod has everything you need."
"Many thanks."
Altaïr continued onwards, following the main road. He paid no mind to the soldiers briefly glancing at him – no doubt thanks to the distinctive clothes and the array of weaponry on him. They hadn't bothered him, so he ignored them in return.
Finally, he reached the Homestead, and opened the door. The inn was cozy, with a burning hearth providing all the warmth he needed. Multiple wooden tables could be seen on his right-hand side, and there were about nine to ten rooms, judging by the number of doors. In the farthest side of the homestead, behind the counter, there stood an older man with long, fair hair, who noticed him immediately.
"Well met, traveller!" he greeted cheerfully. "Welcome to the Helgen Homestead."
"Safety and peace upon you," Altaïr greeted, approaching the counter and reaching into his satchel to grab his waterskin. "Vilod, is it?"
"Aye," the man confirmed. "'Safety and peace'… Peace is something that Skyrim needs desperately right now."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Haven't you heard? Skyrim is in a civil war," the innkeeper said it as if it was common knowledge. "I guess people in Cyrodiil have other things to worry about."
'Cyrodiil'. Yet another name I do not recognise.
The Assassin chose not to dwell on it for now. "I need some food and water."
"I can offer you beef stew, that'll be four septims."
Thankfully, Altaïr was carrying a few dinars in his pouch. Reaching into it, he put four gold coins on the counter. "Will this suffice?"
The innkeeper eyed the coins with suspicion, carefully examining one of them, even biting it for good measure, before shrugging. "Never seen coins like these before, but gold is gold."
The Assassin nodded and took his seat at a nearby table, reminding himself to ask the innkeeper some questions as soon as he was done with the food. So far, the only thing he found out was the state of affairs in this land - apparently, it was no more peaceful than his own homeland, but this hardly was relevant knowledge. He couldn't afford to spend more time than necessary in this land. The Brotherhood needed guidance after Al Mualim's demise, and as a Master Assassin and the one who stopped the traitor, he had a responsibility to provide that guidance to his brothers and sisters. He had hoped that Malik could take care of Masyaf in his absence, but still, he was needed there.
Vilod soon returned with his meal and placed his now filled waterskin on the table. After thanking the innkeeper, Altaïr began to eat the stew, setting aside his thoughts for the moment. The meal was filling enough, and as he was about to finish it, the Assassin was interrupted by the sound of a commotion, right outside of the inn. The noise had gained the attention of Vilod as well, who opened the door and walked out of the inn. Altaïr decided to follow in his steps, exiting with him.
He immediately noticed what it was about, as two carts had arrived in the courtyard. In them, there were men and women, bound by shackles. Prisoners. All but two of them were wearing chain mail with blue shirts above it.
He was surprised to see women among them. Of course, this wasn't the first time Altaïr saw a woman in armor – his mind went back to de Sablé's decoy in Jerusalem – but it was still surprising to see so many of them serving in an army. This would be most unusual back home.
As for the ones not wearing the armor, one was a frail-looking man, covered in dirt and grime, dressed in simple rags. The other, however, exuded an aura of authority. He was a fair-haired man with piercing blue eyes, wearing an expensive fur-trimmed cloak. Another thing that set him apart from the other prisoners was the gag covering his mouth, as no other prisoner had such measures taken against them.
"By Shor," he heard Vilod whisper and point towards the cloaked man. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak!"
"Who is he?" Altaïr questioned, unfamiliar with the man.
"The Jarl of Windhelm, and the leader of the rebellion. I can't believe they captured him!"
The Assassin eyed the man as the cart had finally stopped. Two soldiers approached it – one was the red-haired man from before, and the other was yet another woman, wearing metal armour adorned with the same red and brown colours.
"No, wait, I'm not a rebel!" the man in rags pleaded. Altaïr was inclined to believe him – the man didn't look like a warrior, nor was he dressed in the same armour as the other prisoners.
"Face your death with some courage, thief," he heard another prisoner speak.
"You've got to tell them, I wasn't with you! This is a mistake!"
"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!" the female soldier interrupted him, gesturing to the red-haired man.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."
The man identified as the leader of the rebellion proudly walked forward and was stopped in front of one of the watchtowers, where the prisoners from the other cart had already assembled in a neat line. In front of them he noticed three people: a short-haired man dressed in much more ornate armor than the rest of the soldiers, possibly a high-ranking officer; a woman adorned in brown robes with a yellow hood, and the executioner – a burly, masked man with a large, bloody axe.
"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric." The rebel from before, the one who tried to calm the thief, spoke with respect evident in his voice.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
He was next. Ralof looked quite young, and Altaïr couldn't help but disapprove. This was a young man, probably of the same age as the soldier with the list, and yet, he was sentenced to death. However, it wasn't his place to intervene – this was a matter that he knew nothing about and wasn't his business to meddle in.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" the thief frantically yelled at the soldier. Before anyone had time to react, he took off running. "You're not going to kill me!"
"Halt!" the armored woman barked. "Archers!"
The thief didn't last a moment as he was hit by a volley of arrows, dropping dead immediately.
"Anyone else feel like running?" she addressed the rest of the prisoners, who witnessed the scene.
A tense silence ensued after that scene. Altaïr eyed the prisoners - not one of them had a hint of fear in their eyes. Some glanced at their captors with evident contempt, while others, including their leader, proudly accepted their fate.
Finally, the man in ornate armor spoke, addressing the Jarl directly. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp the throne."
Ulfric couldn't respond to the accusations, for obvious reasons. The only sound to come out of his mouth was the incoherent grunt, muffled by the gag.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" the man raised his voice.
Altaïr observed the exchange with interest. He didn't know much about Ulfric, that much was obvious. That soldier of his – Ralof – seemed to respect him, however the words spoken by the officer painted the picture of a man only seeking power for himself. Another thing caught his attention – 'the Empire'. The only Empire he could think of was the weakened remnant of Rome, with the capital in Constantinople. But the people who lived there, as far as he knew, spoke and wrote in Greek. Wherever he was, this wasn't it.
Those rebels were hardly given a fair trial. No evidence, no opportunity to plead their case - it seemed as though their fates were decided as soon as they were captured. To Altaïr, it seemed extremely arbitrary, but then again, he did not know the full story. His Assassin upbringingdid bias him towards the rebels a slight bit - the Assassins exalted freedom as their way of achieving peace, after all. And from what he could gather, Skyrim was part of some empire, possibly subjugated. That would make this man a freedom fighter, a liberator of his people. Or, Altaïr could be entirely wrong, and Ulfric could merely wish to replace one tyrant with another - himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud screech in the distance, and he wasn't the only one who noticed, as the townsfolk and the soldiers looked into the sky with confused expressions on their faces.
"What was that?" the red-haired soldier questioned.
"It's nothing. Carry on." The officer dismissed. However, Altaïr remained on alert – that sound was oddly familiar.
"Yes, General Tullius!" the female soldier saluted, before turning to the woman in robes. "Give them their last rites."
"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn..." the woman, who turned out to be a priest, began a strange incantation.
'Eight Divines'? That means they are neither Jewish, Muslim, nor Christian. Who are those people?
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" one of the prisoners said, proudly walking towards the block.
"As you wish." was the response of the priestess.
"Come on! I haven't got all morning!" the rebel boasted as he was roughly pushed down head-first onto the block. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
The executioner raised his heavy axe and brought it down onto his neck, momentarily separating his head from the body.
"You Imperial bastards!" one of the prisoners screamed.
"Justice!" Altaïr heard Vilod shout, and briefly glanced at him.
"Death to the Stormcloaks!" a woman from a neighbouring house added. The Assassin took notice that the townsfolk didn't quite appreciate those Stormcloaks and their rebellion.
As the officer was about to call the next prisoner, that same loud screech was heard once again, gaining everyone's attention.
"Here it is again. Did you hear that?"
The woman was undeterred, however. "I said, next prisoner!"
However, while everyone else had their eyes firmly on the execution, Altaïr saw something in the air. He could not see it in detail, but it was as black as night and was fast approaching the village. The Assassin's eyes glowed yellow as his natural gift activated. Whatever it was, it was hostile, as its outline glowed bright red.
"Look! There, in the air!" Altaïr shouted loudly, pointing at it. All attention was drawn to him as everyone looked in the direction he was pointing. Sure enough – others have noticed it as well.
"What in Oblivion is that?!" General Tullius barked.
As it drew closer, the Assassin couldn't believe his eyes. It was the same kind of winged lizard he had seen in his vision, before the Treasure sent him here! But this one was all black, with blood red eyes and thick scales. It landed onto the watchtower, and the impact from its landing was strong enough to knock down the archers and shake the ground below.
"Dragon!" he heard one of the soldiers yell.
The soldiers didn't hesitate in drawing their swords. Before they could even attempt anything, the creature – now identified as a 'dragon' – shouted something in an unknown language. Its shout was so powerful that it shook the ground once more, before covering the sky in clouds. But that wasn't it, as soon enough, gigantic stones started falling from the sky onto the village below, and one of them hit the Homestead behind Altaïr and Vilod.
"Don't just stand there, kill that thing!" General Tullius screamed at his soldiers. "Guards, get the townspeople to safety!"
Deciding not to wait around to be saved, Altaïr immediately vaulted over the railing and turned to the right, noticing that the Stormcloak prisoners were scrambling inside one of the watchtowers. The Assassin immediately sprinted towards it with haste, making it just in time before the rebels shut the door behind him.
Ulfric was there, and seem to gaze upon him with a critical eye, but Altaïr paid him no mind as he ran up the stairs, where a Stormcloak soldier was trying to clear a pathway blocked by rocks. The Assassin didn't make it five steps as the wall of the watchtower was smashed, the debris crushing the poor soldier immediately as Altaïr looked at the culprit – the very same dragon, who unleashed yet another volley of fire into the hole, finishing off the soldier for good. Thankfully, the flames were far enough that they didn't harm the Assassin, even if he felt the the heat behind them. The dragon flew away moments later, which gave him an opportunity to jump out of the opening, and into the attic of the house below, through a hole in its roof.
Altaïr rolled as he landed, continuing his dash and noticing that the floor was collapsed, allowing him to safely drop down to ground level, and ram through the front door of the house, ending up outside yet again
He immediately noticed the Imperial soldier from before, and an older, bald man in iron armour. The soldier was trying to lead a small child – a boy, no older than ten – away from danger. The accursed creature returned yet again as it dropped down behind them, but they managed to hide behind another house, avoiding being incinerated alive by the dragon, which flew away yet again in an unknown direction.
"Gunmar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defence." the soldier asked the man, who simply nodded and took the child away to safety. He then turned towards Altaïr. "Follow me, citizen, I know a way out!"
The Assassin decided not to argue and ran after the soldier as they went through the only open pathway, which was a narrow alley between the fortification walls and one of the houses. However, it didn't take for the dragon long to return – it landed onto the fortification wall. Altaïr grabbed the soldier by the arm and pulled him closer to the wall. The dragon, by some miracle, didn't seem to notice either of them as it was too busy breathing fire at other soldiers. After a short burst of flames, it flew away once again, allowing the two to continue onwards.
Altaïr and the soldier went through one of the ruined houses and found themselves near the main gate of the village, where Imperial soldiers tried to kill the dragon, still circling around Helgen, with their bows.
…But bows weren't the only thing they were using against it, as Altaïr had to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him when he saw two of the Imperials shooting fire. Out of their hands.
What sorcery is this?!
He wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him, but no, this was real. The Assassin decided to dwell on this later, as the soldier approached General Tullius, who had his sword drawn. The officer quickly noticed him, and pointed behind Altaïr, seemingly to another one of the guard towers.
"Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier! We're leaving!" he commanded, prompting the soldier, now identified as 'Hadvar', to turn around and dash towards it, with Altaïr following behind.
The men ran towards it the keep with haste, as the dragon brushed off the Imperials' weak attempts to harm it. As the two came near the old fort, they soon discovered that they weren't the only ones seeking entry. The young rebel from before, Ralof, was already at the door.
"Ralof! You damned traitor!" Hadvar snarled at the Stormcloak, who stopped as he saw the two men.
"You're not stopping me this time, Hadvar!" Ralof bit back with equal anger.
Altaïr wasn't having any of this, stepping in between of the two soldiers. Can't they see that this is much more important than their petty war?!
"Enough!" he commanded, gaining their attention. "In case you haven't noticed, we have much more pressing matters to worry about. If you two don't want to die, then I would suggest setting aside your differences, at least for now!"
"Ha! As if I'd work with the damn Imperials!" the Stormcloak scoffed, only for Altaïr to give him a stern glare.
"I don't have time for this foolishness. You can try your luck with the dragon if you are so inclined," the Assassin said, forcefully pushing Ralof aside and opening the door.
Wisely enough, the young man chose not to argue further and followed the two of them into the keep.
The inside of the keep was filthy. Dirty, uneven stone floor and sets of beds on either side of the room with multiple weapon stands was all there was to it. Altaïr had gathered that this was some sort of barracks. He noticed Ralof pick up an axe from one of the stands.Not a good choice of weapon,the Assassin thought, but decided not to comment.
"Wait, friend… what was your name again?" Hadvar addressed him.
"Altaïr."
"…Altaïr, yes. There's armour in that chest. If I were you, I'd take it."
"I don't need armour. It'll only slow me down." he said, approaching a locked gate with no visible way to open it. He was about to use the Eagle Vision, only for Hadvar to pull a nearby handle, which activated the mechanism and lowered it, allowing the men to continue on.
"Just what in blazes is that thing, anyway? Is it really a dragon, the harbinger of the End Times?" the Imperial soldier questioned as they walked, still confused from the ordeal.
"No doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends." Ralof concurred.
"I take it they are not a common occurrence in this land?" was Altaïr's question. I saw one before, didn't I?
"No, of course not," the Imperial soldier denied. "They haven't been seen in centuries!"
The Assassin hummed in response as the men went down the stairs into a level below ground – and just in time, as when they descended, the floor above collapsed several steps in front of them, blocking off the main corridor.
Thankfully, there had been an unlocked door on the side, which they soon found out led to the storage room. There were mostly barrels filled with various food, and bottles with intoxicating drinks. The Assassin had little interest in any of it, but was stopped by Ralof.
"Hey, you," he called out to the Assassin. "There are some potions here. They could be useful."
The Stormcloak grabbed a bottle with a bright red-colored liquid and tossed it to Altaïr, who caught it with ease. "What are those for?"
"Are you joking? Those are healing potions, they can fix your wounds in no time." Hadvar chimed in, stating it as if it was strange for Altaïr not to know about that.
Healing potions? Doubtful.
Despite his thoughts on the matter, the Assassin put the bottle in his pouch. He noticed similarly-shaped bottles with blue liquids in them on some of the shelves. "And what are those?"
"Hmph. Those are Magicka potions, only the damned mages use them." Ralof scoffed.
…Mages. Is that what those men were?
Altaïr's mind went back to the Imperial soldiers, who apparently commanded the power to produce fire out of their hands. It did seem like magic – he had seen nothing like it before. It didn't look like they were using an artifact like the Piece of Eden to do these things.
The only exit door out of this room led to yet another downwards stairwell, which led to a room much more grim – the main feature of it was several large cages with human corpses inside.
"The torture room… Gods, I wish we didn't need those…" Hadvar muttered.
"Troll's blood…" Ralof was horrified, before turning to Altaïr with an angry expression on his face. "See? This is the true face of your Empire!"
The Assassin ignored him, and thankfully, so did Hadvar. Altaïr noticed the two men giving each other disapproving glares from time to time, but paid no attention to it as they delved further into the depths of Helgen Keep. The path led them to a rocky cavern, with bronze sconces holding blazing coals to illuminate the way.
Passing through it, they ended up in an arched passageway blocked by a raised drawbridge. Thankfully, there was a lever nearby to lower it, and they continued onwards. Once again, in a stroke of luck, they heard the dragon roar just as they'd passed it, and soon after a massive pile of stones fell down onto the bridge, destroying it and blocking it off completely.
"No going back now…" Ralof drawled. "We're lucky that it didn't come down on top of us."
The path led them to a cave, with a steady stream of water splashing at their feet. Ignoring the human skeleton laying on the floor, they moved onto a more open section of it. However, the Assassin's ears quickly picked up a noise, and looking up, his eyes widened from surprise. About half a dozen spiders dropped down from above. Giant spiders, most of them were about the size of a dog, while two of them were even larger.
"What in the world...?" Altaïr muttered in surprise as they began fast approaching them, drawing his sword and running it through one of them as it lunged on him.
His companions were quick on the draw as well, successfully dispatching the smaller spiders as Altaïr sidestepped one of the large one's attempt to bite him, and delivered a devastating slash across its head, mortally wounding it. The second large spider attempted to pounce at Ralof, but to the rebel's shock, Altaïr was quick to launch three throwing knives at it – all three of them hitting the target. As it was disoriented, Hadvar finished it off with his sword.
"T-thank you…" Ralof stammered. "I'm sorry, did you just toss knives at it?"
"You sound surprised," Altaïr said, pulling out the knives out of the spider's corpse.
"I admit, I've never seen anyone do that before," Hadvar chimed in. "Nice work."
The men delved deeper into the cave. However, it wasn't long until yet another obstacle stood in their path – this time, in the form of a sleeping bear in the distance, blocking the only path forward.
"Wait for me," the Assassin whispered.
Stealth was child's play for Altaïr. It had been part of his upbringing since a very young age, and he was among the best in the Brotherhood for a reason. With the short blade in hand, he effortlessly began sneaking upon the bear, not even making a sound. Slowly, but surely, he shortened the distance between himself and the animal. As he found himself within striking distance, he tightened his grip on the blade, trying to figure out the best way to stab it. The Assassin aimed carefully, waiting for the perfect moment before ramming the sword into its neck.
Altaïr heaved a sigh of relief as the bear went limp. He gestured to the soldiers to follow him, which they did. He noticed the incredulous stares that they were giving him.
"I knew we could make it!" Hadvar happily exclaimed as the three of them finally made their way out.
The Assassin stared across the vast landscape, adorned with pine trees stretching farther than he could see. The scenery was indeed quite beautiful, with huge, snowy mountains looming in the distance. The exit from the cave led them to a hill, with another descending footpath, which seemed like the only possible road to follow.
"Wait," Altaïr stopped them, his ears picking up a noise. And rightly so, as the accursed dragon flew above them, roaring once again. Thankfully, it didn't seem to notice them as it continued flying. The men stayed silent until the dragon was finally out of reach.
"Looks like he's gone for good, this time," Ralof heaved a sigh of relief.
"I don't think we should stick around to find out," Hadvar commented, a sentiment Altaïr was fully in agreement with.
"Where do we go from here?" the Assassin questioned.
"Riverwood. It's a village just up the road," was the soldier's response, before turning to the rebel. "I am leaving for Solitude tomorrow. Do you agree to a truce until then?"
"Fine," Ralof agreed. "I don't want to start a fight in my home town."
The rest of the path to Riverwood was silent. The two men obviously didn't like each other, and Altaïr didn't really care for idle chat. Instead, his attention was focused on the scenery around him, taking in its beauty. However, his thoughts were far from hopeful – he very much doubted that his current destination would yield the answers that he needed. He still had little clue as to where he was or how he would get back home, and he very much did not like the uncertainty regarding his stay here.
The walk to Riverwood was a lengthy one, and when the men finally arrived to the village, the sun was already starting to set, painting the sky orange. Riverwood was quite aptly named – it was built along a river, and there had been plenty of trees. Altaïr could see a lumber bill in the distance – possibly, the main source of income for the village – as the men entered the village.
It was a very quiet place, perhaps rightfully so – it was a pretty small village and evening had begun to settle, after all. What was more glaring was that the town was completely defenceless, in stark contrast to Helgen. Altaïr was surprised to see that it not only lacked any sort of fortifications, but it was completely devoid of guards.
"If your land is in civil war, why are there no guards here?" the Assassin asked his companions, clearly confused. It made little sense – Helgen had an entire garrison guarding it, yet this place didn't even have a single guard.
"Jarl Balgruuf hasn't taken a side in the war, so neither side patrols it." Hadvar explained. "There wasn't much of a need to patrol it – not much really happens here."
"Until now, at least." Ralof commented. "We should split up. I have to visit my sister."
"Alright. Come with me, Altaïr. My uncle is the blacksmith here. I'm sure he can spare some supplies," the Imperial soldier said as the Stormcloak bid farewell to them, walking off in the direction of the mill.
The Assassin followed him to one of the houses. The only thing that set this one apart was the forge besides it. He could see the smith – a heavyset, bearded man, sharpening a sword on the grindstone. He stopped as he noticed Hadvar, putting the sword on a workbench.
"Uncle Alvor, hello!" the soldier greeted as he approached the forge with Altaïr.
"Good to see you, Hadvar. Are you on leave?" the man happily greeted back.
"Not exactly. We need to talk."
"What's going on?" Alvor questioned, then turned his gaze to Altaïr. "And who's this?"
Hadvar was about to speak up, but the Assassin beat him to it. "I'll make it quick. A dragon had destroyed the village nearby, Helgen. Your nephew and I escaped together."
Alvor's eyes widened after hearing Altaïr's words. He turned to his nephew for confirmation.
Hadvar nodded. "It's true. Surely you must've seen it."
"You're right. I saw it, flying down the valley from the south," the smith shook his head. "I was hoping I was wrong about what I thought it was..."
"Could you help us out? Food, supplies, a place to stay…" the soldier asked.
"Of course. I'm glad to help however I can," his uncle smiled, before extending his hand to the stranger. "I am Alvor, though you know that already. What is your name, friend?"
The Assassin accepted the handshake as the smith clasped his forearm. "Altaïr."
"Well met."
"Well, now that we're here," Hadvar interjected. "What are you going to do next, Altaïr?"
"I do not know," he admitted. "I want to go back home, but I am unfamiliar with this land."
"I can hardly blame you for wanting to leave," the soldier sympathised. "You can take a carriage to Cyrodiil at the stables near Whiterun."
There's that name again. Cyrodiil.
"That is not where I come from," Altaïr said. "In truth, I am lost here. I was hoping to obtain a map so that I could find my way back."
"I'm sorry. I assumed you were an Imperial because you look like one," Hadvar apologised. "Although, come to think of it… yours is a strange name for an Imperial."
"So I've been told."
"Hammerfell, then?" Alvor tried to guess. "I recognize the kind of sword you're carrying. One of those fancy curved blades those Redguard folk have."
"…No, I am not from there either," the Assassin denied. "It is called the Holy Land, as it is a sacred place for three different faiths. It is currently under invasion, in what's referred to as a Crusade."
The confusion on their faces gave Altaïr all the answers he needed.
"I'm sorry. I have read some things about various corners of the world, but I've never heard of a Holy Land," Hadvar said with an apologetic expression on his face. "In any case, if you want to get a map, your best bet would be to head to Whiterun. It's a city not too far from here."
"Then that's where I'll be heading."
"If you're heading to Whiterun, then I have a request to make," the smith spoke up. "The Jarl needs to know about a dragon being loose. If it attacks Riverwood, we'll be defenceless. Could you send word and ask him to spare some soldiers?"
Altaïr thought about it for a moment. He figured that whoever the ruled this land was possibly able to help him. "As you wish."
"Good man," Alvor smiled gratefully before reaching into his pocket, handing the Assassin a bunch of coins. "This should be enough for a night's stay at the Sleeping Giant and a warm meal. Come to me tomorrow, and I shall have supplies ready for you."
"Thank you," he accepted the money. "Where is this Sleeping Giant and how do I reach Whiterun?"
"Over there, further down the road," Hadvar pointed towards a larger building across the street. "As for Whiterun, cross the river and then head north. It's a big city – you'll see it, just past the falls."
Altaïr nodded. "I'll take my leave, then. Safety and peace be upon you."
"May the Gods watch over your battles, friend."
The men bid farewell to each other as Altaïr walked towards the inn. The 'Sleeping Giant', as Alvor called it. It was a similar type of wooden house as the now destroyed Homestead in Helgen, only a touch larger. He opened the door and went in.
This inn was clean and spacious, and much livelier than the one he has been in before. It had quite a decent number of patrons, most of them were simply chatting with each other and enjoying their drinks. It was noisier, too – not only due to chatter, as a young man was playing the lute near the entrance. As he entered, Altaïr noticed some of the patrons throwing glances at him, no doubt due to his distinctive clothing. Lowering his hood, he walked on towards the counter, where a somewhat short, pale woman, likely the innkeeper, was to be found. She noticed him immediately, eyeing him with a critical gaze and taking notice of his sheathed sabre.
"Don't get too many visitors here in Riverwood," the woman commented, "Can I get you anything?"
"A room to stay for the night, and something to eat," the Assassin replied, reaching into his pocket.
After paying the innkeeper, she pointed him towards a room on his left-hand side, and gave him a plate full of cooked fish. 'Salmon steak', as she called it. He took a seat at the farthest corner of one of the tables, putting some distance between him and the other patrons.
Partaking in his rather enjoyable meal, Altaïr noticed something that most men wouldn't – the innkeeper's eyes on him. She was being rather subtle, but the Assassin didn't miss the occasional glance. After finishing his meal, he stared back – with his gift activated. His unique vision didn't seem to consider her a threat – she did not have any sort of glow surrounding her. This alleviated his suspicion somewhat, prompting him to finally rise from his seat and enter his room.
It wasn't much in terms of furniture. A bed with a chest below it, a cupboard and a dresser. Altaïr closed the door behind him and all but collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to disrobe. He felt exhausted – rightfully so, after the battle with Al Mualim and the escape from Helgen, not to mention that most of his day was spent travelling with very little rest. One thing was for certain – the Assassin was determined to find a way back home.