Bayan dodged the knife thrust and turned to fight his new attacker as moonlight suddenly filled the space between them, the clouds having retreated. Bayan saw the man was a veteran, his face creased with years of battle, but noted at the edge of his sight that the first bowman had raised an arrow.
Bayan ducked reflexively, but then one of his men was there, engaging the archer hand to hand. Bayan turned back to the veteran as the man bore down on him, and barely deflected another knife thrust with his sword. The enemy pulled back before Bayan could counter with a strike of his own.
Now it was Bayan’s turn to charge, and with his sword, he had the longer reach. But the veteran proved extremely agile, escaping Bayan’s blade again and again, each time coming close to landing an attack with his own weapon. In the closeness of their battle, Bayan noticed the man was missing most of his left ear.
A sudden, fierce swipe at Bayan’s shoulder would have cost him his arm, had his armor not taken most of the attack. Bayan grunted and realized this old warrior was his better, but he refused to retreat, even if it meant his death.
He dodged away to prepare for another thrust and—
An explosion shook the ground and rent the forest with a blinding flash. The city had brought its artillery to bear on Wang Dechen, and Bayan knew the battle was now lost.
The veteran seized the moment of distraction to attack, but Bayan had expected that and prepared for it. He feinted away, as if caught by surprise, drawing the veteran forward, and then spun around with his sword, driving it into the man’s side, almost to the hilt. Within her mind, Natalya wanted to cry out.
It was a killing blow, the veteran’s death almost instant, and Bayan jerked his weapon free of the fallen body.
The horn of retreat cut through the wood then. Bayan called to his men, and they withdrew from the fighting, pulling back to the main body of the Horde under scattered arrow shot. When Bayan reached the front line, he found it in chaos. Fallen, burning trees sent smoke and flames up into the sky, warriors racing back and forth, a group of them clustered around something on the ground.
When Bayan drew near them, he realized they surrounded Wang Dechen. The general had been terribly injured, with a ragged opening of armor and flesh across his chest, and a head wound pouring blood.
“Help me!” Bayan shouted, even though he knew either injury would be fatal. “We have to get him to safety!”
Two of the men bent to assist him, while the rest of the Horde fled back down the mountain. No Song forces left the safety of their fortress to follow them. It seemed they were aware of the Mongol false retreat, something for which, in this case, Bayan felt grateful.
When they drew near the bulwarks, runners saw them coming and raced into the camp, so that by the time Bayan reached the general’s tent, the shaman already waited for them inside, wearing his mask and feathered headdress. He ordered the general placed on the ground before him, and he removed Wang Dechen’s clothing and armor, administering to his wounds, all while he chanted and called on the gods and ancestor spirits.
“You must open the belly of an ox and place him inside it!” the shaman finally cried.
Several warriors rushed from the tent, and some minutes later, Bayan heard the bellow of an ox just outside. He then assisted the shaman in carrying the general from the tent. The beast already lay on its side, insensate, its throat cut. A large group of warriors had gathered, and one of the other commanders took his sword and opened the ox’s belly, its intestines spilling out onto the ground. The sight of it filled Natalya with a different kind of horror than she had experienced in battle. This was a mix of revulsion and utter confusion, even though she knew that to Bayan, this ritual was not at all strange.
“Wang Dechen!” a voice shouted.
All turned to see the Great Khan rushing toward them, clad in golden armor, and all assembled there bowed low to him as they parted to let him through. His sixteen-year-old son, Asutai, strode beside him.
“He was injured by the Song artillery, my lord,” Bayan offered, his head also down.
Möngke went to his general’s side. “Help me with him.”
Without hesitation, Bayan reached forward, and with the shaman and the Great Khan, they pushed Wang Dechen’s body into the belly of the ox. After that, the shaman resumed his chanting and began to beat on his drum and dance.
“To lose him would be to lose my left and my right hand,” the Great Khan said.
Bayan wasn’t certain if Möngke was speaking to him directly, so he kept his head bowed and said nothing, his own hands and arms covered in oxblood.
But the Khan turned toward him. “Were you there?”
“I believe I know what happened, my lord.”
“Tell me.”
Bayan lifted his head. “The Song knew we were coming. Somehow they flanked us from outside the gate, and we were unaware until their arrows rained down. Wang Dechen tried to launch a second attack, but their cannon fire wounded him.”
Möngke nodded, his whole body quivered with terrifying rage. “Get him to the temple at Jin Yun!” he shouted as he stormed away.
Bayan turned back to the general inside the ox. The rhythm of the shaman’s drum had become frantic, his head shaking back and forth wildly as he crouched and danced. All watched him, hoping and praying as men brought a wagon and loaded up the ox with the general inside it, then rolled away toward the temple to the south.
Natalya felt Bayan’s doubt, the first he had experienced since she had begun this simulation. Perhaps the gods were turning against the Great Khan, to take his greatest general from him. Perhaps they were not pleased with him for staying in this place through the hot and fetid summer months. It was said that some had advised against it, but Möngke had rebuffed them. Perhaps this was punishment for his arrogance. There had to be an answer for it. There had to be a reason.
These and other disturbances harried Bayan’s mind. The question of where the Song archers had come from, in particular, refused to be ignored.
For now, though, he went to find Boke and make his report, after which he would see to his men and learn which of them he had lost.
How are you doing? Victoria suddenly asked, and Natalya felt a flood of gratitude at the sound of the doctor’s voice. Do you need another break?
“Please,” Natalya whispered.
It was the only way to get the blood off her hands.
Owen stood in the basement of the creepy Assassin house and pointed at the new Animus. “You want to send me to China?”
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “The year 1259. The Templars recovered something from Monroe’s data that leads them to believe Möngke Khan had a Piece of Eden.”
“Möngke Khan?” Javier said.
Rebecca turned toward him. “The grandson of Genghis Khan. His grandfather was assassinated by Qulan Gal.”
Javier folded his arms. “When you say assassinated …”
Griffin nodded. “One of ours.”
“Monroe’s data makes sense,” Rebecca said. “The Mongol Empire continued to expand after Genghis Khan. It moved into Russia and Persia. They were at Europe’s doorstep, and most people at the time believed the Mongols were sent directly from hell as a punishment from God. It stands to reason the Khans had a little help from an incredibly advanced technology they couldn’t possibly comprehend.”
“I didn’t even know I had Chinese ancestors,” Owen said.
Rebecca nodded. “Most people would be very surprised at their own DNA. How interconnected we all are. Genghis Khan likely has sixteen million living descendants.”
“So what happened in 1259?” Javier asked.
Rebecca walked over to the glass conference table. As she touched its surface, a hologram leapt up from the glass, like they did from Monroe’s coffee table back in his warehouse. That seemed like a very long time ago to Owen.
The image before them now showed Earth, focused on an area of southern China. “In 1259, Möngke Khan attacked one of the last strongholds of
the Song Empire.” Rebecca pointed at a blinking point on the globe. “A place called Diaoyu Cheng, or Fishing Town. An impressive fortress. Möngke Khan died during the assault, which brought the expansion of the Mongol empire to a halt.”
“So if he had one of the prongs—” Griffin said.
“It might be there,” Rebecca said. “Or at least, that’s the time and place we start looking.”
Owen stepped toward the hologram, studying it. “So it’s like New York. I’m going into the Animus to try to find this thing or figure out where it went.”
“That’s exactly right,” Rebecca said. “Are you ready?”
“Sure,” Owen said.
“What about me?” Javier asked.
Rebecca looked his way. “You sit tight for now.”
“Sit tight?” Javier scowled. “Isn’t there something I can do?”
“No,” Rebecca said. “Not at the moment.”
Javier obviously didn’t like that, but if their positions were reversed, Owen wouldn’t be happy, either. There wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“How did Monroe figure all of this out?” Griffin asked.
Rebecca switched the hologram to an image of DNA, the double helix spiraling across their view. “There’s nothing magical about the Trident. It’s a piece of technology. Very, very advanced technology, but technology nevertheless. It seems the prongs put off a unique form of energy, or radiation, which interacts with human DNA. It leaves an impression behind, a genetic marker, and that gets passed on. We don’t actually know what that marker is, but Monroe apparently figured it out. It’s only a matter of time before the Templars do.”
“Radiation?” Owen said. “It changed my DNA?”
“It seems so,” Rebecca said. “We’re still trying to analyze it.”
“I wish Monroe was here to explain it,” Owen said. He still didn’t know what to make of Monroe. Who he was or where he stood.
“I’d like a word with him myself,” Griffin said, but with frightening menace.
Rebecca switched off the hologram. “If you’re ready, let’s do this. I need to get going.”
“I’m ready,” Owen said.
They crossed the room to the new Animus chair, which looked different from Monroe’s design, much sleeker, and only slightly more comfortable. Owen sat down and settled into it.
“I’ve incorporated the new processor and blueprints,” Rebecca said, “but there’s a component to this machine I disabled.”
“What component?” Owen asked.
“As near as I can tell,” Rebecca said, hooking Owen up to various straps and wires, “Abstergo has developed a way to suppress the activity of the parietal lobes. That would make for an incredibly strong simulation, but I don’t dare use it on you until I know more about it. It wouldn’t do us any good to leave your brain damaged. So this will be a regular simulation, a lot like the ones you’ve already experienced. Got it?”
“Got it. I think I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do this.” Rebecca began the process of hooking Owen up to the Animus.
“Good luck,” Javier said.
“Wake me up if I’m drooling,” Owen said.
Then Rebecca placed a helmet over Owen’s head, covering his ears and his field of vision. It felt as if he had taken a dive into a dark tank of water exactly the same temperature as his body, filling his senses and cutting him off from the outside world.
Everything okay? Rebecca asked. You read me?
“Loud and clear.”
I aim to please. There was a pause. Okay, the Memory Corridor is loaded.
“Punch it,” Owen said.
All right, here we go.
Searing light flooded the emptiness of the helmet, painful for several moments, and Owen clenched his eyes shut. But gradually the pain subsided, and he opened his eyes, finding himself in the amorphous Animus waiting room. Nothing surprising about that. He’d been here before. He was surprised, however, when he looked down.
“I’m a woman.”
Is that a problem?
“No,” he said. “Just … an observation.”
He settled into this ancestor, who was dressed in layers of black clothing, with embossed leather armor. She had a sword at her side, but also wore two gauntlets, one on each arm. One gauntlet held a hidden blade, and the other a wrist-mounted crossbow.
Owen held out both weapons in front of him. “She’s an Assassin.”
It would seem so. But we don’t have any record of her from this time period.
“Is that normal?”
It’s not terribly unusual. Templars steal or destroy our records whenever they find them. The passage of time doesn’t help, either. Some records are simply hidden too well, even from us.
“I can feel her pressing down on me.” That’s how it was for Owen, like a weight on his mind to which he had to slowly surrender. “Is the simulation loaded?”
It will be in just a few more seconds.
Owen gave in enough to know his ancestor’s name was Zhang Zhi. Her father was an Assassin, too.
Okay, it’s ready. Just say the word.
“Word.”
The void of the Memory Corridor appeared to catch fire and burn with electrical storm, scorching Owen’s mind, but the mist gradually cleared with the pain, and he found himself sitting on a mat on the wooden floor. The walls around him appeared to be made of wood and bamboo screens, with a doorway to his right. It was a summer night, he knew that, and he grew more aware, from one moment to the next, as the full weight of Zhang Zhi settled over him.
The Mongols were at the gates. Her father had gone to fight them with the army. Cannon fire had filled the night. Her father had not returned.
Zhi tried to focus herself by practicing her Eagle Vision, a skill she had not yet mastered. Her father had trained her in the arts of hand-to-hand combat, various weapons, and the acrobatics Owen thought of as free-running. Zhi had achieved mastery of them all, but Eagle Vision continued to elude her. Even now, as she tried to extend her awareness, to discern the patterns in the air and the vibrations in the floorboards, she gained nothing from the exercise. She knew someone approached, their footsteps heavy, but knew nothing else about them or their intent. Given the events of the night, perhaps she did not want to know.
A moment later, a man cleared his throat in the doorway. She turned to see a soldier wearing lamellar armor of lacquered plates, his head bowed. “I am sent to bring you.”
“Where?”
The soldier looked up. “To your father. It is not for me to say why.”
Zhi rose to her feet. There were many reasons why her father would not have come himself, but each of them frightened her. She dug her heel into that fear and followed the soldier from the room and then from her father’s house.
They followed the streets of Fishing Town, where life continued much as it always had, in spite of the siege, though at this time of night, everyone was indoors and asleep, the streets patrolled by soldiers. Fishing Town had all the food and water it needed. The only activities to have ceased in the last few months since the Mongols swept in were those connected with the larger countryside, such as trade.
They followed the main road out of town, the vacant Imperial Palace to the north, past the reflection of the moon in the Big Heaven Pool, toward the well-lit barracks, which seemed caught in a storm of commotion. Zhi’s worry returned and increased with each step, her mouth dry, her chest hollowed out. The battle against the Mongols had obviously come to an end, but its aftermath remained.
“This way,” the soldier said as they reached the barracks’ perimeter. He led her to one of the inner buildings, and stopped at the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Prepare yourself.”
That confirmed what Zhi had almost kept herself from fearing. She entered the building, a single, large, rectangular room, and smelled blood. Doctors tended to wounded soldiers around the room, but she found her father among the dead.
General Wang Jian sto
od over him with somber reverence. Zhi dropped to her knees beside her father’s body, at the general’s feet, and wept.
Beneath the weight of the memory, Owen felt a suffocating swell of grief over the death of his own father. No one had summoned him the way they had Zhi. No general had paid his father honors. Instead, it was a cop in a suit who’d shown up at the door, sounding serious but not sad as he explained what had happened. Owen’s father had suffered a ruptured appendix and died in prison.
That was it.
Gone.
No good-byes. No last I-love-you’s. Just gone.
“He saved the city,” General Wang Jian said.
Zhi sat up straight and wiped her eyes dry, and Owen did his best to dial back into her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Our scouts discovered the Mongol army approaching,” the general said. “We prepared for them. Your father took a handpicked force down through the Feiyan Cave to attack the enemy flank. The northerners fell into the trap, and we repelled them. But a small detachment engaged your father and his men. The killing strike was nearly instant. He did not suffer. He saved the city.”
Zhi looked down at her father’s face. The deep creases. The scar where he had lost most of his ear in a battle many, many years ago. She felt tears returning, but restrained them until she could grieve in private.
“We will honor him,” the general said. “I will personally see to his funeral and its expenses.”
“Thank you,” Zhi said. “He had great respect for you.”
“Your father and I may often have been at odds, but I know he loved our people and our land.” With a bow, the general went to see about his other men, the still living injured ones.
Zhi bent with her hands clasped tight in her lap and kissed her father’s forehead. Then she took the gauntlet from his wrist, its hidden blade extended. Whoever had killed him had likely not had an easy time of it. She returned to the city, cradling that gauntlet, which would be her shrine to him in their home. Her home. The one she now lived in alone.
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