Assassin's Creed

by Oliver Bowden

  Al Mualim’s good eye was wide and gleaming. His lips were parted, his tongue darting from his mouth. He was entranced by the sight of the box and the thought of what was inside. Suddenly there came an uproar from outside. Screams. Running feet. The unmistakable ring of clashing steel.

  ‘It seems I’ve returned with more than the treasure,’ reflected Malik, as a messenger crashed into the chamber, forgetting all protocol as he breathlessly exclaimed, ‘Master, we are under attack. Robert de Sable lays siege to the Masyaf village.’

  Al Mualim was snatched from his reverie, in the mood to face de Sable. ‘So he seeks a battle, does he? Very well. I’ll not deny him. Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared.’

  Now he turned his attention to Altaïr, and his eyes blazed as he said, ‘As for you, Altaïr, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders. Drive them from our home.’

  ‘It will be done,’ said Altaïr, who could not help but be relieved at this sudden turn of events. Somehow the attack on the village was preferable to having to endure more of this humiliation. He had disgraced himself in Jerusalem. Now he had the chance to make amends.

  He vaulted from the landing behind the Master’s chamber to the smooth stone floor and dashed from the tower. As he ran across the training yard and through the main gates, he wondered whether being killed now might provide the escape he desired. Would that be a good death? A proud and noble death?

  Enough to exonerate him?

  He drew his sword. The sounds of battle were closer now. He could see Assassins and Templars fighting on the upland at the foot of the castle, while further down the hill villagers were scattering under the force of the assault, bodies already littering the slopes.

  Then he was under attack. A Templar knight rushed him, snarling, and Altaïr twisted, letting his instincts take over, raising his sword to meet the Christian, who bore down upon him fast and hard, his broadsword slamming into Altaïr’s blade with a clash of steel. But Altaïr was braced, feet planted wide apart, the line of his body perfect, and the Templar’s attack barely moved him. He swept aside the other’s sword, using the weight of the huge broadsword against the knight, whose arm flailed uselessly for a blink that Altaïr used to step forward and plunge his blade into the man’s stomach.

  The Templar had come at him confident of an easy kill. Easy, like the villagers he had already slaughtered. He’d been wrong. With the steel in his gut he coughed blood and his eyes were wide with pain and surprise as Altaïr yanked the blade upward, bisecting his torso. He fell away, his intestines spilling to the dust.

  Now Altaïr was fighting with pure venom, venting all of his frustration in his sword blows, as though he might pay for his crimes with the blood of his enemies. The next Templar traded blows, trying to resist as Altaïr pushed him back, his posture instantly changing from attack to defence, and then into desperate defence, so that even as he parried, he was whimpering in expectation of his own death.

  Altaïr feinted, wheeled, and his blade flashed across the Christian’s throat, which opened, sheeting blood down the front of his uniform, staining it as red as the cross on his chest. He sank to his knees then fell forward, just as another soldier rushed Altaïr, sunlight glinting from his raised sword. Altaïr stepped aside and buried his steel deep in the man’s back so that, for a second, his entire body tautened, the blade protruding from his chestplate, his mouth open in a silent scream as Altaïr lowered him to the ground and retrieved his sword.

  Two soldiers attacked together, thinking perhaps that their numbers would overwhelm Altaïr. They reckoned without his anger. He fought not with his usual cold indifference, but with fire in his belly. The fire of a warrior who cared nothing for his own safety. The most dangerous warrior of all.

  Around him he saw more corpses of villagers, put to the sword by the attacking Templars, and his anger blossomed, his sword blows becoming even more vicious. Two more soldiers fell beneath his blade and he left them twitching in the dirt. But now more and more knights were appearing, villagers and Assassins alike were rushing up the slope, and Altaïr saw Abbas commanding them to return to the castle.

  ‘Press the attack on the heathen fortress,’ cried a knight in response. He was running up the hill towards Altaïr, his sword swinging as he swiped at a fleeing woman. ‘Let us bring the fight to the Assassin –’

  Altaïr slammed his sword into the throat of the Christian, whose last word was a gurgle.

  But behind the escaping villagers and Assassins came more Templars, and Altaïr hesitated on the slope, wondering if now was the moment to take his final stand – die defending his people and escape his prison of shame.

  But no. There was no honour in a wasteful death, he knew, and he joined those retreating to the fortress, arriving as the gates were closing. Then he turned to look out on the scene of carnage outside, the beauty of Masyaf sullied by the bloodied bodies of the villagers, the soldiers and the Assassins.

  He looked down at himself. His robes were splashed with Templar blood but he himself was unharmed.

  ‘Altaïr!’ The cry pierced his thoughts. Rauf again. ‘Come.’

  He felt weary all of a sudden. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We have a surprise for our guests. Just do as I do. It should become clear soon enough …’ Rauf was pointing high above them to the ramparts of the fortress. Altaïr sheathed his sword and followed him up a series of ladders to the tower summit where the Assassin leaders were gathered, Al Mualim among them. Crossing the floor, he looked to the Master, who ignored him, his mouth set. Then Rauf was indicating one of three wooden platforms jutting out into the air, bidding him to take his place on it. He did so, taking a deep breath before he walked carefully to the edge.

  And now he stood at the top of Masyaf, able to look down upon the valley. He felt air rushing around him; his robe fluttered in the wind and he saw flocks of birds gliding and swooping on warm pockets of air. He felt giddy with the height yet breathless with the spectacle: the rolling hills of the countryside, cast in lush green; the shimmering water of the river; bodies, now specks on the slopes.

  And Templars.

  The invading army had gathered on the upland in front of a watchtower, close to the gates of the fortress. At their head was Robert de Sable, who now stepped forward, looking up to the ramparts where the Assassins stood, and addressed Al Mualim.

  ‘Heretic!’ he roared. ‘Return what you have stolen from me.’

  The treasure. Altaïr’s mind drifted momentarily to the box on Al Mualim’s desk. It had seemed to glow …

  ‘You’ve no claim to it, Robert,’ replied the Master, his voice echoing across the valley. ‘Take yourself from here before I’m forced to thin your ranks further.’

  ‘You play a dangerous game,’ replied de Sable.

  ‘I assure you this is no game.’

  ‘So be it,’ came the reply.

  Something about the tone of his voice – Altaïr didn’t like it. Sure enough, de Sable turned to one of his men. ‘Bring forward the hostage.’

  From among their ranks they dragged the Assassin. He was bound and gagged and he writhed against his bonds as he was hauled roughly to the front of the assembly. His muffled cries rose to where Altaïr stood on the platform.

  Then, without ceremony, de Sable nodded to a soldier who stood nearby. He yanked the Assassin’s hair so that his throat was exposed and swept his blade across it, opening it, then let the body fall to the grass.

  The Assassins, watching, caught their breath.

  De Sable moved and stood near the body, resting one foot on the dying man’s back with his arms folded like a triumphant gladiator. There was murmur of disgust among the Assassins as he called up to Al Mualim, ‘Your village lies in ruins and your stores are hardly endless. How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain when the wells run dry and their food is gone?’ He could hardly keep the gloating note from his voice.

>   But in reply Al Mualim was calm: ‘My men do not fear death, Robert. They welcome it – and the rewards it brings.’

  ‘Good,’ called de Sable. ‘Then they shall have it all around.’

  He was right, of course. The Templars could lay siege to Masyaf and prevent the Assassins receiving supplies. How long could they last before they were so weakened that de Sable could safely attack? Two weeks? A month? Altaïr could only hope that whatever plan Al Mualim had in mind was enough to break the deadlock.

  As if reading his thoughts, Rauf whispered to him, from a platform to his left, ‘Follow me. And do so without hesitation.’

  A third Assassin stood further across. They were hidden from de Sable and his men. Looking down, Altaïr saw strategically placed mounds of hay, enough to break a fall. He was beginning to understand what Rauf had in mind. They were to jump, undetected by the Templars. But why?

  His robe flapped at his knees. The sound was comforting, like waves or rain. He looked down and steadied his breathing. He focused. He went to a place within himself.

  He heard Al Mualim and de Sable trading words but he was no longer listening, thinking only of the jump, composing himself for it. He closed his eyes. He felt a great calm, a peace within.

  ‘Now,’ said Rauf, who leaped, followed by the other Assassin. Next, Altaïr.

  He jumped.

  Time collapsed as he fell, his arms outstretched. With his body relaxed and arcing gracefully through the air, he knew that he had achieved a kind of perfection – it was as though he was detached from himself. And then he landed perfectly, a haystack breaking his fall. Rauf too. Not so the third Assassin, whose leg snapped on impact. Immediately the man screamed and Rauf moved over to quieten him, not wanting the Templars to hear: for the subterfuge to work, the knights needed to believe that the three men had leaped to their death.

  Rauf turned to Altaïr. ‘I’ll stay behind and attend to him. You’ll have to go ahead without us. The ropes there will bring you to the trap. Release it – rain death upon our enemies.’

  Of course. Altaïr understood now. Briefly he wondered how the Assassins had been able to set a trap without him knowing. How many other facets of the Brotherhood remained a secret to him? Nimbly he made his way along the ropes across the chasm, doubling back across the gorge and to the cliff face behind the watchtower. He climbed on instinct. Fast and lithe, feeling the muscles in his arms sing as he scaled the sheer walls higher and higher until he reached the top of the watchtower. There beneath the boards of the upper level he found the trap rigged and ready to be sprung: heavy greased logs, stockpiled and stacked on a tilted platform.

  Silently he moved to the edge, looking over to see the assembled ranks of the Templar knights, scores of them with their backs to him. Here also were the ropes holding the trap in place. He drew his sword, and for the first time in days, he smiled.

  7

  Later the Assassins were assembled in the courtyard, still savouring their triumph.

  The logs had tumbled from the watchtower and into the knights below, most of whom were crushed by the first wave, while others were caught in a second load stacked behind the first. Just moments before, they had been assured of victory. Then their bodies had been pummelled, limbs snapping, the entire force in disarray, Robert de Sable already ordering his men back as the Assassins’ archers pressed home their advantage and rained arrows down upon them.

  Now, though, Al Mualim commanded a hush over the gathered Assassins, indicating to Altaïr to join him on the rostrum by the entrance to his tower. His eyes were hard, and as Altaïr took his place, Al Mualim beckoned two guards to take their place at either side of him.

  Silence replaced the congratulations. Altaïr, with his back to the Assassins, felt all eyes on him. By now they would know what had happened in Jerusalem; Malik and Abbas would have seen to that. Altaïr’s efforts in battle, then springing the trap – they would count for nothing now. All he could hope was that Al Mualim would show mercy.

  ‘You did well to drive Robert from here,’ said the Master, and it was with a measure of pride that he said it. Enough for Altaïr to hope that he might be forgiven; that his actions since Jerusalem had redeemed him. ‘His force is broken,’ continued Al Mualim. ‘It shall be a long while before he troubles us again. Tell me, do you know why it is you were successful?’

  Altaïr said nothing, heart hammering.

  ‘You were successful because you listened,’ pressed Al Mualim. ‘Had you listened in Solomon’s Temple, Altaïr, all of this would have been avoided.’

  His arm described a circle, meant to take in the courtyard and all that lay beyond, where even now the corpses of Assassins, of Templars and villagers were being cleared away.

  ‘I did as I was asked,’ said Altaïr, trying to choose his words carefully, but failing.

  ‘No!’ snapped the Master. His eyes blazed. ‘You did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed. Your disregard for our ways.’

  The two guards on either side of Altaïr stepped forward and took his arms. His muscles tensed. He braced himself against them but did not struggle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said warily.

  The colour rose in Al Mualim’s cheeks. ‘There are rules. We are nothing if we do not abide by the Assassin’s Creed. Three simple tenets, which you seem to forget. I will remind you. First and foremost: stay your blade …’

  It was to be a lecture. Altaïr relaxed, unable to keep the note of resignation from his voice as he finished Al Mualim’s sentence. ‘… from the flesh of an innocent. I know.’

  The crack of Al Mualim’s palm across Altaïr’s face echoed from the stone of the courtyard. Altaïr felt his cheek burn.

  ‘And stay your tongue unless I give you leave to use it,’ roared Al Mualim. ‘If you are so familiar with this tenet, why did you kill the old man inside the Temple? He was innocent. He did not need to die.’

  Altaïr said nothing. What could he say? I acted rashly? Killing the old man was an act of arrogance?

  ‘Your insolence knows no bounds,’ bellowed Al Mualim. ‘Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I’ll tear it from you with my own hands.’

  He paused, his shoulders rising and falling as he took hold of his anger. ‘The second tenet is that which gives us strength,’ he continued. ‘Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you so that you become one with the crowd. Do you remember? Because, as I hear it, you chose to expose yourself, drawing attention before you’d struck.’

  Still Altaïr said nothing. He felt the shame squat in his gut.

  ‘The third and final tenet,’ added Al Mualim, ‘the worst of all your betrayals: never compromise the Brotherhood. Its meaning should be obvious. Your actions must never bring harm upon us – direct or indirect. Yet your selfish act beneath Jerusalem placed us all in danger. Worse still, you brought the enemy to our home. Every man we’ve lost today was lost because of you.’

  Altaïr had been unable to look at the Master. His head had remained on one side, still smarting from the slap. But as he heard Al Mualim draw his dagger he looked at last.

  ‘I am sorry. Truly, I am,’ said Al Mualim. ‘But I cannot abide a traitor.’

  No. Not that. Not a traitor’s death.

  His eyes widened as they went to the blade in the Master’s hand – the hand that had guided him since him childhood. ‘I am not a traitor,’ he managed.

  ‘Your actions indicate otherwise. And so you leave me no choice.’ Al Mualim drew back his dagger. ‘Peace be upon you, Altaïr,’ he said, and plunged it into Altaïr’s stomach.

  8

  And it was. For a few precious moments when he was dead, Altaïr was at peace.

  Then … then he was coming round, gradually recovering a sense of himself and of where he was.

  He was on his feet. How could he be on his feet? Was this death, the afterlife? Was he in Paradise? If so, it looked very much like Al Mualim’s quarters. Not only that, but Al Mualim was present. Standing
over him, in fact, watching him with an unreadable gaze.

  ‘I’m alive?’ Altaïr’s hands went to where the knife had been driven into his stomach. He expected to find a ragged hole and feel wet blood but there was nothing. No wound, no blood. Even though he’d seen it. Felt it. He’d felt the pain …

  Hadn’t he?

  ‘But I saw you stab me,’ he managed, ‘felt death’s embrace.’

  Al Mualim was inscrutable in return. ‘You saw what I wanted you to see. And then you slept the sleep of the dead. The womb. That you might awake and be reborn.’

  Altaïr shook a fog away from his mind. ‘To what end?’

  ‘Do you remember, Altaïr, what it is the Assassins fight for?’

  Still trying to readjust, he replied, ‘Peace, in all things.’

  ‘Yes. In all things. It is not enough to end the violence one man commits upon another. It refers to peace within as well. You cannot have one without the other.’

  ‘So it is said.’

  Al Mualim shook his head, cheeks colouring again as his voice rose. ‘So it is. But you, my son, have not found inner peace. It manifests in ugly ways. You are arrogant and over-confident. You lack self-control and wisdom.’

  ‘Then what is to become of me?’

  ‘I should kill you for the pain you’ve brought upon us. Malik thinks it’s only fair – your life in exchange for that of his brother.’

  Al Mualim paused to allow Altaïr to understand the full significance of the moment. ‘But this would be a waste of my time and your talents.’

  Altaïr allowed himself to relax a little more. He was to be spared. He could redeem himself.

  ‘You have been stripped of your possessions,’ continued Al Mualim. ‘Your rank as well. You are a novice – a child – once more. As you were on the day you first joined the Order. I am offering you a chance of redemption. You’ll earn your way back into the Brotherhood.’

  Of course. ‘I assume that you have something planned.’

  ‘First you must prove to me you remember how to be an Assassin. A true Assassin,’ said Al Mualim.