Assassin's Creed

by Oliver Bowden

  So this was Sibrand. Altaïr took note of the black hair, deep brow and harsh eyes that seemed to spin wildly, like those of a sun-maddened dog. He had armed himself with every weapon he could, and his belts sagged with swords, daggers and knives. Across his back was his longbow, arrow quills peeking over his right shoulder. He looked exhausted. A man unravelling.

  ‘So you say,’ he said, showering the priest in spit, ‘and yet no one here will vouch for you. What am I to make of this?’

  ‘I-I live a simple life, my lord, as do all men of the cloth. It is not for us to call attention to ourselves.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He closed his eyes. Then they snapped open. ‘Or perhaps they do not know you because you are not a man of God, but an Assassin.’

  And with that he shoved the priest backwards, the old man landing badly, then scrabbling to his knees. ‘Never,’ he insisted.

  ‘You wear the same robes.’

  The holy man was desperate now. ‘If they cover themselves as we do, it is only to instil uncertainty and fear. You must not give in.’

  ‘Are you calling me a coward?’’ shouted Sibrand, his voice breaking. ‘Challenging my authority? Are you, perhaps, hoping to turn my own knights against me?’

  ‘No. No. I-I don’t understand why you’re d-doing this to me … I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I don’t recall accusing you of any wrongdoing, which makes your outburst rather odd. Is it the presence of guilt that compels a confession?’

  ‘But I confess nothing,’ said the priest.

  ‘Ah. Defiant till the very end.’

  The priest looked horrified. The more he said, the worse it got. ‘What do you mean?’ Altaïr watched as a succession of emotions passed across the old man’s face: fear, confusion, desperation, hopelessness.

  ‘William and Garnier were too confident. And they paid for this with their lives. I won’t make the same mistake. If you truly are a man of God, then surely the Creator will provide for you. Let him stay my hand.’

  ‘You’ve gone mad,’ cried the priest. He turned to implore the spectators, ‘Will none of you come forward to stop this? He is clearly poisoned by his own fear – compelled to see enemies where none exist.’

  His companions shuffled awkwardly but said nothing. So, too, the citizens, who gazed at him dispassionately. The priest was no Assassin, they could see that, but it didn’t matter what they thought. They were just glad not to be the target of Sibrand’s fury.

  ‘It seems the people share my concern,’ said Sibrand. He drew his sword. ‘What I do, I do for Acre.’

  The priest shrieked as Sibrand drove the blade into his gut, twisted, then removed it and wiped it clean. The old man writhed on the dock, then died. Sibrand’s guards picked up his body and tossed it into the water.

  Sibrand watched it go. ‘Stay vigilant, men. Report any suspicious activity to the guard. I doubt we’ve seen the last of these Assassins. Persistent bastards … Now get back to work.’

  Altaïr watched as he and two bodyguards made their way to a rowing-boat. The priest’s body bumped against the hull as it cast off, then began to float through the debris in the harbour. Altaïr gazed out to sea, seeing a bigger ship further out. That would be Sibrand’s sanctuary, he thought. His eyes went back to Sibrand’s skiff. He could see the knight pulling himself up to scan the water around him. Looking for Assassins. Always looking for them. As though they might appear from the water around him.

  Which was exactly what he was going to do, decided Altaïr, moving to the nearest hulk and jumping to it, easily traversing boats and platforms until he came close to Sibrand’s ship. There he saw Sibrand make his way up to the main deck, eyes raking the water around him. Altaïr heard him ordering the guards to secure the lower decks, then moved across to a platform near the ship.

  A lookout saw him coming and was about to raise his bow when Altaïr sent him a throwing knife, mentally cursing himself for not having time to prepare the kill. Sure enough, instead of falling silently to the wood of the platform, the sentry fell into the water with a splash.

  Altaïr’s eyes flicked to the deck of the main ship where Sibrand had heard the splash too, and was already beginning to panic. ‘I know you’re out there, Assassin,’ he screeched. He unslung his bow. ‘How long do you think you can hide? I’ve a hundred men scouring the docks. They’ll find you. And when they do, you’ll suffer for your sins.’

  Altaïr hugged the frame of the platform, out of sight. Water lapped at its struts. Otherwise, silence. An almost ghostly quiet that must have unnerved Sibrand as much as it pleased Altaïr.

  ‘Show yourself, coward,’ insisted Sibrand. His fear was in his voice. ‘Face me and let us be done with this.’

  All in good time, thought Altaïr. Sibrand fired an arrow at nothing, then fitted and fired another.

  ‘On your guard, men,’ shouted Sibrand, to the lower decks. ‘He’s out there somewhere. Find him. End his life. A promotion to whoever brings me the head of the Assassin.’

  Altaïr leaped from the platform to the ship, landing with a slight thump that seemed to resonate around the area of still water. He waited, clinging to the hull, hearing Sibrand’s panicked shouts from above. Then he began to climb. He waited until Sibrand’s back was turned then pulled himself on to the deck, now just a few feet away from the Grand Master of the Knights Teutonic, who was prowling the deck, shouting threats to the empty sea, hurling insults and orders at his guards, who hurried about below.

  Sibrand was a dead man, thought Altaïr, as he crept up behind him. He had died as much from his own fear, though he was too stupid to know it.

  ‘Please … don’t do this,’ he said, as he folded to the deck with Altaïr’s blade in his neck.

  ‘You are afraid?’ asked the Assassin. He withdrew his blade.

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Sibrand, as though addressing a dolt.

  Altaïr thought back to Sibrand’s callousness before the priest. ‘But you’ll be safe now,’ he said, ‘held in the arms of your God …’

  Sibrand gave a small wet laugh. ‘Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us.’

  ‘If not your God, then what?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear.’

  ‘You don’t believe,’ said Altaïr. Was it true? Sibrand had no faith? No God?

  ‘How could I, given what I know? What I’ve seen. Our treasure was the proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘That this life is all we have.’

  ‘Linger a while longer, then,’ pressed Altaïr, ‘and tell me of the part you were to play.’

  ‘A blockade by sea,’ Sibrand told him, ‘to keep the fool kings and queens from sending reinforcements. Once we … Once we …’ He was fading fast now.

  ‘… conquered the Holy Land?’ prompted Altaïr.

  Sibrand coughed. When he next spoke, his bared teeth were coated with blood. ‘Freed it, you fool. From the tyranny of faith.’

  ‘Freedom? You worked to overthrow cities. Control men’s minds. Murdered any who spoke against you.’

  ‘I followed my orders, believing in my cause. Same as you.’

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ said Altaïr, closing his eyes.

  ‘We are close, Altaïr.’ Al Mualim came from behind his desk, moving through a thick shaft of light shining through the window. His pigeons cooed happily in the afternoon heat and there was that same sweet scent in the air. Yet despite the day – and although Altaïr had once again gained his rank and, more importantly, the Master’s trust – he could not yet fully relax.

  ‘Robert de Sable is now all that stands between us and victory,’ continued Al Mualim. ‘His mouth gives the orders. His hand pays the gold. With him dies the knowledge of the Templar Treasure and any threat it might pose.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how a simple bit of treasure could cause so much chaos,’ said Altaïr. He had been mulling over Sibrand’s final mysterious words. He had been thinking
of the globe – the Piece of Eden. He had experienced its strange draw at first hand, of course, but surely it had merely the power to dazzle and divert. Could it really exert a hold above that of any desirable ornament? He had to admit to finding the idea fanciful.

  Al Mualim nodded slowly, as though reading his thoughts. ‘The Piece of Eden is temptation given form. Look at what it’s done to Robert. Once he had tasted its power, it consumed him. He saw not a dangerous weapon to be destroyed, but a tool – one that would help him realize his life’s ambition.’

  ‘He dreamed of power, then?’

  ‘Yes and no. He dreamed – still dreams – like us, of peace.’

  ‘But this is a man who sought to see the Holy Land consumed by war …’

  ‘No, Altaïr,’ cried Al Mualim. ‘How can you not see when you’re the one who opened my eyes to this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Altaïr was puzzled.

  ‘What do he and his followers want? A world in which all men are united. I do not despise his goal. I share it. But I take issue with the means. Peace is something to be learned. To be understood. To be embraced, but…’

  ‘He would force it.’ Altaïr was nodding. Understanding.

  ‘And rob us of our free will in the process,’ agreed Al Mualim.

  ‘Strange … to think of him in this way,’ said Altaïr.

  ‘Never harbour hate for your victims, Altair. Such thoughts are poison and will cloud your judgement.’

  ‘Could he not be convinced, then? To end his mad quest?’

  Al Mualim shook his head slowly and sadly. ‘I spoke to him – in my way – through you. What was each killing, if not a message? But he has chosen to ignore us.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing left to do.’

  At last he was to hunt de Sable. The thought thrilled Altaïr but he was careful to balance it with notes of caution. He would not make the mistake of underestimating him again. Not de Sable, or anybody.

  ‘Jerusalem is where you faced him first. It’s where you’ll find him now,’ said Al Mualim, and released his bird. ‘Go, Altair. It’s time to finish this.’

  Altaïr left, descending the stairs to the doors of the tower and coming out into the courtyard. Abbas was sitting on the fence, and Altaïr felt his eyes on him as he crossed the courtyard. Then he stopped and turned to face him. Their eyes met and Altaïr was about to say something – he wasn’t sure what. But he thought better of it. He had a task ahead of him. Old wounds were exactly that: old wounds. Unconsciously, however, his hand went to his side.

  28

  The morning after Altaïr had told Abbas the truth about his father, Abbas had been even more withdrawn, and nothing Altaïr said could bring him out of that state. They ate their breakfast in silence, sullenly submitting to the attentions of their governesses, then went to Al Mualim’s study and took their places on the floor.

  If Al Mualim had noticed a difference in his two charges, he said nothing. Perhaps he was privately pleased that the boys seemed less easily distracted that day. Perhaps he simply assumed that they had fallen out, as young friends were inclined to do.

  Altaïr, however, sat with twisted insides and a tortured mind. Why had Abbas said nothing? Why hadn’t he reacted to what Altaïr had told him?

  He was to get his answer later that day, when they went to the training yard as usual. They were to practise sword together, sparring as always. But today Abbas had decided that he wanted to use not the small wooden swords they normally sparred with but the shiny blades to which they planned to graduate.

  Labib, their instructor, was delighted. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said, clapping his hands together, ‘but, remember, there is nothing to be gained from drawing blood. We’ll not trouble the physicians, if you please. This shall be a test of restraint and of cunning as much as it is of skill.’

  ‘Cunning,’ said Abbas. ‘That should suit you, Altaïr. You are cunning and treacherous.’

  They were the first words he had spoken to Altaïr all day. And as he said them he fixed Altaïr with a look of such contempt, such hatred, that Altaïr knew things would never be the same between them. He looked at Labib, wanting to appeal, to implore him not to allow the contest, but he was hopping happily over the small fence that surrounded the training quadrangle, relishing the prospect of some proper combat at last.

  They took up position, Altaïr swallowing, Abbas staring hard at him.

  ‘Brother,’ began Altaïr, ‘what I said last night, I –’

  ‘Do not call me brother!’ Abbas’s shout rang around the courtyard. And he sprang towards Altaïr with a ferocity the boy had never seen in him before. But though his teeth were bared, Altaïr could see the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes. There was more to this than simple anger, he knew.

  ‘No, Abbas,’ he called, desperately defending. He glanced to his left and saw the instructor’s puzzled look – he was clearly not sure what to make of Abbas’s outburst or the sudden hostility between the two. Altaïr saw two more Assassins approaching the training area, evidently having heard Abbas’s cry. Faces appeared in the window of the defensive tower by the citadel entrance. He wondered if Al Mualim was watching …

  Abbas jabbed forward with his swordpoint, forcing Altaïr to dodge to the side.

  ‘Now, Abbas …’ chided Labib.

  ‘He means to kills me, Master,’ shouted Altaïr.

  ‘Don’t be dramatic, child,’ said the instructor, though he didn’t sound altogether convinced. ‘You could learn from your brother’s commitment.’

  ‘I am not.’ Abbas attacked. ‘His.’ The boy’s words were punctuated with savage strikes of the sword. ‘Brother.’

  ‘I told you to help you,’ shouted Altaïr.

  ‘No,’ screamed Abbas. ‘You lied.’ Again he struck and there was a great chime of steel. Altaïr found himself thrown back by the force, stumbling at the fence and almost falling backwards over it. More Assassins had arrived. Some looked concerned, others ready to be entertained.

  ‘Defend, Altaïr, defend,’ roared Labib, clapping his hands with glee. Altaïr threw up his sword, returning Abbas’s strikes and forcing him into the centre of the quadrangle once more.

  ‘I told the truth,’ he hissed, as they came close, the blades of their swords sliding against one another. ‘I told you the truth to end your suffering, just as I would have wanted mine ending.’

  ‘You lied to bring shame upon me,’ said Abbas, falling back and taking up position, crouched, one arm thrown back as they’d been taught, the blade of his sword quivering.

  ‘No!’ cried Altaïr. He danced back as Abbas thrust forward. But with a flick of his wrist Abbas caught Altaïr with his blade, opening a nick that bled warm down Altaïr’s side. He glanced over at Labib with beseeching eyes, but his concerns were waved away. He placed a hand to his side and came away with bloodied fingertips that he held out to Abbas.

  ‘Stop this, Abbas,’ he pleaded. ‘I spoke the truth in the hope of bringing you comfort.’

  ‘Comfort,’ said Abbas. The boy was talking to the assembled crowd now. ‘To bring me comfort he tells me my father killed himself.’

  There was a moment of shocked silence. Altaïr looked from Abbas to those who were now watching, unable to comprehend the turn of events. The secret he had sworn to keep had been made public.

  He glanced up to Al Mualim’s tower. Saw the Master standing there, watching, his hands behind his back and an unreadable expression on his face.

  ‘Abbas,’ shouted Labib, at last seeing something was amiss. ‘Altaïr.’

  But the two fighting boys ignored him, their swords meeting again. Altaïr, in pain, was forced to defend.

  ‘I thought –’ he began.

  ‘You thought you would bring shame upon me,’ shrieked Abbas. The tears were falling down his face now and he circled Altaïr, then pushed forward again, swinging his sword wildly. Altaïr crouched and found space between Abbas’s arm and body. He struck, opening a wound on Abbas
’s left arm that he hoped would at least stop him long enough for Altaïr to try to explain –

  But Abbas shrieked. And with a final war cry he leaped towards Altaïr who ducked beneath his flailing blade, using his shoulder to upset Abbas’s forward momentum so that now they were rolling in the ground in a mess of dirt and bloodied robes. For a moment they grappled, then Altaïr felt a searing pain in his side, Abbas digging his thumb into the wound and using the opportunity to twist, heaving himself on top of Altaïr and pinning him to the ground. From his belt he produced his dagger and held it to Altaïr’s throat. His wild eyes were fixed on Altaïr. They still poured with tears. He breathed heavily through bared teeth.

  ‘Abbas!’ came the shout, not from Labib or any of those who had gathered to watch. This came from the window of Al Mualim. ‘Put away the knife at once,’ he roared, his voice a thunderclap in the courtyard.

  In response Abbas sounded small and desperate. ‘Not until he admits.’

  ‘Admits what?’ cried Altaïr, struggling but held firm.

  Labib had climbed over the fence. ‘Now, Abbas,’ he said, with placating palms held out. ‘Do as the Master says.’

  ‘Come any closer and I’ll carve him,’ growled Abbas.

  The instructor stopped. ‘He’ll put you in the cells for this, Abbas. This is no way for the Order to behave. Look, there are citizens here from the village. Word will spread.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ wept Abbas. ‘He needs to say it. He needs to say he lied about my father.’

  ‘What lie?’

  ‘He told me my father killed himself. That he came to Altaïr’s quarters to say sorry, then slashed his own throat. But he lied. My father did not kill himself. He left the Brotherhood. That was his apology. Now tell me you lied.’ He jabbed the point of the dagger into Altair’s throat, drawing more blood.

  ‘Abbas, stop this,’ roared Al Mualim from his tower.

  ‘Altaïr, did you lie?’ asked Labib.

  A silence shrouded the training yard: all waited for Altaïr’s reply. He looked up at Abbas.