The Secret Crusade ac-3

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘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.’

  Altair 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. Altair 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 Altair, 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. Altair 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 Altair 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.

  Altair’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.’

  Altair 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 Altair.

  ‘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 Altair. 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.’

  Altair 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 Altair, 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 Altair’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.

  Altair 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 Altair. 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 Altair, ‘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 Altair.

  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 Altair, closing his eyes.

  ‘We are close, Altair.’ 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 Altair 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 Altair. 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, Altair,’ cried Al Mualim. ‘How can you not see when you’re the one who opened my eyes to this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Altair 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.’ Altair 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 Altair.

  ‘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 Altair 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.’

  Altair left, descending the stairs to the doors of the tower and coming out into the courtyard. Abbas was sitting on the fence, and Altair felt his eyes on him as he crossed the courtyard. Then he stopped and turned to face him. Their eyes met and Altair 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 w
ere exactly that: old wounds. Unconsciously, however, his hand went to his side.

  28

  The morning after Altair had told Abbas the truth about his father, Abbas had been even more withdrawn, and nothing Altair 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.

  Altair, however, sat with twisted insides and a tortured mind. Why had Abbas said nothing? Why hadn’t he reacted to what Altair 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, Altair. You are cunning and treacherous.’

  They were the first words he had spoken to Altair all day. And as he said them he fixed Altair with a look of such contempt, such hatred, that Altair 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, Altair swallowing, Abbas staring hard at him.

  ‘Brother,’ began Altair, ‘what I said last night, I -’

  ‘ Do not call me brother! ’ Abbas’s shout rang around the courtyard. And he sprang towards Altair with a ferocity the boy had never seen in him before. But though his teeth were bared, Altair 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. Altair 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 Altair to dodge to the side.

  ‘Now, Abbas…’ chided Labib.

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

  ‘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 Altair.

  ‘No,’ screamed Abbas. ‘You lied.’ Again he struck and there was a great chime of steel. Altair 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, Altair, defend,’ roared Labib, clapping his hands with glee. Altair 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 Altair. He danced back as Abbas thrust forward. But with a flick of his wrist Abbas caught Altair with his blade, opening a nick that bled warm down Altair’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. Altair 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. ‘ Altair.’

  But the two fighting boys ignored him, their swords meeting again. Altair, 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 Altair, then pushed forward again, swinging his sword wildly. Altair 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 Altair to try to explain -

  But Abbas shrieked. And with a final war cry he leaped towards Altair 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 Altair 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 Altair and pinning him to the ground. From his belt he produced his dagger and held it to Altair’s throat. His wild eyes were fixed on Altair. 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 Altair, 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 Altair’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.

  ‘Altair, did you lie?’ asked Labib.

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

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did lie.’

  Abbas sat back on his haunches and squeezed his eyes shut. Whatever pain went through him seemed to rack his entire body, and as he dropped the dagger with a clang to the ground of the quadrangle, he began weeping. He was still weeping as Labib came to him and grabbed him roughly by the arm, pulling him to his feet and delivering him to a pair of guards, who came hurrying up. Moments later Altair was also grabbed. He, to
o, was manhandled to the cells.

  Later, Al Mualim decided that after a month in the dungeons, they should resume their training. Abbas’s crime was deemed the more serious of the two; it was he who had allowed his emotions free rein and by doing so brought disrepute to the Order. His punishment was that his training be extended for an extra year. He would still be on the training yard with Labib when Altair was made an Assassin. The injustice increased his hatred of Altair, who slowly came to see Abbas as a pathetic, bitter figure. When the citadel was attacked, it was Altair who saved the life of Al Mualim and was elevated to Master Assassin. That day, Abbas spat in the dirt at Altair’s feet but Altair just sneered at him. Abbas, he decided, was as weak and ineffectual as his father had been.

  Perhaps, looking back, that was how he had first become infected by arrogance.

  29

  When Altair next arrived at the Jerusalem Bureau, it was as a changed man. Not that he would make the mistake of thinking his journey was over – that would have been an error made by the old Altair. No, he knew that it was just beginning. It was as though Malik sensed it too. There was something changed about the Bureau leader when Altair entered. There was a new respect and accord between them.

  ‘Safety and peace, Altair,’ he said.

  ‘Upon you as well, brother,’ replied Altair, and there was an unspoken moment between them.

  ‘Seems Fate has a strange way with things…’

  Altair nodded. ‘So it’s true, then? Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem?

  ‘I’ve seen the knights myself.’ Malik’s hand went to his stump. Reminded of it by mention of the Templar.

  ‘Only misfortune follows that man. If he’s here, it’s because he intends ill. I won’t give him the chance to act,’ said Altair.

  ‘Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother. We both know no good can come of that.’

  Altair smiled. ‘I have not forgotten. You have nothing to fear. I do not seek revenge, but knowledge.’

  Once he would have said such a thing parrot fashion, knowing the beliefs expected of him. Now he truly believed it.