Assassin's Creed: Revelations (24 page)

And his look was troubled . . .

FORTY-THREE

Altaïr, now in his sixties, but still a lean and vigorous man, sat on a stone bench outside a dwelling in the village of Masyaf, thinking. He was no stranger to adversity, and disaster seemed, once again, poised to strike. But he had kept the great, terrible artifact safe through it all. How much longer would his strength hold, to do so? How much longer would his back refuse to buckle under the blows Destiny rained on it?

His ponderings were interrupted—and the interruption was not unwelcome—by the appearance of his wife, Maria Thorpe, the Englishwoman who had once—long ago—been his enemy, a woman who had longed to be counted among the Company of the Templars.

Time and chance had changed all that. By then, after a long exile, they had returned to Masyaf. And they faced Fate together.

She joined him on the bench, sensing his lowered spirits. He told her his news.

“The Templars have retaken their Archive on Cyprus. Abbas Sofian sent no reinforcements to aid the defenders. It was a massacre.”

Maria’s lips parted in an expression of surprise and dismay. “How could God have permitted this?”

“Maria, listen to me. When we left Masyaf ten long years ago, our Order was strong. But since then, all our progress—all that we built—has been undone, dismantled.”

Her face was a mask of quiet fury. “Abbas must answer for this.”

“Answer to whom?” replied Altaïr, angrily. “The Assassins obey only
his
command now.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “Resist your desire for revenge, Altaïr. If you speak the truth, they will see the error of their ways.”

“Abbas executed our youngest
son
, Maria! He deserves to
die
!”

“Yes. But if you cannot win back the Brotherhood by honorable means, its foundation will crumble.”

Altaïr didn’t reply for a moment but sat silently, brooding, the subject of some deep inner struggle. But at last he looked up, and his face had cleared.

“You are right, Maria,” he said, calmly. “Thirty years ago, I let passion overtake my reason. I was headstrong and ambitious, and I caused a rift within the Brotherhood that has never fully healed.”

He rose, and Maria rose with him. Slowly, immersed in conversation, they walked through the dusty village.

“Speak reasonably, Altaïr, and reasonable men will listen,” she encouraged him.

“Some will, perhaps. But not Abbas.” Altaïr shook his head. “I should have expelled him thirty years ago when he tried to steal the Apple.”

“But my dear, you earned the respect of the other Assassins because you were merciful—you let him stay.”

He smiled at her slyly. “How do you know all this? You weren’t even there.”

She returned his smile. “I married a master storyteller,” she replied, lightly.

As they walked, they came into view of the massive hulk of the castle. But there was an air of neglect hanging over it, of desolation, even.

“Look at this place,” growled Altaïr. “Masyaf is a shadow of its former self.”

“We have been away a long time,” Maria reminded him, gently.

“But not in hiding,” he said, testily. “The threat from the Mongols—the Storm from the East, the hordes led by Khan Genghis—demanded our attention, and we rode to meet it. What man here can say the same?”

They walked on. A little later, Maria broke their silence by saying, “Where is our eldest son? Does Darim know that his brother is dead?”

“I sent Darim a message four days ago. With luck, it will have reached him by now.”

“Then we may see him soon.”

“If God wills it.” Altaïr paused. “You know, when I think of Abbas, I almost pity him. He wears his great grudge against us like a cloak.”

“His wound is deep, my darling. Perhaps . . . perhaps it will help him to hear the truth.”

But Altaïr shook his head. “It will not matter, not with him. A wounded heart sees all wisdom as the point of a knife.” He paused again, looking around him, at the handful of villagers who passed them with their eyes either lowered or averted. “As I walk through this village, I sense great fear in the people, not love.”

“Abbas has taken this place apart and robbed it of all joy.”

Altaïr stopped in his tracks and looked gravely at his wife. He searched her face, lined now, but still beautiful, and the eyes still clear, though he fancied he saw reflected in them all they had been through together. “We may be walking to our doom, Maria.”

She took his hand. “We may. But we walk together.”

FORTY-FOUR

Maria and Altaïr had reached the confines of the castle and began to encounter Assassins—members of the Brotherhood—who knew them. But the meetings were far from friendly.

One approached them and made to pass by without acknowledgment, but Altaïr stopped him.

“Brother. Speak with us a moment.”

Unwillingly, the Assassin turned. But his expression was stern. “For what reason should I speak with you? So that you can twist my mind into knots with that devilish artifact of yours?”

And he hurried away, refusing to talk any further.

But hard on his heels came another Assassin. He, too, however, clearly wished to avoid any contact with the former Mentor and his wife.

“Are you well, brother?” asked Altaïr, accosting him, and there was something challenging in his tone.

“Who is asking?” he replied, rudely.

“Do you not recognize me? I am Altaïr.”

He looked at him levelly. “That name has a hollow sound, and you—you are a cipher, nothing more. I would learn more talking to the wind.”

They made their way unchallenged to the castle gardens. Once there, they knew why they had been allowed to penetrate so far. Suddenly, they were surrounded by dark-clad Assassins, loyal to their usurping Mentor, Abbas, and they stood ready to strike at any moment. Then, on a rampart above them, Abbas himself appeared, sneeringly in control.

“Let them speak,” he ordered in an imperious voice. To Altaïr and Maria, he said: “Why have you come here? Why have you returned, unwelcome as you are, to this place? To defile it further?”

“We seek the truth about our son’s death,” replied Altaïr in a calm, clear voice. “Why was Sef killed?”

“Is it the truth you want or an excuse for revenge?” Abbas responded.

“If the truth gives us an excuse, we will act on it,” Maria threw back at him.

This retort gave Abbas pause, but after a moment’s reflection he said, in a lower tone: “Surrender the Apple, Altaïr, and I will tell you why your son was put to death.”

Altaïr nodded, as if at a secret insight, and, turning, prepared himself to address the assembled Brotherhood of Assassins. He raised his voice commandingly.

“Ah, the truth is out already! Abbas wants the Apple for himself. Not to open your minds—but to control them!”

Abbas was quick to reply. “You have held that artifact for thirty years, Altaïr, reveling in its power and hoarding its secrets. It has corrupted you!”

Altaïr looked around at the sea of faces, most set against him, some—a few—showing signs of doubt. His mind worked quickly as he concocted a plan, which might just work.

“Very well, Abbas,” he said. “Take it.”

And he took the Apple from the pouch at his side and held it up high.

“What—?” said Maria, taken aback.

Abbas’s eyes flashed at the sight of the Apple, but he hesitated before signaling to his bodyguard to go and take it from Altaïr’s gaunt hand.

The bodyguard came close. When he was standing next to Altaïr, a demon possessed him. An amused expression on his face, he leaned in to the former Mentor, and whispered in his ear: “It was I who executed your son Sef. Just before I killed him, I told him that it was you yourself who had ordered his death.”

He did not see the flash of lightning in Altaïr’s eyes. He blundered on, pleased with himself, and, scarcely restraining a laugh, said: “Sef died believing you had betrayed him.”

Altaïr turned burning eyes on him then. In his hand, the Apple exploded with the light of a bursting star.

“Ahhhh!” screamed the bodyguard in pain. His whole body writhed uncontrollably. His hands went to his head, scrabbling at his temples. It looked as if he were trying to tear his head from his body in an attempt to stop the agony.

“Altaïr!” cried Maria.

But Altaïr was deaf to her. His eyes were black with fury as, driven by an unseen force, the bodyguard, even as he tried to resist his own impulses, pulled a long knife from his belt and, with hands trembling as they tried to oppose the power which drove them, raised it, ready to plunge it into his own throat.

Maria seized her husband’s arm, shaking him, and crying again, “Altaïr! No!”

Her words had their effect at last. An instant later, visibly shaken, Altaïr broke free of the trance that had gripped him. His eyes became normal again, and the Apple withdrew its light, becoming dark and dull, inert in his hand.

But the bodyguard, freed of the force which had held him in its grasp, shook himself like a dog, looked around madly, in anger and fear, and with a terrible oath, threw himself on Maria, striking his knife deep into her back.

Then he drew back, leaving the knife buried where he had driven it. Maria stood, a faint cry forming on her lips. The entire company of Assassins stood as if turned to stone. Abbas himself was silent, his mouth open, but no sound came forth.

It was Altaïr who moved. To the bodyguard, it seemed as if his former Mentor unleashed his hidden-blade with appalling slowness. The blade snicked out and the sound it made might have been as loud as a rock snapping in the heat of the sun. The bodyguard saw the blade coming toward him, toward his face, saw it approach inch by inch, second by second, as it seemed to him. But then the speed was sudden and ferocious as he felt it split his face open between the eyes. There was an explosion in his head, and then, nothing.

Altaïr stood for a fraction of a second as the bodyguard fell to the ground, blood shooting from his head between the shattered eyes, then caught his wife as she began to collapse, and lowered her gently to the earth which would soon, he knew, receive her. A ball of ice grew in his heart as he bent over her, his face so close to hers that they seemed like lovers about to kiss.

They were caught in a silence that wrapped itself around them like armor. She was trying to speak. He strained to hear her.

“Altaïr. My love. Strength.”

“Maria . . .” His voice was no more than an anguished whisper.

Then, appallingly, the sounds and the dust and the smells rose up violently around him again, smashing through the protecting armor, and above it all the shrieking voice of Abbas:

“He is possessed! Kill him!”

Altaïr rose and, drawing himself to his full height, backed slowly away.

“Take the Apple!” screamed Abbas. “Now!”

FORTY-FIVE

Altaïr fled before they could react—fled from the castle, through its gaping portal, down the escarpment, and into the sparse wood that bounded the area between fortress and village on the northern side. And there, in a clearing, as if by a miracle, he was brought short by an encounter with another man, like him, but a generation younger.

“Father!” exclaimed the newcomer. “I came as soon as I’d read your message. What has happened? Am I too late?”

From the castle behind them, horns were crying out the alarm.

“Darim! My son! Turn back!”

Darim looked past his father, over his shoulder. There, on the ridges beyond the wood, he could see bands of Assassins assembling, getting ready to hunt them down. “Have they all gone mad?”

“Darim—I still have the Apple. We have to go. Abbas must not get his hands on it.”

For answer, Darim unslung his pack and drew a scabbard of throwing knives from it before placing it on the ground. “There are more knives in there, take them if you need them.”

The Assassins loyal to Abbas had seen them by then, and some were heading toward them while others fanned out to outflank them.

“They’ll try to ambush us,” said Altaïr grimly. “Keep a good stock of knives with you. We must be prepared.”

They made their way through the wood, going ever deeper.

It was a perilous passage. Often, they had to take cover as they spotted groups of Assassins who’d got ahead of them or who tried to take them from the side, or obliquely, from behind.

“Stay close!” Darim said. “We go together.”

“We’ll try to work our way around. There are horses in the village. Once we’ve got mounts, we’ll try to make for the coast.”

Up until then, Darim had been too preoccupied with their immediate danger to think of anything else, but now he said, “Where is Mother?”

Altaïr shook his head, sadly. “She is gone, Darim. I am sorry.”

Darim took a breath. “What? How?”

“Later. Time for talk later. Now we have to get clear. We have to fight.”

“But they are our Brothers. Our fellow Assassins. Surely we can talk—persuade them.”

“Forget reason, Darim. They have been poisoned by lies.”

There was silence between them. Then Darim said, “Was it Abbas who killed my brother?”

“He killed your brother. He killed our great comrade, Malik Al-Sayf. And countless others,” replied Altaïr, bleakly.

Darim bowed his head. “He is a madman. Without remorse. Without conscience.”

“A madman with an army.”

“He will die,” said Darim, coldly. “One day, he will pay.”

They reached the outskirts of the village and were lucky to make their way to the stables unmolested, for the village itself was teeming with Assassin warriors. Hastily, they saddled up and mounted. As they rode away, they could hear Abbas’s voice, bellowing like a beast in pain as he stood atop a small tower in the village square. “I will have the Apple, Altaïr! And I will have your HEAD, for all the dishonor you have brought upon my family! You cannot run forever! Not from us, and not from your lies!”