Assassin's Creed: Revelations (28 page)

The Assassin spoke tentatively. “Is it . . . Is it—you?” He paused. “I heard rumors, but I did not believe them.”

The old man gave the ghost of a smile. “I wonder if I might speak with Abbas myself. It has been a long time.”

Cemal and Teragani looked at each other. Cemal drew in a long breath. He took the old man’s gourd from him and refilled it, handing it back to him with reverence. He spoke awkwardly. “That would be impossible. Abbas employs rogue
Fedayeen
to keep us from the inner sanctum of the castle, these days.”

“Less than half the fighters here are true Assassins now,” added Teragani. He paused, then said: “Altaïr.”

The old man smiled and nodded, almost imperceptibly. “But I can see that the true Assassins remain just that—
true
,” he said.

“You have been away a long time, Mentor. Where did you go?”

“I traveled. Studied. Studied deeply. Rested. Recovered from my losses, learned to live with them. In short, I did what anyone in my position would have done.” He paused, and his tone altered slightly as he went on: “I also visited our Brothers at Alamut.”

“Alamut? How do they fare?”

Altaïr shook his head. “It is over for them now. The Mongols under Khan Hulagu overran them and took the fortress. They destroyed the library. The Mongols range ever westward like a plague of locusts. Our only hope for now is to reaffirm our presence here and in the west. We must be strong here. But perhaps our bases from now on should be among the people, not in fortresses like Masyaf.”

“Is it really you?” asked Cemal.

“Hush!” Teragani interrupted. “We do not want to get him killed.”

Cemal suddenly tensed. “Tazim!” he said, suddenly worried.

Teragani grinned. “Tazim is more bark than bite. He likes an argument for its own sake more than anything else in the world. And he has been as dispirited as us, which hasn’t helped his mood. Besides, he left before this little play reached its denouement!” He turned to Altaïr, all trace of his former despondency gone. “We clearly have work to do.”

“So,” said the old man, “where do I begin?”

Cemal looked again at Teragani. They both rose and pulled their hoods up over their heads. “With us, Altaïr,” he said.

Altaïr smiled and rose in his turn. He got up like an old man, but once he was on his feet, he stood firm.

FIFTY-FIVE

They walked toward the castle together.

“You say these men are cruel,” said Altaïr. “Has any man raised his blade against an innocent?”

“Alas, yes,” Cemal replied. “Brutality seems to be their sole source of pleasure.”

“Then they must die, for they have compromised the Order,” said Altaïr. “But those who still live by the creed must be spared.”

“You can put your trust in us,” said Cemal.

“I am sure of it. Now—leave me. I wish to reconnoiter alone, and it is not as if I am unfamiliar with this place.”

“We will remain within call.”

Altaïr nodded and turned to face the castle gates as his two companions fell back. He approached the entrance, keeping to the shadows, and passed the sentries without difficulty, thinking with regret that no true Assassin sentries would have let him slip by so easily. He hugged the walls of the outer bailey, skirting them until he was able to cross to a torchlit guard post not far from the gates of the inner, where he saw two captains engaged in conversation. Altaïr paused to listen to them. After a few words had been exchanged, he knew them to be men loyal to Abbas. Abbas! Why, thought Altaïr, had he shown the man mercy? What suffering might have been avoided if he had not! But then, perhaps, after all, mercy had been Abbas’s due, whatever the cost of it.

“You’ve heard the stories going around the village?” said the first officer.

“About Abbas and his nightmares?”

“No, no—” the first man dropped his voice. “About Altaïr.”

“Altaïr? What?”

“People are saying that an old Assassin saved the life of a merchant, down in the valley. They say he fought with a hidden-blade.”

The second officer shook his head, dismissively. “Rumors. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“True or not, say nothing to Abbas. He is sick with suspicion.”

“If Altaïr is anywhere in these parts, we should act first—seek him out and kill him, like the vile old cur he is. He will only spread discontent like he did before, making each man responsible for his decisions. Undermining the authority that has made Abbas great.”

“An iron fist. That is all anyone understands.”

“You are right. No order without control.”

Altaïr had taken his time to assess the situation. He knew that Cemal and Teragani were somewhere in the shadows behind him. The two officers seemed to be all that stood between him and the inner bailey, and their speech had proved them to be sworn to Abbas’s doctrines—doctrines that had far more to do with Templar thinking than that of true Assassins.

He coughed, very gently, and moved into the pool of light.

The two officers turned on him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Clear out, old man, if you know what’s good for you.”

The first to speak laughed harshly. “Why don’t we just cut him down where he stands? The pigs will be glad of the extra meal.”

Altaïr did not speak. Instead, he extended his left hand, palm toward them, so that they could see that his ring finger was missing.

They took a step back, simultaneously drawing their scimitars. “The usurper returns!” barked the second captain.

“Who’d have thought it? After so long.”

“What brings you back?”

“A dog returning to its vomit.”

“You talk too much,” said Altaïr. With the economical movements an old man must learn, but with none of an old man’s slowness, he unleashed his hidden-blade as he stepped forward and lunged—once, twice—with deadly accuracy.

He moved on toward the gates of the inner bailey, still wary, and his caution paid off. He saw a third captain standing by them and was just in time to duck out of sight before the man could notice him. As he watched, he heard a faint yell behind him, and, from the darkness, a young Assassin came sprinting toward the officer. He whispered something to him, and the captain’s eyes went wide in surprise and anger. Clearly, the bodies of the corrupt Assassins Altaïr had just dispatched had already been discovered, and his own presence would doubtless no longer be a secret. Swiftly, Altaïr exchanged his hidden-blade for the spring-loaded pistol, which he had developed from designs during his studies in the East.

“Send him a message, quickly!” the captain was ordering his young henchman. He raised his voice. “Assassins of the Brotherhood of Abbas! To me!”

Altaïr had stood, quietly weighing his options, when from close to his elbow a friendly voice said: “Mentor!”

He turned to see Cemal and Tergani. With them were half a dozen fellow Assassins.

“We could not prevent the discovery of those captains you killed—two of the cruelest in the band, who would never has risen to rank under anyone save Abbas,” Cemal explained quickly. “But we have brought reinforcements. And this is only a start.”

“Welcome.” Altaïr smiled.

Cemal smiled back. Behind him, the little detachment of true Assassins raised their hoods, almost in unison.

“We’d better shut him up,” said Teragani, nodding toward the blustering third captain.

“Allow me,” said Altaïr. “I need the exercise.”

He stepped forward to confront the rogue Assassin officer. By then, a number of the man’s own renegade soldiers had rushed to his aid.

“There he is!” yelled the captain. “Kill him! Kill all the traitors!”

“Think before you act,” said Altaïr. “Every action has its consequences.”

“You pathetic miser! Stand down or die!”

“You could have been spared, friend,” said Altaïr, as his supporters stepped out of the shadows.

“I am not your friend, old man,” retorted the captain, and rushed Altaïr, slicing at him with his sword before the old Mentor seemed fully ready.

But he was ready. The conflict was short and bloody. At the end of it, the captain and most of his men lay dead under the gates.

“Follow me to the castle keep,” cried Altaïr. “And spill no more blood if you can help it. Remember the true Code.”

But now, at the portal to the inner bailey, another captain stood, in his black and dark grey robes, the Assassin emblem glinting on his belt in the torchlight. He was an older man, of perhaps some fifty summers.

“Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad,” he said in a firm voice that knew no fear. “Two decades have passed since we last saw you within these walls. Two decades which, I see, have been kinder to your face than they have been to our decrepit Order.” He paused. “Abbas used to tell us stories . . . About Altaïr the arrogant. Altaïr the deceiver. Altaïr the betrayer. But I never believed these tales. And now I see here, standing before me, Altaïr the Master. And I am humbled.”

He stepped forward and extended his arm in friendship. Altaïr took it in a firm grasp, hand gripping wrist, in a Roman handshake. A number of Assassin guards, clearly his men, ranged themselves behind him.

“We could use your wisdom, great Master. Now, more than ever.”

He stood back and addressed his troops: “Our Mentor is returned!”

The soldiers sheathed their drawn weapons and raised their hoods. Joining forces with Altaïr’s existing group of loyal Assassins, they made their way toward the dark-towered keep of Masyaf.

FIFTY-SIX

But hardly were they within the confines of the inner bailey than Abbas himself appeared, behind a detachment of rogue Assassins. Abbas, recognizable still, but an old man, too, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks—a haunted, frightened, driven man.

“Kill him!” bellowed Abbas. “Kill him now!”

His men hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?” Abbas screamed at them, his voice cracking as it strained.

But they were frozen with indecision, looking at their fellows standing against them and at each other.

“You fools! He has bewitched you!”

Still nothing. Abbas looked at them, spat, and disappeared within the keep.

There was still a standoff, as Assassin confronted Assassin. In the tense silence, Altaïr raised his left hand—the one maimed at his initiation into the Brotherhood.

“There is no witchcraft here,” he said simply. “Nor sorcery. Do as your conscience bids. But death has stalked here too long. And we have too many
real
enemies—we can’t afford to turn against each
other
.”

One of Abbas’s reluctant defenders doffed her cowl and stepped forward, kneeling before Altaïr. “Mentor,” she said.

Another quickly joined her. “Welcome home,” she added.

Then a third: “I fight for you. For the Order.”

The others quickly followed the example of the three women Assassins, greeting Altaïr as a long-lost brother, embracing their former opponents in fellowship again. Only a handful still spat insults and retreated after Abbas into the keep.

Altaïr, at the head of his troop, led the way into the keep itself. They stopped in the great hall, looking up to where Abbas stood at the head of the central staircase. He was flanked by rogue Assassins loyal to him, and spearmen and archers ranged the gallery.

Altaïr regarded them calmly. Under his gaze, the rogue Assassins wavered. But they did not break.

“Tell your men to stand down, Abbas,” he commanded.

“Never! I am defending Masyaf! Would you not do the same?”

“Abbas, you corrupted everything we stand for and lost everything we gained. All of it sacrificed on the altar of your own spite.”

“As you,” Abbas spat back. “You have wasted your life staring into that accursed Apple, dreaming only of your own glory.”

Altaïr took a step forward. As he did so, two of Abbas’s spearmen stepped forward, brandishing their arms.

“Abbas—it is true that I have learned many things from the Apple. About life and death, and about the past and the future.” He paused. “I regret this, my old comrade, but I see that I have no choice but to demonstrate to you one of the things I have learned. Nothing else will stop you, I see. And you will never change now and see the light that is still available to you.”

“Kill the traitors!” Abbas shouted in reply. “Kill every one of them and throw their bodies onto the dunghill!”

Abbas’s men bristled, but held off their attack. Altaïr knew that there was no turning back now. He raised his gun arm, unleashed the pistol from its harness, and, as it sprang into his grip, aimed and fired at the man who, seven decades earlier, had, for a short time, been his best friend.

Abbas staggered under the blow of the ball as it struck him, a look of disbelief and surprise on his wizened features. He gasped and swayed, reaching out wildly for support, but no one came to his aid.

And then he fell, crashing over and over down the long stone staircase, to come to rest at Altaïr’s feet. His legs had broken in the fall and stuck out at crazy angles from his body.

But he was not dead. Not yet. He managed to raise himself painfully, high enough to hold his head up, and look Altaïr in the eye.

“I can never forgive you, Altaïr,” he managed to croak. “For the lies you told about my family, my father. For the humiliation I suffered.”

Altaïr looked down at him, but there was only regret in his eyes. “They were not lies, Abbas. I was ten years old when your father came to my room, to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying
my
family.” Altaïr paused. “Then he cut his own throat.”

Abbas held his enemy’s eye but did not speak. The pain in his face was that of a man confronting a truth he could not bear.

“I watched his life ebb away at my feet,” Altaïr went on. “I shall never forget that image.”