The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom: Chapter Seven.

[communi_kate]

Title: The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom: Chapter Seven (7/9)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Spoilers: Minor, post-game.
Warnings: Language
Summary: Malik and Altair find the third Eden fragment and an awful lot of trouble. 

The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom
 

An Assassin’s Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Seven.


Altaïr jumped to the ground from the last pole of scaffolding with more caution than he usually displayed. He had wrapped the orb carefully in the ragged remnants of his veil. Mud still clung to the cheap cotton.

Malik kept his distance, unwilling to touch the fragment. He did not trust the magic of the orbs. He trusted Marîd even less, but the boy would be easier to dispose of than the Apple of Eden. He inclined his head towards the bundle. "Where did you find it?"

"Encased in mud on the spire," Altaïr said, much more quietly than normal. "It seems that it had been undisturbed for years."

"Fortunate," Malik said.

Altaïr shrugged. "Fortune provides," he said.

Yes, Malik thought. And sometimes it beats you to the ground when you are not expecting it. He looked at the shrouded outline of the orb and saw Altaïr's hands tremble. "What did it show you?"

Altaïr shook his head. He flipped a fold of fabric away from the globe and held it out to Malik, careful not to let his bare skin touch the orb.

Malik regarded the apple suspiciously. He did not reach out to touch it. The orb seemed identical to the Eden fragments he had seen before. Perhaps the pattern of grooves on its surface is a little different, he thought. I am not sure. His breath hissed between his teeth as Altaïr flipped the orb. "Take care."

Altaïr grinned. He cupped the globe more securely in his palms. There was a solid quality about the artifact that bothered Malik. The orb seemed subtly more real than the dusty alley in which they stood. It was too perfect. And it smelt like all of the Eden pieces did-clean, like morning mist across the river. He hung back.

Altaïr held out the orb. "Take it."

Malik shook his head. "It'll be safer with you," he said, and was glad when Altaïr tucked the apple into his robe. "It's morning. We'd best be on our way."

"Because of the Tuareg?" Marîd said quietly. He stood with his back to the Assassins and stared out over the square.

Malik cursed the boy's propensity for asking stupid questions. "Yes. Just as we have told you."

The boy pointed. "Those Tuareg?"

Altaïr's head snapped around.

Unpleasant anticipation crawled across Malik's shoulder-blades. He knew what he would see even as he turned. A huddle of tall men approached them across the square. They wore swords with an unusual cross-hilted design. Malik recognised the pattern. It was the same as the sword he had looted from their comrades.

Marîd slid a foot back, poised to flee. He tilted his head to look first at Malik and then at Altaïr with eyes made liquid by panic.

"Run," Altaïr said quietly. When the boy did not heed he said "Escape. Make for your master's house once you have eluded your pursuers."

"But-" Marîd protested.

"We'll meet you as planned," Altaïr ordered. "The square, at midday. Go!" He clapped Marîd on the shoulder. The brief contact snapped the bonds of fear that had held the boy paralysed. He ducked his head and fled into the alleys that surrounded the Sankore. The soles of his bare feet flashed in the half-light as he raced away. A pair of Tuareg peeled off from the approaching group to follow him.

The Assassins backed slowly towards the mosque's high walls.

"Clever to use the boy as bait," Malik muttered.

Altaïr shrugged. His hood fell over his face and obscured his features in deep shadow. "I had not thought of that until this moment," he confessed.

"Still. It worked," Malik said. "Two less to chase us." He reached for his knife. Beside him, Altaïr drew his sword.

The Kel Amenar fanned out across the square like a shower of arrows.

The Assassins ran.

Malik realized within a few paces that they had the advantage. The Tuareg warriors had come in a group, but they gave chase as individuals. They were an undisciplined and ill-armed rabble compared to the Syrian city guards. But the Tuareg knew Timbuktu. The Assassins did not.

Malik gritted his teeth and ran faster.

The sound of their pursuers' feet echoed from the high walls all around. The silvery grey sand that carpeted the streets was easy to see in the half-light, but it made running difficult. Mud-walled houses flickered across Malik's peripheral vision. He concentrated on the path in front of him, attempting to map the city in his mind. Should they head right? Or was left the better option? He couldn't remember. He dodged as a woman came out of one of the houses. She took one look at the running men and their sword-waving pursuers and retreated, instantly forgotten.

The Assassins ducked into an alley. A triumphant shout spilt the air behind them. Turning a corner, Malik was unsurprised to see a blind wall in front of them. He identified a dozen tiny hand-and footholds within a stride, dug his nails into a rotten wooden sill and hauled himself upwards. Higher up, Altaïr offered a hand which he would have refused on principle at any other time. Faced with pursuit, he wrapped his fingers around Altaïr's wiry wrist and yanked himself up the mud bricks.

Far below them, the Tuareg came to a crashing halt. Malik and Altaïr dragged themselves onto the flat roof and ran on. Scrabbling sounds drifted from the alley behind them as the Tuareg tried unsuccessfully to climb the sheer wall. There was a sharp cry as the rotten windowsill crumbled beneath a nomad's weight. A life in the flat and featureless desert had not prepared the Kel Amenar for climbing.

The Assassins did not wait for their pursuers to catch up with them. They set a rough course to their lodgings and navigated on instinct. Sometimes Malik led, sometimes Altaïr. The city spread out obligingly beneath them.

They had almost reached the caravanserai when Altaïr flung out a hand in warning. Malik skidded to a halt on the very edge of a flat roof. Tiny particles of sand-encrusted mud drifted onto the blue turbans of the Tuareg waiting in the street below. Malik and Altaïr crouched on the roof and listened as a pair of the Kel Amenar vented their frustration in barbarous but perfectly intelligible Arabic.

"Madness!" one said. "They must be genies or jinn!"

The nomad's companion shook his head. He brushed sand from the shoulders of his robe. "Just men. We will find them."

You will not, Malik thought from the roof. He whispered to Altaïr, "We can't kill them. It will only make things worse."

Altaïr shook his head doubtfully. "There may not be any other way," he whispered.

Malik disagreed. The last thing that they needed was yet more nomads bent on blood revenge. "You have the orb still?" he asked Altaïr.

"Of course."

"We'll evade them and make our way to the house."

Altaïr nodded. "Do you know where it is?"

"I think so, from here." Malik said quietly. "The tanneries are that way. I can smell them. We'll head east." He led them back across a roof and down a ladder to a different street, pausing for a moment as a pair of old men in blue-dyed turbans walked around the corner until he realized that their turbans were the wrong shade of blue. He touched his heart and nodded. "Our pardon, gentlemen."

The old men just stared.

Altaïr inclined his head and shouldered past the men. His head snapped around as somebody shouted behind them. Three Kel Amenar skidded around the corner. They had sheathed their swords for ease of movement but were no less threatening for all that. The scarves wrapped around their faces gave them a sinister air.

Malik ran. Behind him, he heard Altaïr spit a curse and follow.

The streets of Timbuktu were far quieter than those of Jerusalem. Malik and Altaïr had a clear path, but there were no crowds for them to hide in. And Malik had a feeling that the Tuareg were far too wily to be fooled by simply sitting down on a bench and pretending to do something else.

He scoured the walls around them as he ran, searching for a route up to the roof. There were no merchants in this quarter, and no handily placed crates to clamber onto. The houses presented smooth faces to the outside world.

After a few minutes of headlong flight Malik saw a cart parked outside a building. He jumped onto it without hesitation. As the fragile wood began to splinter beneath his weight he leapt from the cart and locked his good hand in the wooden grille of a first-floor window. Altaïr followed a second later. Malik gritted his teeth and leapt for the adjacent window as soon as he had secured his grip. Altaïr crashed into the grille he had just vacated.

There was a window an arms' length above his head. Malik wedged the toes of his boots in the grille and jumped again. He made it-barely. Moving with painstaking patience despite the sounds of pursuit from beneath him, he placed the soles of his feet flat on the crumbling mud walls and walked his feet up the wall until he could gain a higher handhold. Ahead of him, Altaïr had already gained the roof.

Malik climbed as quickly as he could manage. Altaïr leaned over and offered a hand, but Malik shook his head. He needed all his concentration, and he had no free hand. Relinquishing his one good grip would result in a fall of two storeys and the uncertain attentions of the Kel Amenar.

The lattice to the right hand side of Malik's head shattered as one of the Tuareg tossed a stone. Malik jammed one of his feet in the grille, muttered a quick prayer and let go with his hand, pushing upwards with his feet and straightening his back at the same time. His hand caught the edge of the roof. Mud and straw crumbled under his fingers, but he brought his knee up and wedged his foot in the smashed wooden lattice. Stones peppered the adobe where Malik's body had been just as he rolled onto the roof.

Altaïr shook his head. "I told you we should have killed them."

Malik had no breath to reply. He shook his head and got to his feet. They set off again across the rooftops of Timbuktu.

If the houses in this neighbourhood were plainer than the ones in the merchant quarter, the roofs were equally as uncluttered. The Assassins made good time. Malik recognised the roof of their caravanserai from the date palms that grew at each corner of the building. They dropped quietly onto the small roof terrace, boots stirring up years of dust as they landed, and made their way into the building without incident. The caravanserai was dark and blissfully quiet. Malik pushed the door of their room open warily, but nobody appeared. The room was just as they had left it. Two thin pallets lay against the walls. A pair of threadbare cushions lay on the floor beside an earthenware jog and a couple of beakers. Everything was covered by a fine coat of desert sand.

Malik brushed sand from his mattress and sat down. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood pulsed in his missing arm. The sensation was not exactly painful, but it set Malik's teeth on edge. Sand clung to his sweat-streaked face and he scrubbed at the mess irritably with his sleeve.

I need a bath, he thought, and corrected himself. No. I need to kill someone, and then I need a bath.

Altaïr closed the door behind them both and sat down opposite Malik. His chest heaved and his white robe was stained with mud, but he was smiling like a lunatic. He flexed his fingers and the blade hidden in his left hand slid out with a soft click. "That was a good chase," he said. "It has been far too long."

"It would have been better if we had not needed to run at all," Malik retorted. He reached for the water jug, poured two cups of water and slid one across the floor to Altaïr.

Altaïr nodded in thanks. He took a deep draught of water and wiped his face with his sleeve. Once the cloth was streaked with red sand and his face was relatively clean, he reached into his robe and produced the shrouded Eden fragment.

Malik finished his own drink and looked up. "What did you see?"

Altaïr said nothing. He unwrapped the Apple of Eden from its nest of tattered cloth. The gloomy light that emanated from the room's narrow slit of a window cast murky shadows on the orb's surface. From a distance, it looked like it was alive. Malik peered at it suspiciously. "What was it like?" he asked.

Altaïr shrugged. He pulled the last of the wrapping from the Eden fragment, said "See for yourself," and tossed the orb to Malik.

Malik caught the globe instinctively. He just had time to register the weight of cool metal on the bare skin of his palm before the room around him vanished and he plunged into blackness.

The darkness lasted only for a second before it blossomed into light. Malik saw a vast city of glass minarets around a wide river. Each column was taller than the spire of the Acre cathedral. Tiny figures ran between the towers. They called to each other in voices that Malik could not understand.

He did understand the screams.

Malik watched helplessly as flames erupted from the base of each tower. Debris cascaded from the higher floors in showers of crystal glass. The sky grew dark with smoke and ash as the world beneath burned. Malik could not look away. He watched as people poured frantically out of the buildings, calling to each other in their strangely accented voices. They tumbled down cracks in the smooth grey paths, vanished beneath falling debris or ignited into human torches. Flames spread to cover their bodies as the towers above them toppled and their city collapsed in on itself, folding into a mass grave.

Malik smelt the stink of burning flesh. He felt the waves of heat blister his face. Coughing, he tried to cover his eyes, but he had no hands. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not look away. The flames below ebbed and rose again in a whirling firestorm of embers. Below him, a river boiled. The blaze leaped high enough to blind him and Malik jerked away.

He came out of the vision fighting. The Giza orb's visions had come as a relative surprise. This time Malik knew exactly what had happened and, more importantly, he knew who to blame for it."You bastard," he said to Altaïr.

The Assassin shrugged apologetically. "Did you see it?"

Malik nodded. The Eden fragment glowed softly in his hand. He forced himself to pass it back to Altaïr rather than to dash it against the wall like a deadly scorpion. "The flames? Yes, I saw them. I saw it all."He rubbed his forehead. "Could you not have told me?"

Altaïr wrapped the fragment gently in his veil. "You would not have understood."

"Understood?" Malik said. "I understand nothing. Destroy the orb. Burn it-bury it in the desert, I care not which."

"What if it is the only clue to preventing this-this holocaust?" Altaïr curved a protective hand over the orb.

"What if it caused it? Altaïr, we have no way of knowing if that...that city existed in the past, or in the future. You said yourself that it has a way of bending time. The holocaust, as you call it, may have already happened. If it has, then we can do nothing to prevent it."

"Those towers were like nothing I have ever seen."

"True, but neither were the pyramids. Some lost civilisation may have built towers of crystal." Malik knew even as the words left his mouth that it was a lost cause. "It is not possible to see into the future, Altaïr."

"Neither is it possible for a man to duplicate his body, but the orbs helped Al Mualim to do just that, before he died," Altaïr said stubbornly.

Malik shook his head. The only thing he was sure of was that he wanted nothing to do with the orb and its visions. "Suppose you are right," he said, "and the vision is of the future. Is it a true vision, or simply a thing of dreams and shadows? Suppose that, like the barber in Persepolis who had the appointment with death, we cause it to become simply by trying to avoid it? We cannot change our fate."

The other Assassin shook his head. He did not speak for a long time, and when he did it took Malik by surprise. "What if the holocaust is the Templars' doing?"

"You do not know that," Malik protested.

"Why else would the Apple show us these visions?"

Malik could think of a dozen reasons, none of them good. "It could be a message, a warning, or a trap," he said. "Or even a toy. A thing does not have to have meaning to exist."

Altaïr nodded. "Very true," he said. "But I think that this power is what the Templars seek. One man could hold such a weapon like a sword over the throat of the world."

"That is a wide leap of faith."

"We make leaps of faith every day, Malik."

"Maybe so. But you have no proof."

"This is why we should return the fragment to Masyaf," Altaïr said eagerly. "You call yourself a scholar-"

"On the contrary," Malik said sharply. "I call myself nothing of the sort."

Altaïr shrugged. "It matters not," he said, brushing away Malik's acerbic remark as if it was nothing at all. "You, of all people, should understand. You said once that if things cannot be hidden, then they must be safeguarded. Very well. We will keep them safe."

"It would be safer," Malik said, laying heavy emphasis on the last word, "sealed away."

"Learn about it, then seal it. That is the only way. You know how the Templars will use the orbs."

Malik nodded. "They'll use them to control people. Even if we do not destroy the fragment now," he conceded, "we should be cautious."

Altaïr smiled. "On that, at least, we agree."

"If on nothing else," Malik muttered. He rested his hand on his forehead and felt the imprint of the Eden fragment on his palm. "If that's done, we should rest. It's a while still until midday. I'll stand watch, while you sleep." He was unlikely to sleep himself. The image of the flames had burned itself onto his mind.

Altaïr opened his mouth, but whether to protest or agree Malik never knew. Somebody knocked at the door. Both Assassins rose fluidly from their sleeping pallets. Altaïr flattened himself behind the door, ready to slam it closed on an intruder. Malik checked the dagger in his sash. He raised his voice. "Come in!"

The door creaked open and the weathered face of the caravanserai's proprietor appeared. "Everything all right?"

Certainly," Malik said, relaxing a fraction. "What news?"

"None important enough to bother you with," the man said unctuously. "I have a message for your companion, sayyid. Is he here?"

Malik shot a glance at Altaïr, who was flattened behind the door a hands-span from the man's face, trying to breathe quietly. He shook his head imperceptibly, and Altaïr stepped back."No," he said."I'll take it for him, though."

The innkeeper looked doubtful for a moment. Malik pulled a coin from his sash. The gleam of silver seemed to change the man's mind. He handed Malik a tattered slip of parchment, bowed and vanished.

Malik closed and locked the door behind him. He listened until the man's footsteps had retreated before he turned the letter over to check its seal. "From Masyaf," he said, handing the letter to Altaïr.

The Assassin nodded. He ran his thumb under the edge of the letter to peel away the dusty seal. The writing on the sheet's obverse was sparse; a single line of flowing, hurried script. The contents, however, seemed to give Altaïr pause for thought. He read the letter once, read it again and turned the parchment over before he looked up at Malik.

"Nasr's dead," he said simply.


Author's Note:
Malik's vision is directly inspired by page 16 of Altaïr's Codex in AC2.' Of all the things I've seen, none troubles me more than the image of the flames... Pillars so tall they seemed to pierce the heavens. The ground rumbled and shuddered. Mountains split and crack. Great metal towers splintered, their innards strewn about the ground... And everywhere there was screaming. A chorus so terrible that even now I feel its echoes still.'
The story of the barber of Persepolis (or Baghdad, or Isfahan) is an old folktale about predestination and free will. A man bumps into Death one day in the marketplace of his home town. Death glares at the barber, who is so frightened he borrows a horse from his best friend and flees to the city of Samara. The friend asks Death why he stared at the barber, and Death replies that he was merely surprised to see the barber in Persepolis, as he has an appointment with him in Samara that evening.

To be continued...