An Assembly of Bones: Chapter Ten.

[communi_kate]

Title:An Assembly of Bones (10/11)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-game.
Warnings: Graphic violence, language, peril
Summary: Malik is captured by the Templars.

 

An Assembly of Bones

 

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

                                                               

 

Chapter Ten.

 

Morocco.

 

Malik stopped before he had gone more than a few paces. The thin mud-and-rushes floor gave invitingly under the soles of his boots, but he resisted the temptation to flee. The Master's study door was thick and the room was isolated from the rest of the fortress. It would be a while before anybody heard al-Ghurab's cries, and longer for the Templar to break down the door.

He walked calmly down the corridor and negotiated the steep spiral staircase without seeing a single soldier. There were a pair of men on guard in the courtyard, but he walked past them without looking. The guards returned the favour.

As he walked, Malik strained his hearing for the hue and cry that would signal pursuit. He heard nothing except the sound of his own heart thumping in his chest. He walked through the kasbah courtyard into the small garden beside the servants' quarters. The rising sun painted the hills with amber light and cast spiky shadows beneath the garden's date palms. Dew glistened on the grass. Malik kept to the paths, careful to tread lightly enough that his footsteps could not be tracked. He inhaled jasmine-scented air and wondered how Marîd was coping. He was fairly confident that the boy would be able to retrace their steps to the old aqueduct. After that-well, the mission had been a gamble from the start.

It is a shame, he thought, that Altaïr had to return to Masyaf. He's evaded guards from Agadez to Acre. The Eden fragment would have been far safer in his hands. And it is an even greater shame that Altaïr's missing finger would betray him to the Templars in a moment. No. Altaïr is far better off in Masyaf.

He pulled his hood over his face and followed the path through the garden to the shed where the gardeners kept their tools. The hour was early, but the kasbah's farmers had awakened long before. A small group of ragged men hung around the entrance to the small building. They did not look at Malik as he pushed past them and picked up a spade. Nobody bothered to ask what use such an implement would be to a one-armed man.

There are advantages, Malik thought, to mind control.

He followed the tattered band as they headed through the gardens to their work in the fields. The spade felt awkward in his hand. The Assassins were not farmers, and Malik's peasant childhood had been a long time ago. The workmen paid him no attention. They tramped onwards towards the gate which Malik and Marîd had used to enter the stronghold several weeks before.

He had nearly reached the gate when everything changed. There was no sound; no sign and no warning. The farmers stopped in their tracks. Malik looked around, wondering what the matter was. The wind moaned in the branches of the apple trees. Nobody moved.

He stepped aside, intending to push his way through the silent group and out of the gate. A second later the blow that had been aimed at his head hit his left shoulder. It was a heavy strike, if poorly aimed. Malik staggered. He would have fallen if it had not been for the sudden press of bodies around him.

He spun, clutching his shoulder with his good right hand, and saw the farmer behind him raising his hoe for a blow that would have smashed his skull like a melon if he had not jumped backwards. Someone behind him punched him in the small of his back. He fell to his knees, groping for the knife in his sash. Calloused hands tore at his clothes.

This should not be happening, he thought.

He had not expected that the effects of the stolen Eden fragment would last so long. All his experiences with the artefacts had indicated the contrary. The effects of Al Mualim's Apple had lasted only as long as Al Mualim had held the orb.

Maybe it is not the Apple, he thought.

But as he looked around at the faces of the gardeners he knew that it could be nothing else. The men's faces were blank; their eyes wide; the pupils so dilated that their irises appeared black. Malik did not understand why they were still under the control of the orb. He did understand that pondering the cause of the peasants' continued mind control would not save his life.

Malik's hand grasped the hilt of his dagger. He drew the knife in one swift motion and swept it around in a fluid arc that sliced through two men's ankle tendons. Blood stained the gravel path. The wounds weren't fatal but they were crippling and they bought Malik enough time to get to his feet. He slammed his elbow into the chest of one gardener and punched the last in the face with his knife-hilt. The whole fight was over as quickly as Malik could manage, but he realised even as the last man fell to the ground that he was too late. A small company of guards turned to watch as the last gardener fell to his knees. They shouted a warning. A cry answered from the walls of the kasbah, and Malik ran.

He reached the small tangle of servant housing just before the soldiers caught up with him. There were only four men, but they were all armed. Malik did not even consider fighting. As he reached the first building he gathered himself and leapt for the roof. He hit the wall with room to spare, grabbed the edge of the roof and hung there for a second before he hauled himself up.

The tribesmen had slowed as they reached the buildings; confident in their ability to corner Malik against the walls. His leap caught them completely by surprise. They stared at him as if he was a demon.

Malik grinned despite his dire situation. He wondered what they would think of Altaïr. The other Assassin's abilities bordered on the superhuman. Malik was merely very good.

I did not expect them to be so surprised, he thought. But everyone in the Holy Land has heard of the Assassins, even if they have heard only lies and Templar trickery. Thery have never even heard of Assassins in Morocco.

He glanced around to check his bearings and headed for the fortress wall. Soldiers appeared on the flat rooftops of the kasbah towers. Malik did not pay them too much attention. Crossbows were expensive, and Marîd had taken the only one that Malik knew of within the castle walls.  

He loped up a flight of low stairs to the next building and saw a clear path to the walls laid out in front of him. There were guards on the towers all around. A flood of servants poured out of the gateway to his right. The mind controlled peasants were slow and stupid but relentless in pursuit. Malik knew that he could not afford to linger.

He started to run. His mind flew faster than his feet as he mapped out a route. Most of the houses were on one level. The taller buildings were only a couple of storeys high. The run would have been easy in Acre or Jerusalem, but the sheer plainness of the kasbah buildings made the course slightly more challenging. There were no climbing plants, no balconies; not even any washing lines.

Malik jumped to the next building without breaking his stride. He moved swiftly and economically, without a single wasted movement. Within a few seconds he was half-way to the walls. The flat roofs of the houses were covered with a thin layer of mud over a straw and timber framework which gave slightly under Malik's footsteps. Their structure made for good terrain. Malik discovered that the rooftops were far more fragile than they looked only when his foot sank through a roof up to his knee. He stumbled and fell. The mud crumbled under his body weight and disintegrated in a cloud of dust. Malik reached out for a handhold. He did not find one. Instead he hit the floor hard and rolled to his feet in a haze of stalks and dirt. His legs felt leaden- not a good sign. He had found it impossible to keep up with his training during his weeks in the Templar stronghold. Now he was paying the price.

He coughed and looked around for an exit. There was a rickety door in the east wall. Light flickered between the battered planks as soldiers cast shadows on the other side of the door. Somebody shouted a command.

Malik braced himself for the assault. When the Templars broke down the door moments later he was waiting for them. The force of the soldiers' charge tilted the door inwards like a ramp. Malik used the peeling wood as a springboard. He pushed off with his hand and feet and leapt straight over the Templars' heads. A few of them reacted, but they were far too slow. Malik dodged around the few men who had wit enough to point their weapons in the right direction and vanished around the corner of the building.

He did not bother to look behind him. Instead he gritted his teeth and concentrated on reaching the fortress wall as quickly as possible.

As he ran the brainwashed Templar servants crashed into the tiny ghetto like a wave. The sound of their bare feet on the earth sounded like thunder. They spread out like a stain and pushed between every tiny building. Malik almost did not reach the wall in time. When he arrived at the wall's base he wedged his hand and feet in the tiny gaps and hauled himself up as quickly as he could climb. A few of the closest servants followed, but they plummeted to the ground before they had reached the height of the second storey buildings and after that no more tried to climb.

Malik reached the top of the wall in a few seconds. He vaulted over the narrow ramparts as a pair of Templar guards charged him from each end of the building. Praying he had the place that he had marked, he sprinted across the top of the wall in two long strides and flung himself from the battlements with his arms spread.

The sky spun past; first above him and then below him as his body flipped. Cool air bathed his face. He landed on his back in the cartful of hay he and Marîd had thoughtfully placed in the gardens the previous evening. The sky above his head was a pure and flawless blue. Straw tickled his face.

Somebody shouted from the ramparts, exhorting the brainwashed servants to greater efforts in the service of their dead lord. Malik fought his way from the hay and vaulted over the side of the cart. He plunged into the scanty cover of the kasbah's apple orchard and took a roundabout route to the nearest qanat. The well looked uninviting enough, but compared to death at the hands of a half-crazed mob it appeared positively welcoming.

Malik climbed down into the black throat of the qanat.

He descended as quickly as he could but he had not even reached half way when he saw a face looking down over the parapet. Malik lowered his head hastily. He was almost certain that the Templars would not notice him in the dim light, but he was not about to take the risk.

"Bring a torch," somebody ordered.

Malik did not wait for the Templars to fetch a light. He climbed down as quickly as he could and fell the last ten feet into chest-high icy water. He ducked out of the circle of light at the base of the qanat immediately and stepped into the southernmost of the two tunnels that led into the well. It was narrow enough that he could touch each side easily with his right hand, and low enough that he had to duck his head to enter. His fingers snagged on slimy algae as he traced the walls. A rock caught him on the forehead and he lifted his hand to touch the ceiling instead.

Malik headed into the darkness, moving as quickly as he could. He wished he could have brought a lamp, but he had no way to light it even if he had been able to hide one in the tunnels. The vertical shafts set into the qanat ceiling cast a small amount of light, but it wasn't enough.

 The weight of the water and his soaked robes made it hard for him to walk and he stumbled many times. Eventually he settled into a rhythm that was bearable if not at all comfortable. He counted each vertical well as it passed above his head and kept tally of the number in his mind. He heard no signs of pursuit.

After a while Malik stopped to rest. He ate an apple and a piece of flat bread that he had hidden in his robes and scooped up a handful of water from the stream. The tunnels were as black as pitch. He heard only the river's ceaseless ripple and the far-off drip of water. His feet ached from the cold at first but after a while they became numb and stopped hurting. The water level never dropped much below his waist.

The qanat was a long one. It stretched for a full marhala, twice as far as a man could walk in a day. Malik walked for mile after mile, shivering in the cold and counting each well. Nobody followed him. He did not question his good fortune. 

Once even the dim light from the wells overhead faded, Malik pressed on underground. It was not the most uncomfortable night he had ever spent in his life, but it was close to it. The air temperature in the tunnels was no cooler than a spring day in Masyaf, but the water was icy. Malik tried pressing his back against one wall and his feet against the other whenever he rested. He found quickly that he could not hold the position comfortably for long and even when he did, his damp clothes made any kind of comfort impossible. Eventually he sighed, gave up and waited for the dawn.

The morning came slowly. Once the sunlight overhead was bright enough Malik increased his pace and headed for the last tunnel before the qanat exit. He knew that the aqueduct where Marîd waited was only a short journey from the tunnel mouth. He reached the well just before midday, drank as much water as he could comfortably manage and climbed up to the entrance of the narrow shaft. By then his hands were so cold he could hardly move them. Fortunately the climb did not require manual dexterity so much as brute strength. The well was narrow enough for Malik to climb easily by pressing his back against one wall and walking his feet up the other. Even so, it was a long climb. His clothes grew heavy and gritty with soil as he neared the top of the shaft. When he reached the surface he clambered out of the narrow cone that marked the top of the qanat and turned his face to the welcoming sun.

The salt flats glittered like diamonds in the bright sunlight. Once Malik had stopped shivering he wiped some of the mud from his robe, wrung out his sash and set off slowly across the plain. He saw no other people and heard only the cries of the hawks that circled slowly overhead. By mid-afternoon he caught sight of the aqueduct in the distance. It looped across the bone-white salt-plain like a great cream-coloured caterpillar.

Malik smiled.

The attack came out of nowhere. Malik saw nothing; heard nothing. It felt as if he was slapped to the desert floor by an invisible hand. The blow was strong enough to knock the breath from his body. He sprawled helplessly upon his back in the dust. When he tried to rise he found that he couldn't move a muscle.

A few moments later a cool shadow fell over him. The shadow was followed by a face.

"I thought I'd find you here," Al-Ghurab said, quite cheerfully. "How fortunate."

Malik managed to shift his gaze a few inches before the force that held him frozen prevented him from moving any further. The Templar seemed to be alone, but Malik heard the sound of stamping horses and low conversation over to his left. His prone position prevented him from lifting his head to mark the location of the other Templar soldiers but he knew that they were there.

He saw sunlight glint from metal and looked up.

Al-Ghurab held the Apple of Eden cupped in his right hand. The touch of the orb on his bare skin did not seem to disturb him.

Malik felt a cold trickle of sweat snake down his spine.

If al-Ghurab has the orb, he thought, then Marid is surely dead. I have failed. May Allah defend Masyaf.

The Templar cocked his head like his raven namesake and held out his hand. "Give me the Piece of Eden," he ordered. "You have no other choice."

Surprise loosened Malik's tongue. "But you have-" He nearly bit his lip as realisation dawned. Al-Ghurab had one artefact already, yet he was still searching for the Master's Eden fragment. He hadn't recovered the orb Marîd had stolen.

There must be two of them, he thought.

Al-Ghurab looked as puzzled as Malik for a moment before he broke into a grin. "You didn't know?" he asked. "Of course! How could you?" He held up the golden globe in his right hand so that it caught the light. The brazen glare nearly blinded Malik. He tried vainly to bring his good hand up to cover his eyes.

 "You made a mistake, Assassin," Al-Ghurab gloated. "I still own one Apple, after all." He knelt down beside Malik. "Soon I will own two. That was a clever trick you played. One you may have cause to regret."

"My only regret," Malik snarled. "is that I failed."

Al-Ghurab ignored him. He rifled through Malik's damp and filthy robes with distaste. He found nothing. When a second search failed to reveal the Eden fragment he stood up, brows creased in a frown, and kicked Malik hard in the ribs. "Where is it?"

Malik did not bother to hide his smile."It's not here."

Al-Ghurab kicked him again, hard enough to force what little breath Malik had regained from his body. He waited for the next blow, the one that could kill him, but none came. "Where did you hide it?" the Templar demanded. He paused. "Of course. I wonder where your apprentice is? Could it be that he has the Eden fragment?" A smile spread slowly across his face. 

"He was nothing," Malik said. "I killed him." He hoped that Marîd had had the sense to run away. The ruined aqueduct was invisible from his prone position on the ground.

"Really?" Al-Ghurab said. "I doubt it. We have found no body and we have searched everywhere I can think of. And I know this place better than any foreigner. No." He shook his head. "Make no mistake, we will find him. And when we find him, we shall kill him. Until we do, I'll take each wasted day out of your hide." He shook his head. "Such as it is. Your kin must be quite desperate to send a crippled man to steal a Piece of Eden."

Malik weighed his options. There were few available. He decided the most sensible decision he could make was to keep al-Ghurab talking. "Why not?" he gasped. "I stole one once before."

"I find that hard to believe," al-Ghurab said.

"Come closer," Malik snarled, "and I'll show you the speed of my blade."

 "You are hardly in a position to make threats, Assassin," Al-Ghurab's voice was gently mocking.

"And you are hardly going to be able to kill me from there." Malik pointed out. A fast death would surely be easier than whatever fate the Templar planned for him. He should have known that the Templars loved to gloat. If their positions had been reversed, al-Ghurab would have found himself with a dagger in his eye as quickly as Malik had time to draw his blade.

"I'm not going to kill you." Al-Ghurab spun the Apple in his fingers. "Not yet, anyway. In a way you did me a favour. Allow me to show my gratitude." He kicked Malik again. "Al-Walid was far too soft. He placed far too much trust in these baubles. I will hunt down your novice without magic to assist me, and I'll hang your body on the walls of my fortress as an example to the others."

Malik spat a Syrian curse. "You can't kill a creed," he said. "There will always be those who oppose you."

"Maybe." Al-Ghurab said. "But not, I think, you." He looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth to call the guards.

Malik waited for his fate. He heard the twang of a crossbow quarrel releasing and he braced himself for the impact without thinking about where the bolt had come from.

Al-Ghurab's eyes widened. His fingers slackened and the Apple fell from his hand. It rolled across the desert floor to Malik's side and bumped him gently in the ribs. The Templar clutched at the crossbow bolt that protruded from his chest. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. A trickle of blood slid from the corner of his lips as he sagged to his knees.

The compulsion that held immobile Malik vanished. Moving as quickly as his chilled and cramping limbs would allow, he snatched al Ghurab's dagger from his sash and buried it up to the hilt in the Templar's chest.

"Peace be upon you," he told the dying man as he grovelled in the dust.

Al-Ghurab gurgled. "God only knows," he said with a gurgle.

Malik rested his hand on his knees and bent down. "What does your God know?" he asked.

"God knows...who is wrong...and who has sinned." Al-Ghurab spat. "Soon...a calamity will occur to those who have condemned us to death."

He said nothing more before he died.

Malik wondered what the Templar had meant as he closed his sightless eyes. He decided that he did not wish to know. He took a deep breath, fighting the pain in his ribs where al-Ghurab had kicked him, and looked around. The Templar soldiers stood on the dunes a short distance away. They made no move towards him. Their faces were creased in confusion. "Marîd?" Malik called.

The boy stood up from the creosote bush where he had been hiding and came to greet Malik. The crossbow Malik had given him hung from the bandolier over his chest. "Safety and peace," he said, and smiled.

Malik swatted his ear. "I told you to wait," he said.

Marîd gave an unrepentant grin. "If I had waited, you would have been dead," he said as Malik scooped the second Eden fragment up using the sleeve of his robe as padding. "Besides, I did just as you told me."

Malik raised his eyebrows. "Really? How so?"

"You told me to use a crossbow if I fought against the Templars," the boy said. He spat on the corpse of the dead man. "What do we do now? What about the Templars' plans? What about the siege?"

"It won't happen," Malik felt a great weight lifting from his shoulders even as the words left his lips. "Masyaf is safe-for now."

"That what do we do?" Marîd looked at Malik as if he held the answers to all the questions in the world. "What do we do now?"

"Now?" said Malik. He smiled. "Now, we go home." 

 

To be continued...

Comments

[the-everbright.livejournal.com]

H'm. That's really cool! According to the wiki, there are only 6 Apples, and the Assassins have 5 now. I've watched to much anime, I'm wondering if you put them all together you get a synergistic effect. (Like if you get all of a color-coded hero team together.)

[xahra99.livejournal.com]

I went with the map shown at the end of AC1, which describes the location of far more than five Eden Pieces. Though that would be totally awesome. The Assassins are practically superheroes as it is.