would you fall to pieces in the high countries?

[communi_kate]

Title: After This Age (3/7)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence.
Summary: Malik meets Altair.

 

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Three,

Masyaf, 1174.

"Today," said dai Ismail, "you will learn how to kill."

Malik stood in line with the other Assassin novices. The sun-bleached stone of the fortress walls was pleasantly warm against his spine. The heat eased the muscles of his back and shoulders, which still ached after a morning of wall climbing and heavy weapons practice. Rauf stood on Malik's right and Kadar on his left. Kadar's back was as straight as he could manage, but Malik could tell his brother was exhausted from the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

Dai Ismail's head snapped around like a hunting hawk. "Assassins stand up properly, Malik. Do not slouch."

Malik eased off the wall and straightened up. Only his mind disobeyed. He knew he should have felt excitement at the prospect of a kill but instead all he felt was a numb weariness and the hollow hope that it wouldn't involve too much physical exertion. The only thing he wanted to kill right now was dai Ismail.

"We have begun to teach you the sword," dai Ismail continued, "but the knife is the true weapon of an Assassin. To kill with a knife you must put yourself in danger. You must be close enough to see the soul leave a man's eyes." He paused. "If I had my way, you would start with a man, but we do not have an infinite supply of men. So you shall start with sheep." He waved his hand in the direction of the Assassins' small armoury. "Collect your knives and follow me. One knife each."

Malik, Rauf and Kadar followed the other novices to the Assassin armoury, where knives had been laid out on a carpet on the floor. They were cheap weapons, crude by Assassin standards, with short curved blades and leather-wrapped hilts. Malik hung back, examining the other weapons displayed upon the walls or in long racks against the walls. The other recruits squabbled over the blades.

The armoury was impressive by any man's standards, and more so by Malik's. There were swords chased with silver with blades of Damascus steel, belts of throwing daggers as long as his forearm and knives with curved blades that looked sharp enough to slice the air.

The pile of daggers dai Ismail had prepared was quickly vanishing, so Malik tore his eyes away from the expensive blades. He picked up a small knife from the blanket and handed one to Kadar. They went back out into the sun and followed dai Ismail down to the small compound against the walls that was usually reserved from weapons practice. The training ring was full of sheep; small, shaggy dark creatures like the al-Sayf clan's own herd.

The dai waited until the last novice had entered the courtyard. He cast a scathing glare over the small group. "Does every novice have a knife?"

The boys shuffled nervously. A few held up skinny arms to display their blades. Kadar looked uncertainly at Malik, and Malik put his hand on the flimsy fence, and wondered how they expected the fence to keep any sheep in for long.

Dai Ismail nodded, cleared his throat and spat upon the flagstones. "You shall be Assassins," he told them "and you shall fight many men. Every foe is different. You shall study soldiers as a hunter tracks his prey and you shall learn all their ways. The ways of sheep are few in number but I do not doubt they shall prove challenging for you at first." He spread his arms. "Altaïr," he said, "demonstrate."

The novice called Altaïr stood slightly apart from the rest of the group. He raised his knife, vaulted the fence with casual grace and headed towards the cornered sheep.

Malik realized three things rather quickly. Firstly, that Altaïr was more skilled with a blade than any of the novices. Secondly, that, skilled as he was, he was not used to herding sheep. Thirdly, that the sheep knew it.

The herd reacted as they had for centuries. They made Altaïr look as foolish as an untrained pup. They parted like water as he ran towards them and closed seamlessly behind him after they had let him through. When Altaïr dodged one way, the sheep ran the other.

Somebody sniggered. Dai Ismail cast a scathing glare over the small group, but said nothing. This silence surprised Malik at first-dai Ismail was not usually so lenient-but he had gathered from the other novices that Altaïr was not popular. He was too arrogant and all too willing to point out the faults of those less skilled than him. Watching him skid in sheep-shit was funny.

They all watched as Altaïr pinned a sheep, panting, and cut its throat with no hesitation and far less effort than he had expended on actually catching the sheep in the first place. The rest of the flock bleated nervously and pressed into a corner as far away from Altaïr as they could get.

Dai Ismail sighed. "Now you kill them," he said.

The whole courtyard dissolved into a mass of shouting, knife-wielding boys. The sheep stampeded in panic.

Malik climbed cautiously over the fence. He flicked his fingers behind his back out of dai Ismail's sight and Kadar followed him as nonchalantly as if he had not been waiting for the signal. Together they singled out a sheep whose fleece was slightly paler then the rest. Malik waited until Kadar had moved in front of the herd to cut them off until he stepped into the flock and caught the sheep by its bottom jaw. As he did so, he slammed into the flank of a second, slightly smaller sheep. It cannoned into the fence and bounced off the flimsy planks into Kadar's belly. Both boy and sheep skidded to the ground, but Malik was pleased to see that his brother kept hold of the sheep's horns. He looked around for Rauf. The herder's boy had already caught his own animal; although Malik noticed that he was having problems keeping it still.

He turned his attention back to the task in hand. The sheep struggled, eyes wide, pinned against Malik's body. It took all his strength to hold the panicking animal as he hooked the fingers of his left hand behind the sheep's front teeth, bent its head towards its tail until it nearly touched his thigh and neatly slit the animal's throat. The sheep sank to its knees as blood soaked its fleece and ran in rivers down Malik's new boots to the earth.

Malik looked round for Kadar. His little brother had pinned his sheep against the palings and was busy mimicking Malik's move. The sheep tossed its head as it died. Blood sprayed from a severed vessel and sprinkled Kadar's head and shoulders with scarlet flecks that smelt of iron. The smell reminded Malik of festival days and feasting, of lamb and rice golden with butter.

He turned his attention back to his own animal just in time to see the sheep die. Its eyes fixed on a spot on the far horizon as its body shuddered and sagged. Malik dropped the sheep to the ground and wiped his knife on its fleece. He looked up.

Novices and sheep raced and wrestled. Altaïr crouched over his kill with a scowl on his face in the middle of the chaos. The terrified animals trampled the floor of the practice ring into blood and shit-soaked mud. A few of the novices had managed to slaughter their animals. One boy whose name Malik did not know stood over his sheep and punched the knife into its belly again and again until thick ropes of intestines slipped from the corpse. He did not stop until dai Ismail walked up behind him and caught his arm. The expression on his face was of someone awaking from a dream. Dai Ismail's expression suggested that the novice was in serious trouble.

Kadar dodged a sheep. "What do we do now?"

Malik shrugged. "Wait."

It took the novices a while to kill all the sheep. When they were done dai Ismail took the novice who had not stopped stabbing by the scruff of his neck, growled "Wait here," and half-dragged, half-carried the hapless boy away.

The other novices watched nervously.

"I don't understand," Kadar said."Why'd they get us to do that?"

Malik stopped himself a hair's breath away from admitting that neither did he. He shrugged. ""I think they want to see that we can kill," he said.

Somebody snorted behind Malik. Malik turned, and saw Altaïr glaring at him. "They just know you can kill sheep," the other boy said scornfully."What else do you expect from shepherds?"

The insult flew straight over Malik's head. Everyone he knew had been a herder of some sort. A large and healthy flock was a sign of high status. He shrugged. "Shepherds know sheep. Don't you?"

There was a collective intake of breath. One of the other novices snickered. It was Yasu al-Ansari, a tall boy with deep-set eyes and fists the size of melons. "Altaïr here hasn't got a family," he said, stepping back behind Malik as he did so. "Have you, ibn La'Ahad?"

Altaïr scowled.

Malik frowned, trying and failing to make sense of Altaïr's unusual nasab. Ibn La'Ahad meant 'son of no-one'. This didn't seem to be such an insult to the Assassins as it would have been amongst the clannish highlanders where Malik had been born, but many things at Masyaf were not the same as home. "No name?" he asked. "How do you know if your tribe are brave or cowards?"

Yasu moved back another step as Altaïr clenched his fists and flew at Malik like a hawk. Caught by surprise, Malik retreated but it was already far too late to defend himself against someone with Altaïr's uncanny speed. Altaïr's right fist caught Malik squarely in his stomach. His left fist caught Malik in the nose as he doubled over.

Yasu moved back another step as Malik collapsed, blood streaming from his nose. As Malik pressed his hands to his face he realised the rules had changed. In the mountains, a fight was preceded by a lot of shouting, and you usually knew who was going to win before you started. Altaïr didn't bother with any of that. He just punched.

"Stop that!"

Altaïr straightened, shaking out his left hand. Malik hoped that Altaïr's hand hurt as much as his face did.

"Get up," snarled dai Ismail. "Novices, return your weapons to the armoury. Altaïr, Malik, come with me."

Altaïr's face was set like stone. "Yes, dai."

"Yes, dai." Malik got up slowly. He searched the crowd for faces and saw that Rauf had pulled Kadar away. He pressed the sleeve of his robe to his bleeding nose and tipped his head forwards so that the blood dripped onto the fabric rather than down his throat.

He walked with his head down as dai Ismail led them up the steps towards the keep itself. For a horrible second Malik thought he would march them right up into Al Mualim's study, blood-stained clothes and all, but the dai stopped in the shade of the high walls before they reached the gates.

"Recite the Creed," he ordered.

You did not have to have been at Masyaf for long to learn the Creed. "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the brotherhood."

Dai Ismail glared at them both. "Good," he said in a voice that belied the compliment. "Now tell me where you failed."

Altaïr was the first to speak. "I have not broken the Creed," he protested.

Dai Ismail cut him off with a shout like a sword-blade. "Silence, Altaïr. Your protests only serve to emphasise your ignorance. Malik?"

Malik wiped his nose. "Stay your blade?" he suggested thickly.

"Wrong!" Dai Ismail shook his head. "You both have much to learn and it is my great regret that I will be the one to teach you. Never compromise the brotherhood! Altaïr, do not bloody the nose of your brother in the Creed. Assassins do not fight each other! We have other enemies, and the sooner you learn that, the better. And Malik, do not hesitate. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted. Do not wait until your opponent has brought the fight to you."

Malik frowned. He had no intention of hesitating should Altaïr strike again, and less of facing him alone when he did. He used the most respectful form of address he knew. "I won't, sayyid, but-"

Dai Ismail cut him off with a glare. "I am no sayyid. I am a dai and you will call me such."

"Yes, dai," said Malik. "But-"

Dai Ismail gestured for him to continue. "It seems we have a philosopher in our midst," he said, and snorted at Malik's confused expression. "Never mind. You may speak."

"If nothing's true and everything is permitted, then why follow the Creed at all?"

Altaïr sniggered.

Dai Ismail took a sharp, happy intake of breath. "A good question," he said. "But if nothing is true and everything is permitted, it is permitted for you to do forty push-ups. Then you shall learn what is true and what is not. You may start now."

Malik dropped to the floor. The dai turned to Altaïr. "As for you, Altaïr, your arrogance serves you poorly. Forty push-ups will not teach you humility, but it may help. You may also start now. When you both have finished, the library floor needs cleaning." One eyelid twitched in a movement that might have been a smile on another man. "That, too, is permitted by the Creed."

Malik's arms felt like frayed rope. He levered himself painfully up and down as Altaïr completed the exercise in half the time without the worry. Altaïr, Malik thought, had probably done many more push-ups in his life than Malik had.

"You will find brooms and buckets in the library." Dai Ismail jerked his head towards the doors as both boys scrambled to their feet. "Change your clothes first. Hurry. Any questions?"

"Sayy-" Malik bit off the word as dai Ismail raised an eyebrow. "Dai-what's a library?"

"If you don't know," Dai Ismail said, "you will find out."

A library, Malik discovered once he had changed, was a large room filled with more books than he had ever seen in his life. Altaïr was already scrubbing the floor with vigour by the time Malik hurried in. Malik knew that he should follow the other novice's example, but instead he just stopped and stared.

They said in the mountains that Al Mualim knew everything. Malik had not understood how a man could know everything before he had seen the Master's library. There were hundreds of books, so many that their very presence scented the air and gave the room an irresistible gravity of its own. Tall shelves divided the room into a maze of learning. They were wider than Malik's outstretched arms and reared as high as horses above his head. All the shelves were full.

A friend of Malik's uncle had owned one book, a copy of the Quran. He'd kept it in a jewelled case and removed it only rarely, and always with reverence. Nobody else Malik had ever known had a whole room just for books. He'd never seen a whole room just for people until he came to Masyaf. He wished Kadar could see the library too.

Altaïr snorted. "Are you going to get to work, or are you just going to stand there?"

Malik would have loved to hunt around in the stacks of shelving, but he knew enough about Altaïr to guess that the other boy would not hesitate to report Malik's disobedience to dai Ismail or anybody else who cared. He tore his gaze from the books, rolled up the sleeves of his clean robe and set to work. For a long time there was no sound in the room except the rasp of bristles on the stone.

"You ask too many questions," Altaïr said after a while.

Malik shrugged; as well as a boy could shrug with a rag in both hands. "My father told us all it was the way to learn."

Altaïr snorted. "Nobody here cares what your father taught you."

Malik was taken aback by the hostility in the other boy's tone."What snake bit you this morning" he asked. "You act like you're better than us all."

"I am better than you all." Altaïr's voice was muffled behind the sound of virtuous scrubbing.

"We're both novices," Malik retorted.

Altaïr turned aside with a look that said Malik wasn't even worth speaking to, but, as Malik suspected, he could not hold his tongue. "I am not the same as you. I'm an Assassin. I was born an Assassin. You were not. There's a difference."

"Yes," Malik said. "You can't kill sheep."

Altaïr snarled. Malik thought Altaïr would strike him, despite dai Ismail's punishment, and as the other boy approached he groped behind him for the bucket thinking that he could throw it at Altaïr. His questing hand found a book instead. As Malik pulled it from the shelves Altaïr retreated as if the book was a shield rather than a slim volume. "Don't touch the books," he said. "We're not allowed. They're valuable."

Malik ignored him. He had never touched a book before. H It was lighter than he had expected, and the leather binding was shiny from use. Malik couldn't read the writing inside, but it didn't matter. He discovered that the ink felt smoother than the paper that it covered, and that the rough edges of the cut pages caught on his fingers as he turned the page. The book smelt old and musty, like a dry cave in the mountains. Malik raised it to his nose to sniff the paper, and a voice cut in from behind him.

"What's this, Altaïr?"

The sound startled Malik. The book slid from his fingers. Before the volume had even touched the ground, an arm as brown and as twisted as mountain oak reached past Malik to grasp the cover. Malik looked up, startled. Altaïr scrubbed the floor as if he could erase all evidence of his mistake.

An old man stood behind them. He wore a black robe with a hood from which a long white beard poured like foam. His skin was as dark and furrowed as any highlander Malik had ever seen. The old man bent down to slot the book back into its proper place and fixed Malik with a glare like the hot rays of the sun.

"You can read?"

Malik shook his head. "Just my name, sayyid." He'd learned his letters from pictures in the sand, but little more. The old man frowned and Malik wished that he could have said yes.

"You like books?"

Malik nodded.

"Good. We shall have to see what we can teach you." He watched Malik with calculating eyes, as if measuring his worth against the book Malik had so nearly spoiled.

Malik squirmed. "I'm sorry for dropping your book," he said. "I should be cleaning."

The old man smiled. "I see Altaïr is helping you."

At the mention of his name, Altaïr dropped his brush and bowed so low his belly touched the floor. The old man brushed Altaïr's hair with his hand as another man might have stroked a hound puppy and turned back to Malik. "It is no error to have respect for learning. There is more knowledge in this single room than a hundred men could learn in a lifetime of study." He smiled again, benevolently. "Yet that does not stop me from trying. We may yet find a use for you, little scholar." He looked down at Altaïr."Altaïr, you would do well to follow this novice's example." He jerked his chin, beard swaying, just once. It was a tiny movement, but Altaïr rose immediately to his knees and began scrubbing. "Now get back to work."

Bemused, Malik dropped to the ground and began to clean. He did not dare to glance at the old man or Altaïr, but he heard footsteps retreating back to the upper floors of the hall after a few moments. It was strange, he thought, that such an old man could move so quietly when he chose. He had not heard any sound until the old man had reached to save the book.

They cleaned in silence until Malik's knuckles ached and his palms were raw from contact with the stone. The floor was very nearly spotless when Altaïr said "Do you know who that was?" When Malik didn't answer straight away he snorted, his voice vibrating with bitterness. "You don't know anything."

Malik had already worked it out for himself. "It was Al Mualim," he said. "Wasn't it?"

Altaïr's silence was answer enough.

At that moment, Malik would have done anything for Al Mualim. He understood why those Assassins who did not kill their foes chose to die in the attempt.

And that, as with so many things in life, was a double edged sword.