I will not touch just anyone

[communi_kate]

Title: After This Age (5/7)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Spoilers: None
Warnings:None
Rating:PG
Summary: Malik accepts his first mission.


 

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Five

Masyaf, 1183.

The tower room was round; with one side open to the sun. A few hooded Assassins leaned against the walls with their arms folded. Malik stood uneasily in the centre of the room while Al Mualim paced around him. The old man moved as silently as the shadow of a hawk. His long beard and black robe trailed like banners in the wind.

"We have been training you for years," Al Mualim said. "We've taught you the skills to join our ranks." He caught Malik's eyes with a gaze sharp as a blade. "You are ready. But there is always a choice. Lay down your knife and you may leave."

Malik shook his head. He looked at the butcher's block beside Al Mualim and the narrow plank behind him and thought my entire life has been a straight path leading to this point. "I'm not going to leave."

Al Mualim smiled. "Nothing is true," he said, "everything is permitted. These are the words that lie at the heart of our Creed. When other men blindly follow the truth, remember-"

The cowled Assassins chorused "Nothing is true."

"Where other men are limited, by morality or law, remember-"

"Everything is permitted."

Al Mualim reached the wall and turned. His shadow turned with him; sharp-edged against the stone. "We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

"Nothing is true, and everything is permitted," repeated Malik. He had never felt that he truly understood the central tenet, yet the power of Al Mualim's voice enabled him to repeat the sentence without hesitation.

Al Mualim spread his ragged sleeves. "It is time, Malik." he said. "Do not fear. Are you ready to join us?

Malik nodded. "I am," he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

Al Mualim lifted a heavy, single –edged knife. "Place your left hand on the block."

Malik did so. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist, trusting to pride to keep him silent. He held his hand motionless as Al Mualim stepped forwards and placed the edge of the knife the first knuckle of his finger, feeling for the joint like Malik's mother slicing up a lamb. Then he slammed his hand down on the flat back of the blade.

A vivid flash of pain coursed up Malik's left arm. It took all his strength to hold his left hand still while Al Mualim did the fine work; trimming back the bone and muscle of the stump and stitching the skin together with thread that felt rough enough to fasten sacks.

The blade was slick with blood by the time Al Mualim stepped back. One of the Assassins handed him a clean cloth. The Old Man wiped the blade on the cloth and handed both items back to the Assassin before he held out his arms to Malik and gestured him towards the open side of the tower room.

"Congratulations," he said. "You have passed the first part of the test. Now answer this. Do you trust me?"

Malik nodded. The stump of his missing finger pulsed with every rapid beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm. "I do."

Al Mualim nodded. "Words are not enough." He pointed to the open wall. Three small and narrow platforms made from wooden planks jutted out into the air. "You must prove your loyalty without hesitation. Remember, nothing is true, and everything is permitted. You will now learn the truth in those words. Go to those planks and jump."

Malik chose the left-hand platform. It was hardly wider than a man, and gave slightly as he stepped out onto it. He checked the fit of his own knife within its sheath and took another step towards the horizon. Snow-capped mountains in from of him gave the sky its familiar jagged edge. He was higher than the tallest of Masyaf's watchtowers. There was a small scrap of grass below him on a narrow ledge, startlingly green, like a scrap of emerald cloth against the stone.

Malik took a deep breath of clear, cold air, and jumped.

There was a moment of wonderful, terrifying weightlessness. Wind tugged at his clothes. And then all his breath left him in a gasp as he hit the ground far below.

To his relief, he was still alive.

Malik lay on his back in a pile of what felt like hay, and laughed as his senses returned to him in a dizzying rush. Somebody reached out a hand and he took it, remembering the pain in his finger too late to draw back. Somebody else clapped him on the shoulder.

"You have proven yourself worthy, Malik al-Sayf. Today you commit to uphold the pillars of our Creed. We are Assassins. Safety and peace."

Malik shook straw from his hair. "Safety and peace," he said, as one of the Assassins buckled a gauntlet around his left wrist. Malik flexed his hand, feeling the unaccustomed weight. Leather creaked. He made a fist and the hidden blade shot out, fitting neatly into the space left by his missing finger.

It was worth the trade, he thought.

"Welcome," dai Ismail said, and bowed with his clenched fist held to his heart. "You are one of us. We are Assassins. "

Malik liked the sound of that. "What do I do now?"

Dai Ismail's smile was "Your training has only just begun. For now, you wait. Change your clothes and collect your new weapons. You'll receive your orders later, as will your fellow fidai'in. Those that survived. "

"But-"

"Enough questions. Now, move out of the way!"

Malik moved. He had hoped to see Rauf, but the next novice that landed –unmoving-in the pile of straw was not his friend. Malik thought it was Yasu, but he couldn't tell for certain. The novice's face was half-covered by his hood; his neck was bent at an odd angle.

"I said move!" barked dai Ismail as the Assassins pulled the body to the side. It left a smear of blood against the straw.

Malik turned away. He did not think the body belonged to Rauf, and if it was then there was very little Malik could have done about it. He walked to the edge of the tiny patch of grass and began the long climb back towards Masyaf. A fidai'in's life had always been a dangerous one, and a swift fall from a rooftop was not the worse end a man could find.

We walk in the dark, he thought, to serve the light. We are Assassins.

I am an Assassin.

His hands and feet moved without conscious thought, adjusting instinctively for the weight of his new gauntlet. He had climbed this route many times before. The surroundings were familiar. It was Malik that felt different. He'd been chosen by Al Mualim. He really belonged.

He wondered how many novices had failed the test. It was true that his class was much smaller than it had been ten years ago. The fidai'in were the elite. Not all had died. Some had injured themselves in training, others had shamed themselves; more had simply left. The Assassins made few mistakes. Most of those prepared for the initiation passed the test.

Some didn't.

The gates were virtually deserted, which meant there were no more than five or six Assassins in various stages of near-invisibility on and around it. The man stationed at the gate nodded to Malik as he walked past. "You've passed?"

Malik nodded.

Assassins did not often smile, but the guard's dark beard split in a wide grin. "Safety and peace, brother. You've earned the right to carry a blade. Go to the armoury. Ali will sort you out."

Malik thanked him and left. He paused at the door of the armoury, remembering the day so long ago when he had collected his first knife. Novices were not allowed to carry any weapon other than a small blade with one side sharpened; the sort any man might use to cut his meat. They returned all other weapons to the armoury after practice. Assassins were allowed their hidden blades, a short sword and a long sword as well as a belt of throwing knives and a red sash a full finger's width wider than the one that novices wore. Malik had learned to use them all, but he had never before had weapons that were his.

He collected his new weapons from Ali. When he ducked back under the lintel arms piled high with steel, he walked straight into Kadar. It took all his training not to drop his new sword on the ground.

Kadar seemed unconcerned by his imminent impalement. "Did you pass?" he asked eagerly.

Malik wondered if his brother had been waiting just for him. "Of course."

Kadar stared at Malik's left hand. "Does it hurt? Did you do well?"

Malik shrugged. It did, but he wasn't about to admit that to Kadar. "I earned my hidden blade," he said, and flicked the knife from its scabbard in the gauntlet.

"Can I try it?" his brother asked him eagerly.

"Don't you have some task or other?"

Kadar shook his head. "We've finished for the day. I don't have anything better to do. Do you?"

Malik shook his head. He drew Kadar to the side of the courtyard, where a water-trough was in the shadow of Masyaf's high walls. "Come here. Out of the way." He sat down and unfastened his new gauntlet with his right hand. The leather was stiff, and it took all his concentration to undo the buckles. He wondered where he could find some oil to soften the gauntlet.

Kadar settled himself on the rim of the trough next to Malik and rolled up his left sleeve for Malik to fit the hidden blade. The gauntlet sat more loosely on his arm than Malik's. Kadar flexed his fingers and tried a few practice blows. "It feels loose."

Malik folded his arms. "Then you better practice climbing more. You can always tighten the straps." He shook his head as Kadar tried another lunge. "Not like that-you don't want to cut your finger off before it's time. Take care."

Kadar ran his right hand over the curved Assassin emblem embossed into the leather and held his hand out to Malik. "Dai Ismail and dai Ali always talk about stealth. Don't people notice that you're wearing the gauntlets?"

"They don't see us at all." Malik unbuckled the straps and drew the gauntlet from Kadar's hand. "Until it's far too late."

Kadar grinned. Both brothers looked up as a shadow fell over them. For a second Malik feared that Yasu had returned to remind them both of the folly of putting family before the brotherhood, but instead it was Rauf.

"Rauf!" Malik recalled he was an Assassin just in time to rein in some of his enthusiasm. "It's good to see you-and in one piece, too."

Rauf held up his left hand to display his missing finger. "More or less. You too, friend."

"You passed?" Kadar asked eagerly.

Rauf held up his gauntlet. "I did. It was touch and go for a moment there-I thought I'd scream as the Old Man sliced my finger, but I did it-and survived." He touched the long sword belted at his hip and held up his left hand to display the leather gauntlet. "We're Assassins, now. Your brother and I, we'll make a great team."

"Speak for yourself," Malik grinned. His smile quickly faded as he realized that nobody else had passed the gate. "The novice who jumped after me was stone dead when they pulled him from the hay. Who else survived?"

Rauf shrugged. "From our class? I'm not sure. Abbas leapt before me. I saw him land. He survived. And Altaïr's already an initiate. That leaves a fair few to be accounted for. Do you know who you saw?"

Malik shook his head. "I'm not certain. He fell in such a way that his hood concealed his face. But I think it was Yasu."

Rauf shrugged. "It could have been worse."

Malik looked up in surprise. Rauf was usually a compassionate soul. "That's heartless."

"It could have been me." Rauf said. "But joking apart, if it was Yasu, then it's a pity."

"I never doubted you would both survive," Kadar said to Malik.

Rauf laughed. "That's more than I did."

They all paused as a novice a few years younger than Kadar ran into the bright circle of the courtyard. The novice looked around for a moment before he spied them by the fountain and ran over. He paused a moment, hands on his knees, to catch his breath before he spoke.

"I bring a message from Al Mualim. Which one of you is Malik?"

"I'm Malik." Malik said.

"You're summoned to the Master's study. He wants to see you now."

Malik was already on his feet. He checked the fit of his gauntlet and buckled his new long-sword over the red sash at his waist. He slung the belt of throwing knives over his shoulder and sheathed the short sword on his right hip to balance out the longer blade. "How do I look?"

Rauf grinned. "You'll do. I wonder what the Old Man wants with you?"

"So do I," Malik nodded to Kadar and clasped Rauf's arm, right hand to left. "I'll let you know."

He left his friend behind and followed the novice through the dusty corridors of Al Mualim's library. The novice led him up the grand central staircase to the old man's desk. Rays of light pierced the stained glass window behind the desk and captured dust motes in a lazy, eternal spiral of red, orange and lapis lazuli. The sound of pigeon wings from behind the glass clattered like Malik's heartbeat. He bowed his head and waited. At last Al Mualim looked up.

"Ah," he said in a voice as sharp as steel. "Malik."

Malik bowed. "Master."

Al Mualim beckoned. Malik could not help but search for blood upon the Old Man's sleeves. The fabric that flapped around his skinny aging hands was unstained as far as he could tell.

"Come forwards. I have some news for you."

Malik's heart clenched. He imagined a thousand things; that Al Mualim disapproved of his discussions with Kadar, that he'd failed his initiation. "Master, I-"

"Silence," Al Mualim held up his hand. "I do not ask this of you lightly. You have passed your test and I find that I have need of you sooner than I had thought. I must have a fidai'i who knows enough scripture to pass as a student. You have always been a good student, and now you are a skilled Assassin."

Malik bowed. "I am your man."

"You shall travel to Damascus. There is a man there named Abu Firas, a scholar. He preaches against our cause. You shall approach him as a student, keen and quick to learn. You shall listen to his teachings, and then you shall convince him of the error of his ways." He paused.

"Should I kill him, Master?"

The old man shook his head. "No. You may kill him only if he does not obey. A good Assassin must learn when to stay his blade. One man who can choose the right time to strike is worth more than a hundred times a hundred thousand fighters. Do you understand?"

"I know the Creed," said Malik. "Whatever you wish."

Al Mualim's eyes narrowed, creasing his lined face into a hundred wrinkles. "Remind me how we hunt our prey."

"An Assassin may eavesdrop, he may steal; he may use violence to intimidate," recited Malik.

Al Mualim nodded. "Well done. Will you do this?"

"If this is your wish."

"It is."

"Then I will go." Malik said. He got up, moving carefully to avoid tangling his new sword in his robe. He did his best to hide his disappointment. Like all new initiates, he had hoped that his first mission would be a grand assassination.

"Begin by visiting the Bureau in Damascus. The rafiq there will brief you more fully on your mission and assist you in any way he can. He'll tell you when to strike. Take a horse from our stables. One of our men will meet you outside the city gates."

Malik nodded. "Thank you for your help, Master."

"Safety and peace," mumbled Al Mualim, his attention already on the papers laid on his desk.

Malik bowed again and took his leave. He walked down the wide staircase and headed directly for the stables, but caught a novice's sleeve before he was more than halfway there. "Will you take a message for me, brother?"

The novice looked startled for a second, then nodded. "What message?"

"Speak to Rauf, and to Kadar. Tell them I've left Masyaf on Al Mualim's orders. Tell them I'll return soon."

"What way do you travel?"

Malik grinned. "West," he said, "And south. I travel to Damascus."

Comments

[everbright]

Typo Patrol! "...placed the edge of the knife the first knuckle of his finger..." I feel there is a on or in missing between 'knife' and 'the'?