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communi_kateThe Favour of Heaven, part 3,
They had not been watching the roof. Malik had time to rise and draw his sword before they circled him. His breath came in painful hitches. The brightness of the firelight after the relative darkness of the rooftops made his pupils constrict painfully. It illuminated the Crusaders' faces, and for a second Malik could have believed himself in hell.
"Saracen dog!" one soldier shouted. He spat on the floor at Malik's feet.
Another man was more practical. "To arms!" he called. "The Assassins are here! We have caught one."
Not yet. Malik thought. Besides, if you have caught but one Assassin, then Altaïr is still free.
He shifted against the stone wall and tried to breathe shallowly. He realized that he was in the Street of the Blacksmiths. The Crusaders had left their horses to hunt him down. A dozen destriers were tied up against the wall. They shifted nervously from hoof to hoof in the torchlight.
One of the Crusaders took a step forwards. Malik held his sword at guard and readied himself for their attack.
"Stop!"
The cry came from the left, beyond the line of waiting horses. A knight pushed forwards through the crowd. He wore a white tabard marked with the Kingdom of Jerusalem's golden cross. "Let me!" he cried. His voice was young and harsh with sorrow. "They killed my lord."
It was the first time Malik had had cause to thank the Crusaders' chivalry. The soldiers exchanged glances and made way for the young man rather than charging Malik outright and hacking him down where he stood. It was not a mistake Malik would have made. Still, he was not ungrateful.
Malik stood in the circle of Crusader blades. He watched the man who would kill him walk closer.
The Crusader readied his sword and stabbed. Malik turned his blade away in a clash of steel. The attack told him all he needed to know about his opponent.
He is young. And not unskilled. But he lacks experience. That, at least, is one thing in my favor.
As the young knight swung his sword back for a second blow Malik pivoted his wrist and caught the blade. He beat his opponent's weapon down, stepped in and stabbed the Crusader in the throat with his short sword. His second thrust slid through the eye socket of the young knight's helmet and withdrew slick with blood.
The Crusader collapsed. As Malik yanked his blades free the other Crusaders howled and rushed him.
Malik went to meet them.
Halfway across the alley, he kicked; jumped, crouched, beat back every blade. He had almost reached his destination when a mailed hand wrenched at his shoulder and spun him round. As Malik raised his sword, the Templar swung at him with an ugly iron flail.
It was brutal but undoubtedly effective. The chain of the morningstar wrapped around Malik's sword. He winced as the weapon was torn from his hand. The Templar stepped underneath Malik's guard and slammed the Assassin to the ground with the rim of his shield. Malik tasted blood. He smelt the Templar's harsh, meat-laden breath as he dropped the shield and grabbed Malik by his collar. As Malik automatically raised his hands to push the Templar away he felt the familiar outline of a dagger's hilt. He snatched the poniard from the Crusader's belt and buried it point-first in his attacker's gut.
A horse whinnied, shocked out of silence by the harsh tang of human blood.
The Templar gasped and died. Blood ran over Malik's hands. He pushed the Templar away and staggered to his feet, the knife still clutched in his fist. A warm trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.
He took the next guard with a vicious upward slash that entered through the soft tissues underneath the chin. The blade grated on bone as Malik yanked the dagger free and sheathed it in his belt. The dead man's torch toppled to the ground. Malik snatched it up. It was a simple thing; a stick with a pitch-soaked rag wrapped around the end, but it would suffice for his purposes.
"Conrad is dead!" somebody shouted from behind him in a tone that made Malik shiver. He didn't bother to look around. Crouching over the torch, he ducked under the first mount's lead rope. The horses were already uneasy. The appearance of a naked flame amongst them maddened even battle-trained stallions.
Malik flattened himself between the first horse's muzzle and the wall. He uncovered the torch and hoisted it high; playing the flames over the knot that tied the destrier's lead rope. Already under tension from the sheer strength of the panicked beast, the tether burned through easily. The horse reared and galloped off, fleeing the smoldering remnants of the rope that dangled a bare few inches from its muzzle. Its escape scattered the Crusaders.
The beasts do have their uses, Malik thought as he burned through the second rope. There were ten mounts tethered to the rail, and it took him less than a minute to release all but the last. When the alley behind him was a burning Hell of men and terrified horses he slashed the last horse's lead with his dagger.
"Listen," Malik told it as he swung aboard." I detest your kind and I am sure you detest mine. But if you do not run like you had wings on your legs I will cut your throat and feed you to the infidels."
He crouched over the horse's mane and kicked it in the ribs. The horse snorted. It spun sharply, nearly unseating Malik. Pricking its ears, it followed the cooler air and the hoof beats of its fellows away from the Crusaders and the fire into the mazelike streets to the north of the tradesman's quarter.
Malik knotted his hand into the horse's mane. He clung tightly.
The night was alive with the screams of frightened horses and the cries of guards. Malik's horse slowed to a canter. As the buildings around them changed to the mud-brick dwellings of the Muslim quarter it jerked to a trot. Malik kneed it in the side. The horse jogged around a corner and halted, sweating and shaking, beside a wagon filled with hay.
Malik slid from its back. The horse snorted as he stroked its neck. It stood wide-legged and gasped for breath. Its sweat-soaked flanks heaved. "You are truly a steed of the prophets." Malik told it. "I hope your Crusader master does not treat you too harshly when he finds you."
The horses snorted. Foam flew from its nostrils. It turned its head and began to nibble on some hay.
Malik turned and walked away. He found a ladder around the next corner and climbed it to the roof. Once he reached the top it was relatively easy for him to get his bearings. The garden was not far.
Malik whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
He picked his way across a long plank that jutted over an alley. Half-demolished buildings rose around him. There was an archer silhouetted against the light of a brazier several houses away, but he faced west, towards the walls, and he did not look at Malik.
Malik jumped to the roof of a nearby building and used his one good hand to scramble to the flat roof. Orange branches brushed at his legs as he lowered himself down the other side and jumped to the floor.
Altaïr was not there.
Malik drank from the fountain without noticing the brackishness of the water. Satisfied, he washed his face, hands and feet. Traces of blood swirled in the water before the current carried it away. Ablutions performed, he settled himself beneath the concealing branches and waited for Altaïr.
He did not have to wait long.
The sun had passed the first stages of dawn when Malik heard a scuffling noise on the roof. He withdrew to the corner of the small space and loosened his sword in its sheath. There was a flash of tattered cloth. Altaïr landed in the centre of the courtyard.
Malik relaxed. "Safety and peace, my brother."
Altaïr scowled. "Safety and peace, Malik. I have wasted half the night searching for you."
"You need not have bothered."
"It seems that I need not."
"You are well?"
"Well enough. And you?"
"The same." Malik said. He touched two fingers to the split the Crusader's shield had made in his lip.
"Then our hunt was successful."
"Indeed. But we must still leave the city."
Altair walked over to the fountain and began to rinse his hands. "As for that, I heard some information while searching for you. The murderers of Conrad have been captured."
Malik blinked. "They have?"
"So it seems. The execution is scheduled for midday." Altaïr wiped his hands upon his robe.
"The Crusaders have found themselves some victims." Malik said.
"They hold no Assassins in custody."
"They are likely prisoners from the condemned cells. We should go. Learn what we can of the Crusaders' plans."
"We have some time," Altair agreed. "I'll steal beggar's robes for us before we leave the city."
The crowd that gathered in the cathedral square at noon was a loud and raucous one. The scaffold had been hastily hammered together. Its joints creaked in protest as the bishop of Beauvais marched up and down, exhorting the people to greater fury. His scarlet satin vestments gleamed in the bright sunlight as he stabbed a finger at the two hooded figures that stood silently on the platform beside him, ropes noosed around their necks. Their bound hands dangled in front of them.
"These men have been duly found guilty of the murder of our most revered lord Conrad of Montferrat!" His voice carried well from the scaffold to where Malik and Altaïr sat on a bench, shoulder-to shoulder with the townsfolk of Acre. "These men, Assassins of the castle of Masyaf, have been found guilty of regicide! Sentence is passed! The murderers must be hanged, according to the law. May God grant them no mercy!"
"Hang the cowards!" a fat woman in a yellow velvet dress screamed.
Malik winced. "May our God grant them salvation where theirs does not," he said matter of-factly. "Who are they?"
"I do not know. But they are not Assassins."
"They are missing their fingers."
"So they are. But the wounds are fresh."
The priest raised one hand to the sky, as if pleading for divine intervention. "May God curse the Assassins! Their blades are thirsty for human blood. They care neither for life nor for salvation. Like the devil, they hide themselves among you, good people of Acre! They kill our kings! We shall end their heathen lives on this very scaffold!"
A man walked on the platform. He was dressed in black. The bishop greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks.
"Hang them!" a soldier shouted. "Sinners!"
The executioner knelt and kicked away the bolts that held the traps. He worked methodically, first the right, then the left. There was an audible snap as the fall broke the first man's neck. His fellow was not so lucky. He spun, kicking and flailing at the air, until his groans gurgled into gasps and then to silence. The crowd hushed. A mutter passed over it like wind over the reeds.
A heavyset man in the centre of the crowd broke the silence. "God bless the Bishop!"
The crowd cheered. Malik slouched against the wall, arms folded. A soldier sheltering under the awning of a nearby stall swiveled his head, perhaps noticing the Assassins' silence.
"We should leave." Altaïr said.
"Agreed. I've had my fill of this."
They rose and separated themselves from the rejoicing throng. The soldier's gaze returned to the happy throng. Altaïr and Malik walked together towards Acre's northern gate.
"At least their death came swiftly." Malik said.
Altaïr nodded. He had tucked his hands in his sleeves to hide his missing finger.
"We would not have done such a thing." Malik said. "It would be against the Creed." He glanced slyly at Altaïr. "Of course, some of us respect the Creed more than others."
Another nod.
"Is that not right, brother?"
Altaïr grunted in assent. Malik had thought Altaïr distracted: now he was sure of it.
"Of course, we should assume that the Templars hunt us in secret."
"Indeed."
"And then the virgins will descend from paradise and scatter us with flowers and heavenly wine." Malik said sarcastically.
Altaïr nodded.
Malik rolled his eyes. "Have you been struck dumb?" he enquired.
'Stay your tongue for once, Malik." Altaïr snapped. "I have a plan."
"Dare you tell this lesser mortal?"
"I'll speak more once we have escaped these crowds."
Malik rolled his eyes.
Men and women hurried past, dispersing once the execution had finished. The Assassins mingled with the townsfolk, unremarkable in their shabby robes. They saw a group of scholars up ahead and Malik moved to intercept.
"Safety and peace to you, brothers," he said politely as he reached them. "We seek to leave the city. Would you honor two students by accepting them as fellow travelers?"
The lead scholar, a tall ascetic man with the hooked nose and stooped shoulders of a starving eagle, looked at Malik with suspicious eyes. "You did not lose that arm in the library, I am sure."
"That is true, brother," Malik said easily.
"Why should we help you?"
"We study in Masyaf." Malik told him
The scholar blinked. "That is a great library indeed," he said slowly.
"It is. My silent friend studies there also. You may remember him." He leaned closer. "He killed Sibrand of Acre."
"Sibrand the Teuton?"
"The very man."
The scholar snorted. "Sibrand the Teuton? Sibrand the Crazy, more like. Sibrand the Paranoid." He glanced up at Malik. The Assassin saw a glint of very real anger flash behind his rheumy eyes. "Sibrand killed my teacher."
"I am sorry," Malik said diplomatically.
"Then you will help?" Altaïr asked.
"Of course. Were it not for the fact that you are heretics and murderers, I might even admire you. As it is, I did not help you. I did not even see you. You were never here."
"I understand, brother." Malik said.
"I am not one of your brothers," the old man snapped. "Conrad was a good man."
"Conrad's murderers are dead."
"Of course they are." The old scholar clasped his hands as if seeking divine guidance and began to walk towards the gate. "Of course they are."
Malik followed. "Do not doubt it, old man."
"Oh, I do not," the scholar said. "But whoever did the deed, the Muslims of Acre will suffer these next few days. Or did you not think of this?"
"They will not suffer for long." Altaïr interjected. "With Conrad dead, Richard will choose his own king. With Jerusalem secure, he will leave the Holy Land. Acre will be freed."
"I will believe it when it happens. But not before," the scholar snapped. He pushed past a gate guard. Altaïr and Malik followed. The rest of the scholars clustered around them. Malik felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as the nearest soldier swiveled his head in their direction. The man yawned and looked back into the city, and Malik knew that they were safe.
Once they had reached the small group of shops that clustered around the walls of Acre like chicks under the wing of a hen the old man paused. "And now you have left the city," he said.
"Indeed. We thank you for your help." Malik said.
"Do not thank me, Assassin," the scholar said. "But go in peace."
Altaïr inclined his head. "We will remember you."
The old man smiled with a flash of yellow teeth. "I hope not."
They walked up the hill in the bright, blinding glare of the sun. The palm trees planted either side of the path blew in the gusty April wind. Malik halted at the entrance to the path that led to the peasant's village with whom they had left their horses. Altaïr trudged past.
"The horses?" Malik shouted after him. Or do you wish to walk back to Masyaf?"
Altaïr shook his head, but he continued walking up the hill. Malik followed him, confused. He reached Altaïr and caught him by the shoulder to spin him around. He had no success. Altaïr was as solid and immovable as a rock.
"The horses?" Malik repeated.
Altaïr sighed. "I am not going to Masyaf," he told Malik.
"What do you mean?"
"Nasr thinks us dead," Altaïr pointed out. "He will not search for us."
Malik sighed. "The scholar knows different."
"You should not have told him we were Assassins!"
"He would not have helped us otherwise!" Malik retorted.
"We should have killed him." Altaïr said practically. "But it is too late now, brother." He turned and trudged on up the hill.
Malik followed him. Anger had replaced confusion in his heart." Remember the Creed, Altaïr!" he snapped.
"I do not betray the Brotherhood!"
"You betray our Master! It is the same thing!"
"You know that it is not."
"I know that it is!"
"I do not understand your surprise, Malik. I told you that the best way to save the Brotherhood was to race the Templars to the Eden pieces. Why do you not understand?"
"And I told you that the best way to make the Master understand is to do his bidding!"
"Which I have," Altaïr said.
Their argument was an old one by now. Malik felt that he was chipping away at a stone wall with his fingernails. "How do you intend to find the fragments?"
Altaïr reached into his robes and pulled out the wooden globe. Its varnished surface gleamed in the sunlight. "This."
Malik took the globe from him. He wished that he possessed the strength of purpose to hurl it into the sea, but he doubted that even the loss of his map would stop Altaïr. "You are a fool," he said. "You copy these marks from memory on a ball the size of a...an orange, and expect them to show you the way? How will you travel without horses?"
"I will steal them. Ride to Tyre, then take ship." Altaïr said. He did not even pause.
"Tyre is also a Crusader port! Or have you forgotten?" Malik hurled his words like knives. "I think you need the services of Garnier de Nablus...at least he could cure madmen."
"I am not mad."
"That," said Malik, "is a matter of opinion. You know nothing of those lands."
"That does not matter."
"I'll think you find it does. How will you eat?
"I shall live off my wits."
Then you shall starve!"
Altaïr shook his head, as if ridding himself of a particularly annoying mosquito. "Enough talk, Malik. You know I speak truth. You know I serve the Brotherhood. Why not travel with me?"
"Many reasons." Malik said, although at that very moment he could admit that he was hard pressed to think of one.
Altair said nothing.
They kept on walking, in silence and in mutual solitude, until the two of them reached the crossroads at the top of the Mount of the Plovers. Altaïr did not falter. He took the coast road down the slope to Tyre, his gaze already scanning the hills for horses he could steal.
Malik stood for a moment at the crossroads. He gazed at the hazy desert mountains, their peaks rising higher and barer as they marched easterly into the austere hills and the gorges of the Orontes.
He sighed, turned and followed Altaïr west, towards the sea.
"From their devoted obedience they never hesitate to set out as they are commanded; nor do they pause until they have reached the prince, or tyrant who has been pointed out to them; and they remain in his service until they find a favourable opportunity for accomplishing their purpose, believing that by so doing they shall gain the favour of heaven."
From a description of the murder of Conrad of Montferrat by the Assassins of Syria, attributed to the Crusader Ambroise d'Evreux.
Author's Note: This story is set after the events of the game and, like the game, it combines elements of history with a great deal of poetic licence. Conrad of Montferrat was indeed killed by two Assassins in Acre on the 28th of April 1192. The Assassins were immediately execu
