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Altair: A Maelstorm

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Kerak 1187 CE

They came for him a week later.

A sharp dry crack of bone echoed in the big room. A sheen of sweat accompanied the sound. The prisoner did not make so much as a twitch of a lip. He stared straight ahead, at a torch on the opposite wall, focusing on the orange leaping flames, driving everything else out. He swallowed. A sharp intake of breath resounded in the still chamber. Altair thought clearly and detachedly, My wrist is broken. The left one. The terrible implication was obvious: he would not use the Hidden Blade anytime soon. If ever.

He had been strapped to a chair, forearms pushed between planks that were squeezed slowly to induce pressure on the limb and eventually to break it. Stiff leather bands ran across his chest holding him in place immobile. His legs and feet had suffered a similar fate: chained to the lower portion of it. The chains were tight, biting at the merest movement. The chair sat in the middle of the room. It was made of steel and wood, not for comfort but to instill fear in the one brought to sit on it. He had not been afraid. He had been resigned. He had known the extent of the cruelty the Templars and Raynald were capable of. He had not expected any less than what they’d done to him. They had starved him until today. He had had his first meal in a week: a thin stew with what looked like meat floating around there. He had waited for them to leave before he ate every single scrap of the stew. He tried to be slow so as not to shock his churning aching gut and succeeded. By some enormous heave of the self control he’d spent years polishing and strengthening he succeeded in not eating like a pig of a Christian. Still, the stew had been a hard meal: after a week of emptiness his gut had been shocked in any case. He should have eaten something light and liquid like a drink of water or a fruit. But such compassion was not in his enemies’ minds, that he knew well. They enjoyed making him suffer. He was an Assassin – an animal, subhuman even. Now he tried to keep a painful grimace from his face – they would not see him weak, the Templar Marshall and Raynald, the two men present besides the guards and the torturer, a medium sized man dressed like any soldier with the exception of an apron hanging down his front like some physician – Altair snorted to himself at that, what irony! – and rolled up sleeves of his shirt baring strong arms capable of winding winches of the devices in this chamber and strangling alike. The man moved and acted with an easy competence, if not pride in his work. Altair could understand that: after all he was as competent an Assassin as any. They both were men who understood their work and the reasons behind it. Altair did not wonder why the man chose this: the torturer believed pain was something he was good at so he made it his life’s work. Perhaps he’d been a meat butcher before. Raynald’s voice interrupted his quiet of mind with its harsh tones, breaking in on his thoughts.

“I ask you again,” Raynald took a step up to him, his shadow covering Altair, face red with near apoplectic anger at this obstinate Assassin who’d mocked him with his seeming acceptance of his fate. His black eyes were dead. Flat. No life pulsed in them. There was no fear in his eyes: that irritated Raynald to no end. This was not human. Every man feared. THIS did not show any. He was like a stone statue of some ascetic saint: the long suffering face could not belong to a living man.
He was angered not only by this. But by the whole notion of the Confession. He blamed the Templar for this stupidity: they were not getting anything. This was pointless! He was about to turn to the Templar and order him to end this charade and pack off when the prisoner gasped.

His grin was malicious as he faced the up-to-this-point-stoic Assassin. The one thing the infidel could not control: a reflexive reaction of his body to injury. The Lord of Kerak smiled. If he could elicit this much, he would get much more if he applied the Confession further. Perhaps the Templar had been right after all. A man could hold up under torture only so long. Eventually his mind and body were exhausted from the battle. He WOULD break this infidel dog, if it were the last thing he ever did. He would come to the King weak and beaten but alive enough to witness his glory. He felt the Templar Marshall at his back watching sharply. The interfering bastard had said not a word since that meeting in the cell. In fact he’d avoided Raynald completely this week, managing his own business and sending a messenger to the King in Jerusalem to inform of the spy’s capture and the killing of his accomplices. Raynald had too sent a man to Jerusalem – to gauge the mood of the court should the King believe the Tempars rather than him. He’d have a lot of work to do in that case to stir up more trouble at the court so that he’d have a free rein to do as he pleased. He laid one slab of a hand on the spine of the chair and leaned close to the Assassin, almost face to face. The Templar watched impassively from his chair, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword point down between his knees. The torturer stood with arms folded in the shadows of the wall, waiting to be called if required.

“I ask you again,” Raynald growled. “For the last time. Whom do you serve, you unclean Satan’s get?”

The man’s face was too close for comfort. Altair could smell him so well he almost gagged. These Christians were afraid of water or so he’d heard – baths were not something they knew the meaning of apparently. Most of them stank to high heaven. They had no culture to speak of. They were barbarians of the worst order. He wanted to laugh: they claimed to be the civilizing influence come to free the benighted infidels from their heresy and dirt, and yet here was one of them, admittedly not the best of them by far, and had the temerity to call him the Son of Iblis?

Altair kept his silence, staring through the man, disregarding his bulk looming and pressing in on him. His wrist throbbed to the cadence of his pulse. He focused his mind elsewhere: on the Eagle’s fight, the swing of the wings cutting the air, the sun glinting off the golden eyes and the cruel beak shrieking defiance at fate. The question was pointless. All the queries they’d put to him had been pointless. They knew – had to know – he would not answer. If they’d heard anything about the Assassins – and the Templar surely had, Altair was certain of that, all the close dealings they’d had over the years said as much – then they must be aware he would not say a word. Break him how they would his lips would be sealed. He would die before betraying his Brothers further.

His head slammed back into the wood of the chair as Raynald’s meaty fist almost broke his neck with the blow. He jerked, wrist shrieking with the jarring caused by Raynald’s fist, sweat breaking anew on his face and body. He gulped the hurt down his throat, trying to maintain control of his emotions and reactions in the face of Raynald’s fury who straightened, eyes on fire trying to burn through him. He felt blood on his face, streaking down his chin and neck. His jaw was still in one piece he found as he moved it a little, looking at the floor rather than the raging beast before him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Templar Marshal get up languidly from his seat and approach, the sword hanging by his side. The man stared at the prisoner a few moments, the amused expression he customarily wore stifled with a coldness that would have cowered a weaker man than the Assassin was. Altair felt the force of the intense stare as he regained his breath and looked the Marshall in the eye. The Templar’s eyes were like granite, inhuman, void. This was what he appeared like in battle, Altair thought dazedly as his head cleared after the blow by his tormentor. This was serious business he engaged in now: the interrogation was not something to be amused at but rather carried out with the thoroughness that a man of his long experience and position in the Order had attained. This man would not hesitate to kill me. The words rang clear in his mind as he moved his tongue in his mouth, gathering the bloody saliva, and spat some blood out to land at the Templar’s feet in a red glob. Let him do his worst. I will not be cowed by either of them.

The Templar’s face did not move, not so much as an expression of distaste crossed his mouth. He calmly regarded the Assassin for some time. The mental endurance of this man was immense. Gilbert had not seen such a striking quality in years. Many of his Brothers in Christ showed a similar resilience under mental strain of preaching and traveling in enemy territory. He had never thought to see an infidel with similar traits. He had always thought of them as inhuman, beasts, in error of their ways proud as the Whore of Babylon. The man’s stoic acceptance of their torment thus far – the starvation, the solitariness of his cell, the Chair – all pointed to one inescapable fact: this devil’s get would be hard to break. His demonic Sire was giving him all the strength He could. Gilbert allowed a tight smile to form on his lips. Well, was he not the Servant of the Divine Light? Of Christ Himself who drove the merchants out of the Temple in Jerusalem in His wrath at their iniquity in trading on its steps? This ASSASSIN was a trader – in life: he’d sold his soul in return for diabolical deadly arts he practiced. Yes, this would serve as a good basis for his report to the Pope when he’d write it. The Holy Father was as much his superior as the King was his equal. He would ask for more men, he decided, from the Pope. The mere fact that this Assassin was able to ride in a large company of men unopposed on Christian territory hinted at a lack of manpower to patrol the borders of the diminished Kingdom of Jerusalem. Gilbert knew they could not win back what Saladin had taken. Even with renewed manpower the King would not be able to make war on the infidel ruler. But what they still held they had to guard against spies and trespassers. This Assassin was a symbol of the sickness consuming the land where merchants were spies in disguise. There were no innocents here. Only enemies and infidels.

This prisoner of his was a linchpin for many plans, he mused. A very important man – and Gilbers doubted he realized his growing value. Raynald had said as much in the cell that night and then later when they were debating (he hated to use the word squabbling – he had a reputation and authority to maintain) who would go to Jerusalem with the newly-Confessed Assassin. In the end Gilbert had won out, conceding that Raynald could come with him. The Templar Marshall had sent off a missive to the King informing him of the circumstances but avoided any mention of the Confession. The Assassin would be presented at the court in as complete bodily health as his obstinacy would let him do.

Gilbert put on a pleading expression – he’d done this many times before, he knew what to do with stubborn prisoners – and glancing reproachfully at Raynald, who gave him a glower in return, said softly, “There is no way out for you, Assassin. You might as well talk. Save yourself more harm.” He smiled thinly, eyes cold and hard as stone. “You will talk eventually. We will break you. We will bring you to justice as you deserve.”

Altair could not help but smile. His broken dry lips moved slowly but his eyes remained the same dead black. What arrogance did these bullying Latins displayed while accusing the infidels of that same vice. Such hypocrisy. Altair moved his gaze to the beet-red Raynald and spoke slowly, in a low tone, emotionless.

“Justice? You do not know what it means. You’ve left it behind long ago.” He paused, moistening his dry mouth. His gut growled and twisted with discomfort: the stew had been too heavy. He could not think of his bodily needs now. There were more important things at stake. “Both of you.”

Raynald lunged for him in fury at such insults but the Templar raised his hand barring the lord’s way as he raked the Assassin with a cold look, smiling thinly in anger he tried hard to conceal. Good God, such impertinence! The man must think he was immortal. They’d asked him from dawn this day. He had stayed stoically silent, long past the point when most men broke and sobbingly confessed their sordid deeds in words that the Confessor wanted to hear. Bribing him would not work, trying to convince him that his best option was to save his skin by serving them in return for telling them who he was and why his company had been in enemy territory would be fruitless. Gilbert had seen some Crusaders like this – so dedicated they were to the cause of Christ it blinded them to any reality. Yet this man despite his appearance of devotion was not mad like the Crusaders, no. He was as sane as any man could be in this cursed land. A contradiction: loyalty and sanity.

Calmly the Templar addressed Raynald.

“There is no need for brutality,” his voice was cultured in contrast to the Lord of Kerak’s bellow of rage. “There are more subtle means of getting the information we want as to his Master’s plans.”

He turned to Altair with a false smile. Altair spat out more bloody saliva… onto the Templar’s boots this time. The Templar kept smiling, eyes like stones, beckoning to the torturer to untie Altair from the Chair. The man emerged from the dark corner he’d been in and approached the prisoner. Altair could not read his eyes, nor wanted to. Such men simply did as they were told, some enjoying the acts they performed, reveling in the victim’s pain. Others cringed inwardly while trying to keep a straight face, knowing what it was they were doing, perhaps even hating it. They were the more cruel: they had to prove they could view another’s pain with equanimity. Altair did not know if this man was one such. Nor care. His attention was on his body. His broken wrist, released from the pressure of the arm rest, screamed. He held it horizontally for a moment before the burly torturer grabbed his arms and forced them back. Altair bit his lip, sweat sheeting him. This deliberate pain was many times worse than a wound in the heat of combat when one’s attention was all on the opponent, not one’s body. The body let itself be known after, when the rush of the excitement was over. He breathed through his nose, controlled as he was led from the room, every step jarring the wrist anew and sending a wave of sweat down his back. He dared not think about whether he’d ever use the arm again. That was for later. When he was alone and could think.

He never held out any hope that he’d get away from here. He had decided to submit for now. To see how this went and what the Templars would do. He would observe and then prepare his plan if any were to be made.


The cell was bare except for a cot in the corner adjacent to a narrow slit of a window that let in late afternoon light as a bright line on the floor dissecting the room. As far as Altair could judge it was late afternoon. His guards walked into the room to the table which was laid, he now saw, with food. Involuntarily his gut growled. Saliva found its way into his mouth when he thought he had no more moisture left in there. The smells… They attracted him. His hands itched to take the fresh bread he saw in a basket in the middle of the table and eat it right now. The lentil soup smelled delicious after days of barely any food or none at all. Grimly Altair took himself in hand. This was a set up. He was sure of it. The Templar planned on leaving him here – to torment him with the food he could not get unless he humiliated himself. And that he would not do. Unless there was no other choice. Patience, he counseled himself, patience. They would let their guard down at some point. The men could not remain vigilant for long – they would grow bored with bothering him eventually. They had to. The hope was a slim one.

The Templar guard roughly pushed him to the cot. The sharp movement caused another flare of pain in his mangled wrist. He swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to become a cry of pain. He sat down intending to rest the left hand only to have his right grabbed and shackled to the wall by a helmeted guard whose eyes shone under the iron rim. There was nothing in them to indicate that he was a cruel man. He was simply doing as his master commanded. Nothing more. Altair understood duty well. He did not fight against the man’s hard grip on his right wrist, hard leather of the gauntlet digging into ravaged skin.

Once the man stepped back the Templar Marshall and Raynald approached him. Gilbert wore a slight smirk as if keeping a secret he was about to tell. Raynald scowled darkly as he felt outwitted by the Templar interloper. Altair’s eyes never left either of the men. There was an expectant air about them. The Assassin was alert – what would they do now? Why bring him here instead of his dark cell? What new deviltry were they hatching?

“Do not think your lot is improved, Assassin. We’ve only just begun on the Confession.” The Templar spoke in measured confident tones. Altair did not dignify that with a reply or expression of any kind. He stared off into space, seemingly unconcerned with whatever was going to happen now. The Templar continued to stare measuringly at the Assassin, wondering about the self control he was maintaining despite his no doubt hurting hand. If more men such as this were to be pitted against the Crusader cause what chance did they have? All the more reason to get more men to the ravaged Kingdom. He HAD to get him to Jerusalem, but more amenable than he was now. Gilbert spared a glance at the ever-glowering Raynald, ignoring the torturer who had caught Altair’s attention by his still stance and continuing stare at him.

“You will be subject to the legitimate means of the Holy Mother Church of which I am a representative. Whatever others may say or do about this you may tell them but they’d hardly believe you, infidel as you are. None of you are to be trusted – from Salahadin to the lowest peasant.”

With that, a vile smile on his ever cold face, Gilbert de Treville turned and paced from the chamber beside Raynald who’d stood silent, biding his time until he could act and bring the Templar low. Only the torturer remained behind for some time, keeping back from the rest of the group. The guards at the table with food eyed him incuriously – they had not had anything to eat for half a day and still had to watch this Assassin “trash” here. He regarded the Assassin from behind his mask, muscular arms crossed on his chest in the defensive maneuver of a man fighting with his convictions. Altair looked away from him to the beam of sunlight on the floor, aware of the man’s intense scrutiny, waiting to see what he would do. He hated this passive role forced upon him by his own ineptitude. Al Mualim expected much more from his best man than to lead his charges to their deaths. He did not look forward to explaining himself to the Master if he ever made it back to Masyaf. He was a hard man, was crafty old al Mualim. Many who’d dared to cross him had suffered terribly. He led the Brotherhood ably and expected nothing short of the best from his Assassins. He was leading them to survival – each one of them was expected to contribute to this goal while exercising free choice and judgment. Loyalty was to the Brotherhood – not al Mualim although he was the symbol for it. The loyalty was to be absolute – or the survival of the Brotherhood would be at stake. Some would question Altair’s loyalty after this. No doubt some like Abbas already were whispering and spreading vile things about him. They had always been jealous of him – the massacre would give them cause to convince those who wavered in their inclinations. This could split the Brotherhood – compromise it. To break one of the tenets was unthinkable – unforgivable. Death was the ultimate punishment for such a breach, for the tenets were the purpose of the Brotherhood. To disobey one meant to endanger them all as well as to prove one’s disloyalty to the cause the Assassins strove for.

Altair sighed and set this aside to be faced later. There was no use compounding more problems on top of those he already had. He had to ensure his survival but without compromising the Creed. A tough deed, that. But when had he ever been able to resist a challenge? His Spirit would not allow despair to insinuate his thinking. While he was alive and breathing there was hope.

A shadow interrupted his thoughts. Altair did not move. The torturer. His stare tried to pierce the stony exterior of the Assassin before him. Altair read that easily. The man burned to know how anyone could remain so stoic, so seemingly resigned yet defiant? Altair would not give him the answer to that or any other questions. The man could be an informant set here to elicit his sympathy. Those high men of the Church did not know who they were dealing with, Altair thought amusedly. They took him for any other prisoner – breakable, cowardly. Their mistake, not his. They would see how badly they’d miscalculated al Mualim and his men.

The torturer waited for some sort of a reaction from the prisoner but got none. The man did not shake or even acknowledge that his presence was unwanted. Nothing. Total absolute indifference. His eyes fell on the left hand, listless on the cot. The strength he saw apparent there – how many men and lives had this Assassin ruined, he wondered – sent a shiver crawling up his back. If the Assassin were let out or escaped… the consequences would be horrific to whoever would be found in his way, he felt sure. This was one of the times he wished that he’d not left the Cistercian monastery back in Lorraine: the routine of life there had been too quiet for him but he’d known it for long. He’d gone there by choice. And left the same way. To end up here – in the presence of one of the most dangerous and legendary men of them all: an Assassin. He’d seen the dagger that the man wore on his left arm – the suddenness of its appearance once activated and the sharpness of the blade had told him more than he wanted to know. His hair had risen up all over his head. Roderick of Dresden had then remembered his peaceful monkish life and wished for it again with all his being.

The guards smirked into their cups as they watched this silent exchange but neither man was affected by their mockery. Both had had their fair – or unfair if one thought about it – share of it. They had both become desensitized to it over the years. Neither gave the reactions of others second thought. Eventually Roderick left to prepare for the next time he would perform his “art” on the Assassin. Altair felt him go – a troubled spirit he was. Altair had not the time or the emotion to spare for the man who’d broken his hand at the bidding of another. He was equally guilty of the act as was Gilbert. The tool did not excuse the master.
His gut growled. Loud. Altair tried not to show any reaction but felt saliva in his mouth. Parched as he was, somehow he still could feel the acid wetness of it inside. He swallowed the saliva, reminding himself that hunger was the least of his problems right now. He had to figure out why he was in this much better prison than heretofore. His mind was slow though. The weeks of hunger had started in on his mental capacities, subtly garnishing his strength. He clung to the hope of escape which with each hour passed here became more and more depleted. Why was he in this cell? What had that devious Templar’s mind come up with? No doubt they wanted him alive for some travesty of justice… That would do what? What goals did Raynald and the Templar share? Or not share – Altair had felt the hostility between the two men right from the start. How to exploit it he did not know yet. He had better find a solution soon. He sensed he did not have much time. No, he had too much of it. He would sit here watching the guard eat or at least hear them do so, taunting him with their wine and meat like he were some yard cur to be kicked for pleasure when they were bored… His brows knitted as he forced his brain to think. Was this it? The next step in the Confession? To break his spirit by making him watch others have what he could also enjoy… The thought came slowly, devastating in the results it implied. He would eat… If only he betrayed himself.

No. He instantly rejected the thought. That would be the most impossible and desperate thing for him to do. Such capitulation would be to acknowledge that their false perception of his perseverance was right. He would prove them wrong. Confess him all they would – even bring a priest in if they wanted – Altair would not betray himself. He would lie if necessary. He had learned that art long since in his various missions.

Dissembling was key to an Assassin’s success: to deceive his victim by omitting certain facts about himself, to lull them into a false sense of security. And then strike mercilessly. A thin secret smile curved his dry broken lips slightly, pulling at the scar from Raynald’s blow. He would be as wily as the Templar thought he himself was. He would show the Latins why he was the best Assassin the Brotherhood had seen since its foundation a hundred years ago. But first he would wait and see, hard as it was for a man of action like himself.

He sank into a meditative state, just barely aware of the guards whose attention had wandered away from him since he was not behaving in any way that could serve as an excuse to relieve their boredom. His eyes glazed as he watched the strip of the sun became narrower and shorter with the passage of hours.  He allowed his physical sensations to dissipate, to let his mind wander, to rest his Eagle, to let Him hunt as He would. He rested as much as his situation would allow. Far back in his be-fogged mind he felt the hunger bite him but could not focus on that or anything else. He was lifted from his body, leaving it for a while to experience the freedom of flight in the nether regions of the universe mind, the castle of Kerak left far behind to tower over the ravine and the roads intersecting on it. Altair the Eagle did not care for such human trifles as that. No one could chart the infinite skies and order them. There HE was the Lord and smaller prey obeyed him on pain of displeasure. Altair let himself revel in that grandeur, allowing his mind to penetrate its farthest reaches. Beating his wings he veered off, screaming his triumph to the world.
All right. Finally, the Confession has begun. This is one tough man here. This is for all you trembling "virgins" out there :XD:

On a more serious note, I have an idea this might go on for some time. I am busy as it is.
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AnimeANDGamelover's avatar
I CAN'T FIND THE NEXT CHAPTER (TTATT)
IT WAS SUCH A GOOD STORY!!NOOOOO!!!!!