The archer squinted into the driving rain, trying to aim but cursed when he saw nothing. Where in hell were…? He KNEW his men had chased that white robed Assassin into a corner of the square between two dilapidated houses: a warehouse long in disuse and an inn whose clientele were unsavoury to say the least. God, how could they have lost him?

Rain. That was the problem. Rain and thunder all day long. Unrelenting as God’s punishment. He cursed more, an uninterrupted stream of oaths muttered. His lord back in his quarters in Aleppo had sent them to kill this impudent wretch who’d dared to kill his uncle, the previous lord of Aleppo. For weeks they’d pursued him till they’d chased him here into this abandoned little town where the population was barely visible.

Ah, there he was again. The archer once more put arrow to string, moving swiftly across the roof of the old house to the next, eyes on the speck of white as it moved and dodged between houses. He’d led them a merry chase over many a day but now his game was up. No one got away from Brian FleetHand.


Water dripped off the end of his hood, his robes clung to him, dragging him down, slowing his long-legged stride. The strong wind pushed his back, almost throwing him forward. He ran on, boots slapping in the puddles of water, splashing rain water to the sides, streaking the walls on either side a darker stain. He panted, turned sharply around a corner to avoid a skittering of arrows. Archers! Allah, he hated them! He had no armour to prevent wounds they’d inflict. And if the arrowheads were barbed…? He shook off that thought. Run. Just run. Keep going.
Easier said than done. He could hardly see for the wall of rain in front of him. The sun had gone down as he’d entered the city. He steered by instinct and long practice of hiding his whereabouts from unfriendly eyes. He felt eyes on his back now. The archer’s eyes. The man who’d led the pursuit from Aleppo all the way by Beirut and Sidon and Arsuf. He’d thought he’d shaken them off in the half-desert between the lake of Galilee and Jerusalem but had found the archer unerringly on his trail five days ago as he’d come up out of the desert. He’d galloped Aisha all the way here, just trying to get away –

An arrow sped out of the dark beside him, falling with a splash not a foot from him, into the water clogged street. How the man could see him in this murk the Assassin had no idea. But maybe it was another of his archers who’d shot him. The man whose eyes he felt on his back, between his shoulder blades, had led a company of twenty after him, most archers, some with axes and two with a net, no doubt to catch big fish.

As he ducked into the broken rotted door of an empty shop, he thought wryly about how easily they’d cut off his route to Masyaf. He almost laughed in bitterness. That he would try and reach his home had made him so predictable a child could have stopped him. That net had almost fallen on him. He’d fought his way out with minor slashes and gashes here and there, nothing that would slow him down. His sodden robes might though. He came to a halt at the back door of the dark shop where all was covered in dust and overturned chairs and tables littered the floor. His tracks were clear in the dust. He panted staring at that for a few moments till dimly he thought he heard shouting. How the men could even hear one another in the pelting rain that muffled all sound he had no idea. But he did know that these men acted like a pack of hunters, of wolves closing in on a stag. He swigged water from his water skin, wet like everything else as droplets collected on the floor around his feet. If he stood there he’d be caught. The voices were nearer now. Even through the patter of the rain on the roof of the shop and the street outside he heard them approach. He stowed the water skin.

He disappeared in a swish of robes behind the cloth hanging that disintegrated at his touch into fluffy dust settling over the place he’d been moments before.


Brian swore loudly as he entered the shop he’d seen the Assassin leap into. Empty. Cold. Dark. But he still smelled him: the dry sandy scent of the desert, the wetness of his robes. O yes, he’d been here alright. But how in Devil’s name did he keep giving them the slip? He was one man, was the Assassin. They’d almost had him cornered so many times: in the pass, on the edge of the desert, even in Beirut. Yet still the man was as slippery as an eel. Brian was reluctant to concede this but had to admit that the Assassin was uncommonly good at evasion, tracking and setting false trails. O yes, he’d indeed done so. In spite of himself the old archer was impressed. So young and yet so brainy – he’d glimpsed his face in the pass as the net Tom carried had tangled him up but he’d managed to cut his way out before Brian’s men could finish him off. Crafty indeed, was the infidel Assassin. Heretic and blasphemer, daring to raise hand against the Lord of Aleppo whose line stretched far into antiquity.

“Sir, want us to split up? Cover this block?” Evasham asked at his shoulder, peering into the shop’s dark interior, eyes sharp.

Brian nodded. “Good plan. I want him in a dark corner with no way out.” He spoke with slow relish. “No matter how fast he moves he is only one man. ONE!” He held his finger up before Evasham’s face, his face distorted in anger.

Evasham did not so much as bat an eyelid. He was used to his commander’s temper. They’d served long together. He was Brian’s second in command.

Brian watched him salute and go see about their ambush. Himself he went through the shop, the Assassin’s footprints and the place he’s stopped at clear in the lightning strike light. Out back into the never ending rain he went, water hitting his helmet, bouncing off its steel. His leather jerkin kept most of the wet off him. His bowstring he’d taken off. He would not risk it now. Not till he could get a clear shot at the Assassin. Damn this wretched weather!


Altair came to a stop near an intersection of two streets marked by a fountain that had been dry for days before this rain. It drummed on his head now like little fists. Every inch of him was wet. He was cold – his lips must be blue from the wind and the rain. He watched the intersection carefully, trying to see shapes or even hear a drawn bowstring. Neither his ears or his nose brought anything. The rain had washed smells away. He looked behind him, eyes narrowing. They WERE there – every instinct screamed that fact at him. His hand absently caressed the wet hilt of his sabre. Cowards, they’d not even stand and fight. Not unless victory was assured. Crusaders… He spat in sudden rage. They chose to pepper the Muslim troops with arrows rather than face them squarely yet dared accuse them of being reluctant to attack out of cowardice. His kind they despised fully and utterly: the Assassins were a dangerous breed that had to be exterminated wherever sighted. Well, they had him. A bitter taste assailed him. Altair spat once more.
Watchfully, tense, he resumed his trek to the intersection. Roofs were no longer safe – too exposed there. Moreover, the brown haired tanned man who led his pursuers would have stationed archers there. True, there’d been no more arrows for the last quarter hour but Altair did not hold out hope that they’d given up on him. O no, not hounds like these. Time was in their favour: they were many, they could intimidate people to give them supplies. He was one: he had to steal and stay out of sight lest he be seen and remembered. It had been foolish to even turn to Masyaf – he’d have led them there and been remembered as the man who’d betrayed the Brotherhood. He’d die before he let that happen.

His neck prickled. Not from the cold. The itch between his shoulder blades intensified. He knew when he was being watched. Placing each foot carefully before the other, Altair kept going. He’d slowed his breath, detaching his emotions from the rest. He had a task now: to survive and make it back to Masyaf. A two fold task. First, stay alive. His throat was dry and pained him: one little drink had not been enough. But he dared not take more, not with the dread premonition ringing in his mind.

The feeling of discomfort grew becoming almost uncontrollable. He was not far now from the intersection. He could just make out the fountain through the wall of rain and the occasional flare of lightning. Thunder boomed, obscuring sounds all round him all that more. Except that unpleasant yet urgent tick at the back of his mind, nothing whatsoever revealed to him the whereabouts of his pursuers. Yet this intersection would be a perfect ambush spot. They could come at him from all directions… His heart gave a thud against his ribs as the realization hit him. He’d been led here. Like lamb to the slaughter: the glimpses he’d had of the archers and the axemen had been meant to scoot him here. They had covered all the exits already – they were here, some behind him, many across the little intersection. He was trapped effectively. He swore, quick, low.

A split second before the first arrow reached the space where his neck had been and a knife came hurtling out of the wet dark, a strong gust of wind hit him in the back but he was already sprawling to the side, into a dark narrow space between two dingy buildings. The arrow hit the wall to his right, the knife flew off behind his former position. Leaping to his feet, Altair grabbed a ledge above him, his feet finding grooves in the wall, his fingers found the iron bars, slipped on the wet rusty steel, then held on as more missiles came at him. Reaching a safe position he jumped across to the lower roof, close to the fountain, then turned and made a leap to the higher building again. pulling himself up onto the roof he saw an archer there staring at him in open surprise. The man’d not heard yet his comrades’ cries of warning over the wind and rain. He’d never hear anything again – Altair made sure of that with one swift kick to the wrist that held a long dagger meant to kill him. The archer let out a howl of pain that was no doubt heard below as the Assassin heard a roar of anger from below and then the Assassin’s arm was around the archer’s neck in a headlock. He gave one swift sharp jerk, a snap and the body hung limply. Altair laid him down then without looking behind went over to the next roof as the men below finally began their climb up to him.


Brian FleetHand was incensed. He’d just seen an incredible thing: his prey AGAIN getting away. What’s more: the damn Assassin had killed one of his best men into the bargain! His fist hit the wet wall of the building the heretic had climbed. The man was big but fast: God, he’d never seen anyone slither up a side of a house with such coordination. O yes, catching and killing this one would be his crowning moment.

Smiling grimly, disregarding thunder, lightning, dark and rain, Brian sent some of his archers and the men with the net to the empty sanctuary of the infidels not far from there. The Assassin would seek to hide now, thinking he would not be easy to track. But he’d be leaving corpses in his wake – Brian did have men up on the roofs and had prearranged signals with them to announce their presence there. If they did not show those signs, then he’d know they were dead. The net he’d spread in the mosque – Evasham would know what to do.

Feeling better about his plans but still cautious – he was an old hand at man-hunting and knew a trick or two – he would follow the Assassin over the roofs as well and show him that he was not the only one with that skill. First, find a ladder…


Altair slipped in the dirt, fell, becoming grimier as well as wetter in the process. Wearily he got to his feet and pushed on. He was out of breath – the little drinks he’d allowed himself were not enough. Ironically, there was water all around him but he could not stop and drink. That deadly man was on his tail now. He would see him if he turned. They were moving faster than him. He was rapidly running out of time and strength. Soon he’d have to face them in battle in this treacherous weather.

He ran on, towards the deserted partly-demolished mosque he’d spied earlier. There he could make his stand. He had no choice anymore. An arrow whizzed by his ear spitefully, reminding him just how close they were. He grimaced, anger flashing through him. Giving up was he? So unlike him. Had to be the long chase – it was wearing down his will, that strong indomitable will that had made a survivor of him since childhood. His features settled into a grim mask, eyes hard as dark stones. He would die if he must but not before he’d exhausted the only remaining means of escape: combat, simply killing as many or all of them if necessary and getting away. The archers definitely represented a problem – but he’d dispatched a few of them before dropping down from the roofs to the ground. That left an obvious trail but he had thought why not turn the tables on the man who led the chase. Why not lead him by the nose exactly where he wanted him to go? Make him come to his, Altair’s, chosen place. That mosque ahead looked as good a place as any to finish this.

A man ran out at him from his left, arm upraised with an axe in hand, face distorted in the lighting light into a mask of hate. Altair ducked, then reached out and yanked the man’s knees out from under him, falling atop him and ramming his Hidden Blade into the man’s neck. The axe fell from the suddenly watery hand, with a dull thud into the dirt. Altair’s reaction had been instantaneous. He felt the adrenaline rush – the life of it – bring his spirits up again. All was not lost. No matter how wily the man who had haunted his steps for weeks now was, an Assassin was craftier still. Altair picked up the axe thoughtfully and hefted it. He had never been one for axes: he thought them crude as they required almost no finesse but only strength of arm and back and torso. Yes, this could be useful. Without another backwards look at the man whose eyes stared at the rainy skies and filled with water, he went on.


Brian knelt by the body, studying the washed out wound in the neck. He’d seen such a cut before – on his Lord in Aleppo. Always the same shape, different places on body. The youth lying here on the roof not far from the mosque had been his nephew, skilled as anyone he’d ever seen with the bow. Never to draw it again. He had seen the boy grow, had trained him himself on Lord of Aleppo’s shooting range. He reached out and closed the boy’s sightless eyes gently, his men about him, silent and alert. A vast rage filled Brian FleetHand. The Assassin would pay. Dearly. With every last drop of his tainted apostate blood he would beg for mercy. The mission now suddenly took on a more dangerous glint as did Brian’s eyes. He would redouble his efforts to bring the Assassin to ground. He swore it on his nephew’s body.


He entered the mosque, alert for any sound, anything that so much as smelled a hair wrong. The mosque’s doors had been savaged: wood taken. He had no idea who – he’d not paid too much attention to the mosque when passing by before. The mosque floor was dry mostly except in corners where cracked walls had allowed seepage from the raging torrents outside to spread in dark dirty stains. The noise of the rain was muffled by the thick walls of the building – it was a whisper just on Brian’s edge of hearing.

Broken stones crunched underfoot, loud. His men filed in after him, making the crunching worse. They spread out at his mute signals. He knew the Assassin hid here. Gregory’s body outside, axeless, proved as much. Why would the Assassin need an axe, provided he even knew how to use one? “Never ever underestimate an Assassin,” he muttered to himself, eyes peering sharply into the dark corners and niches. “No getting away this time.”

They were between the columns now, the ones that upheld the stripped roof. The interior was dark but damp. Lightning illuminated the dark watery corners for a moment. Brian stared. He thought he’d seen…? He shook his head. Starting at ghosts. But he crossed himself all the same. God was on his side but reassurance never hurt, especially in this den of infidels.

His men were slightly nervous too, not Evasham though. This quiet that affected all others seemed to slip away from him. Evasham’s gaze was sharp as a knife, nose sniffing like a hunting hound. His instincts had never yet been wrong. He stepped to his commander and whispered, “He is here. I know it. Those doors did not disappear by themselves. Greg’s axe…”

Brian nodded. Of course: wood and axe. But what kind of trap was the Assassin laying now? He rubbed his stubbled chin. Then raised his head as if by chance, as if he were simply thinking on something. His gaze though roamed the dark confines of the ceiling and the tops of the broken columns. It was obvious his net men had not come here before the Assassin. The Assassin had the upper hand now. They could not find him in the dark here.

“SIR!” From one of the niches one of his men called. His voice sounded excited. Brian and Evasham exchanged a long look then went over with many of the rest of the men to see what was going on. Brian felt a jolt when he saw what the archer had uncovered. A coil of rope. One of theirs. He recognised his knots. Where…?
He knelt by the rope, ran it through his fingers. He saw the neatly sliced threads: cut by a knife. His smile was humourless. It was wet – on the bottom. Not here long then. Greg had carried some as had his nephew. Wood, axe, rope – Brian stood up and turned around full circle. Crafty, o, wily indeed was his quarry. He grinned: a challenging opponent was much more profitable to bring down. His reputation would be enhanced by such a catch.

“Step back all of you,” he said loudly enough to be heard by the Assassin who he knew was not down here but up there, clinging to the columns. “And make torches out of that door if it is still dry. If there is dry wood here use that too.” With another look at the ramparts above, he added, “I want this place ablaze.”


Up above, Altair held his breath, clinging to the jutting piece of the ceiling. The rest had fallen in. Drops of rain did not reach him but the wind did. It howled like a lost soul but did not drown out the archer’s words.

Altair shifted just the infinitesimal bit, hands holding the ropes of the hastily built platform that he planned to drop on the men below. The axe lay beside him. He looked over the wooden platform with its load of stones, small ones – he had not had the strength to hoist bigger ones up there. He moved not an inch, even though his shoulders hurt with the strain of holding the rope ends. It felt as if he were being slowly tortured but he closed his mind to pain, to the ever-growing wish to let the ropes go. He sweated but dared not wipe the salty drops from his eyes. Instead he concentrated on the men below.

He had heard the archer order wood to be piled around the place in the dry patches. He did not think it’d burn well but the smoke…. He shifted again to get a better look at the surroundings immediately below him. Some of the archer’s men were attempting to stack small rubble into a pile beside the column on which rested the other end of the platform. To make more room for the pyre that would shortly be blazing in the middle of the ruined building.

Altair had not seen a person since he’d galloped in here some days ago. He had thought he’d seen a flap of cloth as a door was closed once but beyond that nothing. It was as if the whole town were dead. But he had felt eyes on him and the pursuers. Watchful. Afraid. Wishing only that these men of death would go away and leave them alone. Not even for their mosque would they come out – they’d not even bothered to repair after some earlier bandits had come through. The air of negligence was palpable in the wet corners, the hole in the roof, and the peeled verses of the Holy Book on the walls.

His back hurt as did his legs from clinging to the cold stone. His fingers were numb from the cold wind. He pulled air in through the nose: moist, freezing. The first smoke. That’s how long he’ll wait. He wanted the archers well focused on their task. In the ensuing conflagration if any he’d make good his escape. He watched as the archer posted his men at the entrance, doorless now. Their bows were strung and they leaned on them non-chalantly, as if simply resting. Altair’s mouth stretched into a humourless smile. They rested no more than he slept.

He stole another glance down. The first embers were sputtering out. The wood was too wet – or the air. He heard swearwords – some Arabic, some German and English. Even if he’d not known the meaning he still understood the tone. Hard practical men who made do with what they found. Skilful at their work too: not many could have tracked an Assassin half as well as these ones. He’d wait for smoke – that’d be some cover for him and reduce their visibility somewhat. He had no intention of dying here – he was a survivor first and foremost.

Finally the fire started. First in the middle of the mosque then at the walls. As the men involuntarily gathered around the central blaze to warm themselves, Altair adjusted his grip on the ropes one last time. Now or never. He counted to three with every beat of his heart, then let go the ropes and rolled to the side to grip the column below his ledge. The stones showered onto the men below, some of whom jumped away. The platform creaked as it too came down flat. Some of the stones fell in the fire, making it weave about sporadically. There was angry roaring of pain and dry cracks of bones broken. Some men fell clutching elbows and knees. Others pitched over from blows to the head.

Altair was already halfway down the column before arrows started flying all about him, hitting the stone of the column, chipping it but falling away. He quickly slid to the other side, the darker side, of the column and let go, Hidden Blade out, into the face of an archer who was about to re-draw his bow. The Assassin crashed into him, the arrow never leaving the string but falling aside as the archer fell from surprise at this attack. He never recovered. The Hidden Blade hissed in and out of his throat. His last breath came out with the blade.

Altair dived behind a pile of rubble, to escape the arrow fire but the archers were onto him now. They’d seen him kill one of their own even through the smoke and flames. They shot blindly since mosque was dark in the corners and the lightning was sporadic, providing only sharp flashes but no real visibility. The flames of the fires gave warmth and some light but also a lot of smoke cover since the wood was mostly wet as was the floor.

Altair rolled out from behind the pile of rubble only when an arrow had flown too close to his head for comfort. He just saw the glint of steel and then let fly with his throwing knives. He heard a groan and was moving again, towards the entrance. He coughed the smoke, arm held across his face, dodged behind a column once more as they came at him, swinging maces, axes and swords. He even saw a long dagger or two, no mere carving knives these. They tried to pin him against the wall of the mosque where a puddle of muddy water had collected. Arrows continued to fly towards him, making concentration difficult. As the Assassin reached for his sabre there was a dull thunk as of a lever being released. A split second later Altair’s left arm refused to work – the inside of his elbow had been smashed, blood staining the robes’ pristine whiteness. He hissed – only one arm to work with now. The archer’s men faced him, none smiling, grim. They were veterans, these men, the Assassin thought. They did not feast till it’d been cooked. He lowered his head slightly, hiding his face from them. It always ended this way, be it a big city, a village or even an abandoned cave. In the end there was always blood. He sighed. He was tired, hungry, thirsty. This hunt had taken its tall on him. There were circles under his eyes. His robes hung a little more loosely now on his already slim frame. But his strength remained, he found, as he stared at the red blot on his robes ever spreading, arm limp by his side. That strength that kept him alive against impossible odds, the force that made him such an effective Assassin.

His sabre shone with orange reflected light of the fires as did his eyes deep down. He looked up once more. His eyes found the archer who’d led these men at the back of the armed lines, watching him, face set in a cautiously optimistic expression. Altair smiled at him, saluting.


Blood and screams mixed with flames as Brian watched the Assassin in his dirtied smudged robes reminiscent of monks back in Wales smile and then attack, one armed, with a ferocity and precision he’d seen in few men in his lifetime. Only men possessed fought like that, with such aware abandon, moved and slid so efficiently through parries and blocks and feints, disregarding the slightest scratches to face or arm. Unlike many a Saracen in battle this one did not cry out, did not call on his God to help his cause. He danced silently as if he were alone in all the world and Brian’s men were only mannequins for him to practice on.
He saw an axe swing high overhead and was sure the Assassin was out of position – his left shoulder was to the axe wielding Dick Wentworth – certain that one blow between the neck and shoulder would finish him. Then impossibly he watched in growing anger as the Assassin fell to the floor, the axe swung by where his head should have been, and then pushed himself up on to his feet in time to slap Dick… but had he? Brian FleetHand stood helpless as that seeming caress sprouted blood and the axe slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers. He did not hear Dick’s last moments on the earth but his sudden end was unnerving. His men hesitated for some time, uncertain.

Brian remembered his nephew, out there in the rain, dead, eyes staring. He remembered the cut in his throat, the crimson flood washed away by the rains. Dick stared at him just as sightlessly, just as dead. Anger flooded him. He had sworn vengeance – for his lord and his kin. He turned to his crossbowmen lined up behind him, the Assassin in their sights. And barked, “Take him down!”


Altair dove towards the legs of the nearest man carrying a heavy ball mace on a chain in his hands the moment the archer had looked away behind him. He tangled up with the man whose surprised expression lasted forever as the Hidden Blade did its deadly work. He had gone down just in time: the crossbow bolts hit the wall behind him seconds later shattering stone and their iron heads in the process. He heard a roar of frustration – from the archer no doubt and came to his feet, shoulder out, pushing into the man nearest him who’d had no time to react as his fellow soldier was brought down so quickly and unexpectedly.

Distraction accomplished as the men who’d chased him tried to straighten their ranks and follow him, he once more ran for the entrance. His task now was to get out of here as intact as possible. He leapt through the wall of flame ahead of him without pause or even thought – going around it was impossible, it would take him too far out in sight of the crossbowmen whose bolts fell all about him at regular intervals. The tail of his robes caught fire and he beat it out hastily, plunging his hand into a puddle near the wall. That stop proved to be a mistake.
Men loomed out of the smoke, swords pointing at him, and even a few bows with arrows knocked to string. Altair showed no sign of aggression, sabre hanging by his side, blooded. He heard movement behind him and knew now he was truly surrounded. The archer was leading the rest of his men as one of those in front of him called out, “Sir! We have him here!”

All seemed to shrink: the flames all around them, the semi-dark interior of the mosque, the pummelling rain, the bright flashes of lighting seen in the door less entryway. Even the beat of his heart was slower, more measured, like a drum. In the periphery of his vision he saw men appear from the smoke and take up positions around him, weapons trained on him. At the smallest wrong move from him, he’d find arrows and quarrels buzzing and thudding hard into his body from all sides. The flames gave light for them to see by. But not enough to see his face, lowered once more.


Coiled. Like a serpent. Like the Devil. Brian’s mouth hardened at the Assassin’s show of harmlessness. He did not believe any of it. The man was a dissembler as well as a dirty dog of an infidel. Those white robes of his were a disguise, a deliberate corruption of innocence. His nephew would have worn robes like these one day – he would have been knighted by the Lord of Aleppo after this mission. Tears pricked his eyes, angry – he was a hard man, had never cried in his life. Nor would he in front of the bastard before him whose head was bowed. The man felt no remorse for all the blood he’d spilled surely. Such like him did not feel anything at all, criminal and satanic as they were. He mastered himself with difficulty, composing his face into that same confident cold mask his men knew and responded to. He went through his men to confront the Assassin who still had not made a move at all.

Brian FleetHand, secure in the knowledge that his men would take the bastard down at any sign of aggression, with a rough hand pushed the hood off the Assassin’s head. The black gaze that met his unflinching was cold – this was not a look of a trapped animal. The man apparently still thought he could walk from here. The archer peered closer. Cunning. That’s what the archer read in his face. The Assassin’s features were thinner after weeks on the run and the fire only made him seem more decisive as it played in the crevasses of hunger on his cheeks.

“So, Assassin,” he began, hiding his own pain at his nephew’s death behind duty to his lord. “What happens now? I should kill you here. After all my lord does not care if you’re dead when I bring you to him.”

No response. Not even an eyelid twitched. The Assassin was a statue. Projected a calm that surely he could not be feeling. Not with so many weapons on him.
“How many have you murdered, Assassin?” Brian tried again – maybe goading would work. No man liked being insulted after all. “You look young – yet fight as a seasoned veteran would. Does the liar of that nest of carrion birds train you from birth?”

Even that produced no reaction. But wait… had that been a look of anger in the Assassin’s eyes? He could not be sure.

His eyes fell to the Assassin’s left arm and the big brace there. Thin iron plates with designs on them covered the outside. The hand below lacked half a finger. Barbaric. An oath of flesh. Brian felt revulsion sweep through him. THIS was the Saracens’ notion of honour? To give like a pagan a flesh oath…

“And Greg’s axe – I applaud your wits, Assassin. And your strength, infidel though you be. But now the game is over. You’ve killed some of my best men and I should personally kill you but I think not.” He lowered his voice, letting all the frustration of the past missed chances and missteps enter it. “I think I’ll let the Lord of Aleppo judge you. You have no idea what he does to such as you.”

In that moment of silence where only the flames crackled and men breathed loudly, awaiting their commander’s word, the Assassin spoke startling the archer badly. He’d not expected to hear the man at all.


“Why does it take so many men to hunt me? You are all afraid. Your Lord especially – he’d hire foreigners to do his own dirty work. Trust is short in the lands these days.”

Altair swept his eyes around the circle of men slowly turning, keeping his sabre at his side, contempt plain on his face.

“You would rather net me like some fish in the sea or shoot me full of arrows than face me.”

His voice was relaxed betraying none of his tiredness and hunger. He did not think he could go far with them following him. They’d never let him go. Especially not the man before him now, the leader. His face looked like that of the youth he’d killed on the way here. Looking closely at the man he could read that pain writ in his eyes and set of jaw. But also anger. Time to play with the man’s mind already beaten by many weeks of hard riding and all those missed opportunities.
“At least your relative died well. He did not fear me.”

The archer stepped up to him, face twisted with pain laid bare. “You murdered him!”

Altair locked eyes with the man whose anger radiated in waves. The man was fairly quivering with it. “He fought me hand to hand. Blade to blade.” He smelled the blood and wet wool on the archer. “That is, after he tried to shoot me. And in the end, yes, I killed him. Because he made a mistake. Such is the fortune of combat. Only one walks away.”


The unruffled exterior of the Assassin cooled Brian’s heated brain. The man feared not death and damnation. He would allow himself to be killed. His task was done – Brian had heard of the Assassins who offered on resistance once caught but had simply stood there waiting to be taken. This one was like them but different in one respect. He’d fought to the last. Until in this place he had finally made his last stand. The archer supposed there was a kind of honour involved in that: fighter to fighter. But honour was not for such as him. He was simply an archer and had a job to do. And he would do it despite the Assassin’s tricks. No one played Brian FleetHand for a fool.

He had felt Evasham at his shoulder studying the Assassin, hand on sword. The man’s opinion he’d long listened to. Evasham spoke little but to the point. Now he saw as the man moved casually behind the circle of men, gaze ever on the Assassin. They were that close, Evasham and him – they knew what the other planned with no need to speak of it. Evasham saw his commander look at him and mouthed “Keep him talking” motioning to the Assassin. FleetHand gave silent assurance to his second in command. He felt better about their chances now. This face to face confrontation had to end: long weeks and longer wetter days had taken their toll not only on the Assassin. The crossbowmen and the swordsmen and himself did not look any better. Even their supplies had dwindled. He did not think they had enough to go back on. The question of provisions had been pushed to the back of his mind in the relentless pursuit of the Assassin. Now that the man was as good as in his pocket FleetHand made the one mistake that all men in his position eventually commit. He relaxed a little. He allowed his thought to stray to the future. He was after all in a position of strength. Evasham obviously had some plan in mind to end the intolerable situation and allow them all to go home.


Altair had caught the man’s look over his shoulder at something behind him and was instantly aware of a menace, a subtle shift to the men all around him. A new certainty seemed to have settled on them all. Why would that be?

On a hunch he scanned the ranks again. There had been a man. One with sharp eyes by the commander’s side. He was there no more after having given the Assassin a hard stare for a long time. Where was he?

The archer was talking to him, asking questions but Altair was no longer listening. His every instinct was bent on finding the man with the sharp eyes. The sense of menace grew stronger as it moved – together with the sharp eyed man. He could not take his gaze off the archer for that would betray his knowledge of the man’s absence or make him seem nervous. But then, why should he not play from a position of weakness? The Assassin’s last resort: deception, confusion of the enemy’s wits – that could work. He could still turn their plans awry.

Slowly he knelt on one knee, laying his sabre at the archer’s feet to the stilling of any movement at all. The men drew in a deep breath and held it: this, Altair knew, had been the last thing they expected. He had rocked them off their balance. He again searched for that stalking menace. It had receded but was still watchful, wary of his intentions. His and the archer’s gazes were still locked as he spoke to him.

“Tell your man to withdraw from behind me. And I will surrender myself to you.”
He had surprised them. The round eyes and the open mouths told as much. The bows lowered uncertainly as the men looked to the commander for answers. Altair saw the man freeze in surprise at this unexpected show of humility. He carefully kept his hands away from any of his knives as he pronounced his own sentence.
“My life is yours.”


Brian saw Evasham stop stock still as the Assassin lowered to the floor, arm upraised with a rock in hand to knock the man unconscious. Or maybe brain him. Evasham could be direct and practical at times. At others he could be impatient. The archer was sure this last played a part here. This chase had lasted long enough. Time to end it once and for all.

Now though the Assassin had clearly surrendered. Brian still could not read a thing in his face. And that made him wary. Just what was the Assassin up to?

Perhaps it was bravado on the Assassin’s part. A last desperate ploy for time and seeking a means of escape. But how could he run when all FleetHand had to do was give an order to shoot and dozens of arrows would pierce him? The Assassin clearly feared death little but was not foolish enough for those grandiose last gestures that so often marred a victory.

This abject show of surrender startled him badly as it had his men he saw. This had been totally unexpected. At the back of his mind he had really thought the Assassin would fight them tooth and nail. He was tough, no coward. But maybe he had at last seen that struggle was useless. Brian studied the Assassin’s expression on the upturned face. Still little emotion showed. Even the tone of voice was confident, no fear in it or even humiliation.

Brian looked at the sabre at his feet. Golden hilt, slightly curved blade – good for cutting or stabbing. An excellent weapon. For a lord maybe. Not for him though. He disliked garish weapons. Not that this was one. He could see the signs of use on the blade that gleamed in the fire with blood: little slashes at it had hit blade after blade in combat. Even the golden filigree on the handle was worn smooth, shiny.
The Assassin silently waited his will as the archer gave him one last look to ascertain that he indeed was playing no tricks. He could be lying, playing for time as he prepared some devious scheme. But the weariness that the archer saw and the courage that the Assassin showed in yielding of his own will dispelled it to some degree. He motioned Evasham to step aside but be vigilant as he called on his men to take the Assassin prisoner and bind his hands.

The future looked brighter.

When Altair saw the men move close to him in order to bind his arms he went fluid. He imagined himself as a river current, flowing between and over rocks and taking grains of sand with it. He heard some men put the arrows back in the quivers. He heard sighs of relief from them: they would not have to die after all. But some retained their wariness, especially the sharp eyed man. The commander too to some extent even though he already had relaxed his guard unnecessarily.

The first man died as Altair stood up unresisting before his arms could be grabbed, Hidden Blade doing its name justice. The dead man did not fall immediately – which is why his death went unnoticed by all for a time. The sharp eyed man had stepped back into the crowd to confer with the archer in charge of the expedition so he too did not see the man die despite his many looks in the Assassin’s direction. The pressing crowd of the archers held up the dead man adding to the illusion that all was well.

Without waiting for another man to grab his arm he stabbed again up under the armpit when the man had raised his arm to take him. The man leaned against him as blood coloured his chainmail. Turning Altair pushed him into the back of the sharp eyed man and the archer as more hands reached for his sodden dirty robes, then using the momentary pile as the surprised men went down in a tangle as a spring board he leapt up and out of the circle running for the door-less entryway that gaped like a mouth full of darkness.

The night was pitch black as the rain poured relentlessly down and lightning continued. Altair slipped and stumbled, cries of fury and chagrin behind him. Standing still in the mosque had allowed him to recover his breath and strength. He was still thirsty and hungry but at least he was free. He made in a jagged path towards the outskirts of the place where he’d left his horse. It would take them some time to sort his whereabouts out and make a plan of pursuit. He smiled as rain pelted him and thunder crashed all around him. Yet again he’d made it out alive. But this had been too close. That archer was a formidable opponent to say the least. He must not make stupid mistakes again. That was costly.

Wiping water from his face he stood on the edge of the little town, seemingly empty of all life, and looked for any signs of ambush. It was possible that they were craftier than he gave them credit for and had left some men around the outside of the town to watch for any trouble, outside or inside. But after a few minutes of scanning the wet dark it appeared he was alone. He let his breath out and pulled the sodden hood over his head, not that that was necessary. No one would find him now. He was dirt and blood and wet cloth now. No one would bother to look under his hood. And the roads would be impassable for days. That was good in one way, he mused as he found Aisha in that little rickety stable he’d left her in, saddled and bridled with his saddle bags still attached to her. Bad muddy roads meant the archer would be stuck here for some days, sorting out his men and coming up with a plan. By the time he would ride out the Assassin’s tracks would be dry, true, but also overlaid with some other tracks. And many horses were the same size as Aisha. The roads, though, would also slow him down. He might be bogged down in some mud pit and be found by them a few days later. Only then there’d be no mercy for him. The sharp eyed man would kill him outright.

Altair galloped into the dark, seeking the back roads, no matter the dirt, wet and wounds. He had a long way to cover. Hopefully he’d scrounge some food along the way. He was still good at stealing. A two week journey then and he’d rest. His weary body begged for sleep that he could not give now. He was still in danger. He had to remain sharp. Only when he’d enter the borders of the Assassin lands would he be safe. His vigilance must be unceasing.

The Assassin rode into the night, wary of pursuit yet with a feeling of freedom and accomplishment. He’d cheated death once again. He had felt its presence in the mosque and that time they’d caught him in their net. But time and again he’d turned its hand away from him: the knife of retribution had not fallen on his heart. Nothing indeed was true. And everything was permitted to avert death. Even deception. The archer did not know how lucky he was to be alive. Altair could have killed him in the confusion, easily. He had permitted himself the luxury of choice in a situation where all such were limited. He had walked the edge of death’s knife and had not cut himself. Such was the game of balance that the Assassin played: a hunter of death that brought two forces together in their eternal dance with him as the tool of both. Servant of two masters – a dangerous occupation for a mortal, some would say.

To him though, that game was life. And he knew the one single rule that governed the game: the Creed set unbounded limits – that contradiction gave his life an edge, a spice more delicious than cinnamon, more flavourful than any peach.
And Altair tasted of that spice time and again. Tonight had not been the last time, not at all, taxing as it’d been. But for now, he could set aside that spice and try a new vintage: that of rest.

Thunder splashed across the roiling skies and lightning flashed soon after in a jagged line across his vision. Aisha bridled at that but he calmed her with a hand as he trotted to the hills and was hidden from sight of man or beast.