Chapter 3
On the road to Baghdad Summer 1188 CE

Having seen everything he needed to see, Altair crawled back from the edge of the cliff and, once sure no one would see him, stood up and headed back down the slope, loosening the sabre in its sheath. Twenty Templars, he counted mentally, picking his way carefully down to the horses and the little camp they’d made in the hollow under the cliff. Twenty very careless Templars. Their camp had no organization whatsoever. Easy prey for him: apparently they’d forgotten that he was the Shadow of Death hanging over them, the white-clad ghost that could blend in with any Templar troop. And take many of them down before they even knew he was there.

Adah had waited with the horses, her brow set in a frown. They’d argued about the wisdom of chasing twenty well armed Knights of the Church all the afternoon but his mind had been set the moment he’d seen the homestead and the look on her face that she’d tried hard to hide. For what they’d done to the family and the house and the barn – and not for the first time – the Templars had to pay.

Eventually their arguments had dissolved into silence. Altair was by nature a silent traveler. Having a woman along, albeit one that did not talk either, had unnerved him. He had become even more silent – not because he felt uncomfortable around nobility but simply because… well, she was a WOMAN! He’d never really learned how to talk, let alone behave around one that stayed so close to him all the time. She was no relative of his. A total stranger. Somehow he knew that trying to seduce her in turn would not be a right idea. Altair sighed sharply into the half-night air. Never mind the Lady Adah for now. He had work to do.

As soon as she’d seen him she’d started checking her weapons, not even concealing her actions from him. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes: she was not coming with him. He would not risk her life on this. The Templars were his fight, not hers. He would have no argument. He laid a firm hand on hers as she was about to take her short sabre out. He did not say a thing as he looked at her eyes, except, “I need someone to stay with the horses. I don’t need them running off. Or would you prefer to walk to Baghdad?” He was pretty sure he’d hidden his eagerness as he added in low warning tones, “My lady.”

She said not a word, did not drop her eyes but simply took her hand out from under his and turned her back on him. Altair resisted the strong urge to grab her and beat some sense into her. He had never laid a hand on a woman in that fashion, for one thing, and for another, she’d defend herself. And well too.

A horn sounded from the other side of the cliff. Night watch relief. He’d studied his prey’s habits, as usual. He knew all the curfews, all the men’s faces. He’d been observing them for almost two weeks now as they’d followed the trail the arrogant knights had left behind, confident that no one would dare attack them. Altair planned to use that against them. The surprise was on his side.

Altair’s mind was already working on a plan as he headed back up, having taken his throwing knives from the saddle and his short blade. They made him look too dangerous on this journey. Too easy to identify to any Templar or their hireling. Adah had mentioned that going after these ones would only excite them all the more and they had more than enough trouble getting to Baghdad as all the amirs in the cities under the Abbasid domination salivated at any news from the capital. He had to admit she was right. But the burned bodies of the family and the animals, the senseless wanton destruction, and most of all that look on her face of hidden horror and a wish for revenge drove him to this. His own memories too: restless, in the night they’d still torment him with clang of doors and ghostly clink of chains. Perhaps it was as Malik had said, that he’d lost himself, lost the Creed in that long captivity. Be it as it may, his vow was made. And he would carry it out.


Adah ate a cold meal of meat and dry waybread, staring speculatively into the dark after the Assassin. Here was the most irritating man she’d ever met. She had no idea how to deal with him. It almost seemed to her as if he thought he were traveling alone, as he usually must have done. Or was in the company of a Brother, on whom he could rely to stay behind while he went to satisfy some mad vendetta of his.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on her thigh, watching the stars wheel overhead and the fat moon, white and ponderous in the sky. This vengeance was a waste of time. The Calipha could be dead by now. Every day she dreaded hearing the news in some inn or run down tavern where rude men, Muslim and Crusader alike, mingled and in drink spat nonsense. And every hour that kept her from her Lady Zubaida and Lady Balsam, both of whom were like mothers to her.
She should leave. Now. Go her own way. Find some other Assassin on the way. Or a man who could pretend to be one. After all, the Brotherhood had a fearsome reputation. Any man would jump at the chance to impersonate one. All he’d need would be a white robe. The Hidden Blade would be a problem but it was not as if whoever she’d find would need a real one. That was the least of her worries. She just needed someone convincing enough.

Looking about, she heard the distant sounds of fighting. Despite herself she held her breath. He was alone. Against twenty as he’d told her clinically a few days ago as they’d lain in the grass not a few feet from the sentry whose back was to them and who knew nothing of their presence. She’d expected him to feel them there, to at least be aware of eyes on his back. But nothing happened. They’d crawled away from the camp having seen everything there was to see.

A horn blew again – somehow a hurried desperate call – that was cut off in mid-sound. The suddenness of the absence of that call convinced her that Altair had something to do with it. How could a man move quietly in an armed camp? No wonder the Assassins were feared so much in so many places, even the Turks did not cross them, if they had men like this at their disposal. Why did not Sinan try and grab more power? He could rule a kingdom with men like these at his command. But she’d taken his measure at Masyaf. The memory of that conversation still chilled her. The way he’d looked at her – not as a man does who appreciates a woman – but an assessing look: enemy or friend? Or even a spy maybe?

She sighed sharply, rubbing her arms. It was not cold yet in these foot hills but unless Altair planned on going around the mountains – which she did not think likely, stubborn man bent on staying hidden as he was – she thought she’d better get used to the less than cool air of this country.

Adah stood up to walk about, her legs feeling cramped from sitting on the thin blanket for so long. What was she doing here? Sitting like a lame duck, waiting for him? Was she a slave of his? No. She had as much right to be there as he did. Exhaling sharply she stared up the cliff where he’d been to earlier. She’d seen the camp too: the only discipline she’d seen were the sentries. The tents had been scattered every which way around a big one, for the commander no doubt. And all the loot that they had taken. Not many animals, those they had in plenty at their fortresses, but more movable goods like metal pots and tools. Why would they take such practically worthless things?

Adah was sure Altair had not given thought to that. He’d only seen the red of blood: like a hound on a scent. To him such questions were pointless. He was a tool pointed in a certain direction. He had no need to think. Al Mualim did all his thinking for him. Yet he was far from stupid. Although tonight she doubted it as she did his sanity. This venture was insane. Yet at Masyaf she’d been told and seen for herself that he was skilled with every weapon there was. She’d even seen some evidence of that on their way as he’d taken out the other Templars they’d come across, usually in groups.

As the sounds of the fighting got louder, Adah began to crawl. She took no care for her clothes now. They were non descript enough: she even covered her face to keep the fact she was a woman away from public eye. She lay low over the lip of the cliff and watched a scene of carnage.

Perhaps five or so men were dead already and some few more lay with gaping wounds as far as she could make out in the glaring light of the fires. Many barrels and equipment lay scattered about, forgotten in the panic that the Templars had woken to. They’d barely had time to arm: many were dead on their pallets, wine skins by their sides leaking liquid. A drunk soldier in her opinion was a dead one.
A sudden feeling of panic gripped her too. If she left, Altair would catch her. And maybe kill her as he did these men. Her eyes sought him as her fingers dug into the dry earth of the cliff, the small stones pressing into her skin painfully. That sensation somehow calmed her. Pain was a human feeling, not that of a panicky bird seeing its eggs being taken away by a child for play.

There. Right there in that knot of knights. She squinted a bit – too far on the other side of the camp. She’d have to get closer. Keeping that constantly flowing mass of men in sights she crawled along the edge of the cliff to a lower point. Dropping down quietly she began picking her way through the piles of loot and dead men, smelling the voided bowels and hearing their moans of help. Ignoring those piteous cries for help she threaded a path around burning tents and smoldering wood piles and panicky horses and cattle, hands to knives at her belt.


Altair kicked the knight nearest him solidly in the chest and followed up with a slash of the short blade across the neck under the helmet. Blood flew to spatter the few men nearest to the dead man who toppled twisting on the ground. Several swords flashed but none found their mark as Altair ducked behind another knight to stab his Hidden Blade into the man’s back and push him at the middle of the circle. Then he lightly ran behind a tent where he picked up a burning branch and hit with it the first man around the tent right to the head smashing him into the tent. Then he threw the branch at the stunned man whose surcoat went from white to glowing orange as the flames spread. Altair watched with savage satisfaction. What had been done to the farms and villages they’d passed was now coming home to roost.

The others would die too. Their commander was dead already, among the first ones Altair had dispatched with the Hidden Blade. The man had babbled his surprise to his grave. Coldly the Assassin had continued to kill the Templars, deaf to their screaming as some begged for mercy. He had none in his heart or mind. Not for needless slaughter of innocents they’d perpetrated. Simply because they could.

Altair’s fist met naked flesh as he ripped a helmet off knocking the Templar off his feet, then sitting on him to stab the back of his neck in a bloody fountain that hit his face with warmth. As he stood he looked like an angel of hell to the Templars that fanned out in front of the line of fires he stood behind, maces and swords gleaming in the flames.

“It is you, you devil,” one of them rasped, the first words since the commander had recognized him for the evil spirit that had hounded the Templars for almost a year now. “Nowhere to –“

Altair did not let him finish his words but flung a knife at him from the shoulder with lightning quick speed, his eyes resting on the others meantime. The Templar who’d spoken fell on to his back and did not move: the knife had caught his mouth as he’d raised his visor.

Through it all Altair had not said a word. He’d been like a soundless spectre of the Crusaders’ nightmares come to life. Some had ran once he’d been noticed. It had never been his plan to kill them all from the shadows. Terror was his goal. Killing them was a means to that terror. He’d make the Templars all the more afraid by destroying twenty of them single handed. Twenty less to threaten the Brotherhood. Twenty less to torture innocents.

He heard the neighing of horses from behind him and realized that fires made him stand out. And that there were too few men before him to account for all he’d laid low. Ten at most were dead. That left ten more to face. Yet here stood only four, not counting the dead man. Five then closed in from behind. On horseback: the horses were not in a panic anymore. The remaining Templars had gotten some at least under control.

“You don’t have anywhere to run to now, do you, Assassin?” The Templar’s voice was dull inside his helmet as all four moved closer to the line of fires as the hoof beats became stronger. They planned on riding him down. Fools. Crashing him between the ones on foot and the horses would not work. He was too nimble. The first horse – one of the knights would always charge first, that much Altair had counted on. It made the Templars predictable, terrible but predictable. – the first horse ran at him, guided by its rider but he threw himself aside just in time to avoid its plunging hooves. As he hit the ground and rolled the second horse was already there, all of them eager to trample him. without even thinking about what he was doing, Altair launched himself at the rider and holding onto him sat on the horse’s croup. The man was so startled he froze – and that was his mistake, the last one he’d make in life as Altair slit him from ear to ear and pushed him off the horse.

He bent low to avoid a swipe of a knight’s sword that would have rendered him headless and then reached over to push the Blade into the exposed armpit of the knight who’d wanted to take another slash at him. The knight’s foot caught in the stirrup as he slid off the horse who ran in fear at this sudden burden. Altair grabbed the reins and wrapped them around the pommel of the saddle to keep his hands free, guiding the horse with his knees, confidently – something the horse responded to.

He had to duck again, this time a burning branch that a Templar had picked up from a comrade in imitation of his own usage earlier. As he straightened his sabre sang from its sheath a challenging call to battle. He would not leave till all were dead.

The blades rang as they met with force. Then flicked once more and blood bloomed on the Templar’s arm: a shallow cut that hurt him nothing. Altair went past him, feeling a Templar on foot about to cut his leg in half, then whirled around, knife already leaving his hand to sink into the man’s chest.

Next moment his horse reared as yet another of the foot bound Templars attempted to cut its belly. The beast was nervous already. Sneaking up on it was a bad idea. The knight paid for it with a split forehead as the horse turned and bit him, missing a good bite only because the distance was so close that its teeth could not sink in properly. With a cry the man staggered back into the horse of his companion who unceremoniously kicked him aside, bleeding, as he tried to get at the Assassin who was trying to fend off another mounted attack from a mace.
The mace slid off his sabre and hit his shoulder, numbing it. Altair quickly switched hands and flicked the sabre in a feint at the Templar’s throat. A mace swing too a while to recover from: much like an axe the weapon depended on strength to batter an opponent down. Instead the wielder ate the Assassin steel that emerged half a foot from his back. He went stiff as a wooden board and fell forward onto the Assassin whose sabre and arm were thus trapped, unable to fend off the sword from behind. In a split second Altair made his decision. He went down with the dead man on the other horse as the sword missed him by inches. He was twisted into an untenable position. He could not defend himself when the knight grabbed his shoulder harness and dragged him back over the saddle to expose his throat, dagger in hand.

Altair had let go of his sabre and staring at the man’s slits in the helmet, through which he thought he could make out the eyes he let the momentum carry his left arm up, Blade out, and watched it enter under the man’s helmet. That sinuous move had been the last thing the Templar had waited for. He have a surprised grunt, letting go of the Assassin, his body limp. Before his weight could break Altair’s spine, the younger man pushed up and away.

There were cries of chagrin from the foot bound Templars who attempted to catch some horses to even the battle up. Altair did not even let them run to the beasts as he ferociously cut them down, using the horse, trained as it was in war, as a weapon. The Templars had no choice but to run. Or at least try to move away from the savage horse and its rider. But Altair was past all mercy. Instinct and memory were his law, vengeance his reason. He rode far into the night, chasing each knight and falling on them like the Eagle he was, cold, ruthless, inflexible in will and purpose. The Templars’ dying cries slid into the wails of the night wolves and jackals, becoming one. And then all was still once more.


The night was far gone. And all lay quiet. Except an odd jackal bark now and then. The skies as ever were silent and watchful with a myriad of eyes. An odd nocturnal bird of prey would cry its loneliness to the uncaring world and fall away. A field mouse or a bigger rodent would squeak as their lives ended. Even the Templar camp lay still, a few coals still glowing like earthly stars reflecting the heaven above. All was dead here as up there with the cold uncaring moon.

Adah sat stiffly by the sleeping Assassin, on sentry duty since he’d dropped off to sleep as soon as he’d let her know by look of his black eyes that he was displeased with her being where she was not wanted. That look more than any words he might’ve said told her that he thought of her as any other man would: a delicacy to be protected. She gripped the stone she sat on hard. As if she needed protection. He KNEW she’d come to Masyaf alone, what she had to go through to get there, a lone woman on the road. Yet maybe it was his way of showing contempt. Perhaps despite his behaviour at the fortress he did not respect her. Not that she cared. He was like any other man: she’d already made inroads to bringing him under her power. Maybe she could play along with his notion, apologise to him perhaps with a proper show of contrition. Beguile him still further. Confuse him. The Lady Balsam had told her that men were to be wielded like the swords they liked so much themselves. That a woman could take pleasure even as she conquered. Even as she used the man she wanted to do as she willed. In this case, the Assassin’s help was needed in a matter of state. If he proved unwilling on his own, she could always unleash her crafts on him. Had already done so.
Her eyes left the surrounding dark countryside and found his sleeping form, wrapped in a blanket. Yes, the next time they stopped at an inn or hostel, she’d sound him out. A slow smile stretched her lips as she stretched herself and got up to walk to where she’d see his face. Or as much of it as the hood would let her. He’d not bothered to change before he’d gone to sleep. He still smelled of blood and vomit as she squatted by him, careful not to disturb even the smallest stone. He slept deeply, content after a killing battlefield. Sometimes she wondered how he did it, with all those souls on his conscience. No nightmares to plague him? No madness to haunt him. Albeit now, for two weeks, he’d been different. Withdrawn. Taciturn. Forgetful of her presence except when she’d reminded him of it.

“That’s how you kill is it not?” she whispered, eyes on his killer’s hands folded atop the blanket. The only concession he’d made to sleep had been taking off his Hidden Blade. Cutting more of his fingers off was not on his agenda. But what was his plan if any on reaching Baghdad? He’d not said a word to her about that. Had kept any thoughts to himself. Almost as if she did not figure in his calculations.

She’d make him see reason then. Or unreason. She would have giggled but contented herself with a little smirk. To prove to herself that she was not afraid she reached out and touched his cheek, softly but boldly, no coquettish maiden she although at need she could play the part if needed. Her fingers, of their own accord, strayed to his lips and the hint of the hair over the upper lip. In a man as hard as the Assassin was his lips were the softest part – some would have been amazed to find he had any gentleness to him at all. And she still had to see its presence. At times she could almost see him drop that hard mask he wore so often. So close to maybe showing a human side of himself as he’d done in the Garden at Masyaf that night. But even then it had been guarded. Always he was on his guard around strangers. She suddenly found a wish as she pushed the hood off his hair and let her fingers fell the somewhat rough texture of the short cropped head. She wanted a friend. Someone to understand her but not to rule her as the Lady Balsam did at times or the Lady Zubaidah. Just someone she could talk to.

Altair stirred under her hand. She snatched her hand back as if scalded, afraid he’d wake up. He did not. To her relief. But now her eyes were snagged by the scar – even though she could not see it properly, she felt its shape with her finger, heart beating rapidly. She had to take herself in hand. Allah she had to or she’d be worse than useless. He was not special. Just a killer. A killer she needed to do a task. That is all. ALL.

She walked her rounds for the rest of the night, not waking him. Not even looking at him. but aware of his presence all the same. That last was unavoidable. Let him sleep, she thought. Let him kill as he would. I just want to be home again. In Baghdad. To walk its familiar streets. Smell its stench and lose myself in the deeps of the city.