Altair: Eagle's Talons 4

Chapter 4

Rheims, Champagne, Demember, 1187 CE

Altair secured the Hidden Blade on his arm as his thoughts returned to the present. He had prepared himself well, he mused. His Eagle spirit was ready for the task: directed, focused, unwavering. The time for doubt and questions of morality, of right and wrong, was past. He was the Blade. He was the Angel of Death. And he would not fall. No matter how hard the Templars tried to prevent him. No matter the many guards in the streets. He was Altair Ibn La-Ahad, the Eagle of Masyaf. He would not fail.

He stood near the window for a moment, taking in the morning life of the city. This was his last day here. His belongings Etienne would take to the hut and wait for him. His friend had insisted even though Altair had not wanted him to be involved anymore than he already was. In the end Altair had given in. This new friend of his had an iron will to match his own. He would have made a good Assassin. He practiced the tenets without being aware of them. He stayed low and went about his business as a tavern keeper. He stood by his friends whatever their beliefs. He never went out of his way to harm anyone but with any troublemakers he had a short shrift. They never hung around long once tasting of his staff. Altair smiled. He’d seen Etienne’s staff at work. When he’d come to the tavern after a hard day of investigating and walking the streets, a man had accosted him, called him a monk seeing his white robes. Altair as was his habit had ignored the man and sat down at his usual table. The man who looked like an off-duty guard that liked bothering others did not leave off though but followed after the Assassin coining epithets with every breath.

Etienne had been watching this despite being busy with orders. That man did not miss much. His observations skills would have made a Brother feel ashamed. He’d reached under the counter and brought out a long thin stave. After telling the boy to mind the custom, he made his way unhurriedly to Altair’s place where the guard was getting angry and waxing less coherent as a result. Altair watched Etienne out of the corner of his eye. The tavern keeper was good. His soldier instincts were still intact after years of disuse. He walked with the same gait as he would to ask for an order. He did not attract attention. Or not much. His staff definitely was visible to other people. They watched amused to see what would happen. Some had knowing looks: they were the regulars who’d seen this before. They nudged their neighbours, smirking, pointing. Within a few steps of the trouble maker he stopped and without any preamble swept the man’s legs out from under him. With a yell the guard toppled, crashing into another table. He lay stunned as the people jeered at him and laughed, stamping their feet. Altair had turned away to hide his own smile. Tired as he’d been, Etienne’s no nonsense handling of the man had amused him. He was blunt as so many soldiers often were. The guard had been dumped out the door and left to come to on his own. The incident had been the talk of the nearby district for a week.

Altair chuckled at the memory as he approached the bed on which his packed bags lay. He reached into a side pocket to bring out a long thin wooden box with a carved lid. The symbol of the Assassins, the teardrop shape, was raised on the lid. His humour faded as he gazed at the sign. His thumbs traced it, feeling the texture of the cypress wood. He flicked the lid open. On a blue cushioning lay an even more terrible symbol of the Assassins than the Hidden Blade: the Assassin Death Marker. Each Assassin Brother had one made for him specifically. It would be his mark by which the victims and his Brothers would recognize an Assassin’s handiwork. For Altair, it was an eagle’s feather. To prove a successful completion of the task he’d been set, he had to cover this Marker in his victim’s blood. He carefully took it out. He looked at the Marker. So harmless-seeming. Just a feather. An ordinary one from an eagle’s wing. And yet its presence anywhere sent fear into their foes. His Marker had destroyed men’s minds with dread of his coming. Now Rheims was about to be equally disturbed. This was as close to home as the Assassins had ever struck before.

Altair went down to the common area where Etienne joined him at table for breakfast. The Assassin had made it his custom to eat light before a mission: a little hunger sharpened the senses. He had a few small cakes and water as he took note of the custom this early. No trouble makers this time. The common room was full and the mood was festive. No one was ordering ale he noted. This being a holy day such was forbidden. The hot dishes on the other hand were flying out of the kitchen: soup, porridge, meat. The smells that his nose picked were a mixture of sweet and sour: honey and spices. He watched the happy faces of the people. They had no idea what was about to occur in their cold northern city. They laughed and joked. The holiday greetings were heard all around from friend and stranger alike. Even Etienne shared in this festive air. He broached a new honey pot and spread it all around as a goodwill gesture. The people cheered him as they put it into their porridge to sweeten it or over bread. This day, when Christ the Saviour had been born, was a good day to be alive on.

Altair’s thoughts were far away. He was thoughtful but not distracted with all the cheer around him. He was in no mood for joy. No doubt the Archbishop was patiently preparing for his duties at the Cathedral, all unknowing that an Assassin was after him. he might know, Altair thought, if Robert de Sable had informed him. Only the city guard and the Templars would know that somewhere in their domain, a dangerous beast was loose. He expected the Cathedral to be heavily guarded inside and out. The heavy guard presence would be enough to tell the Archbishop that the white-robed man he’d seen a week ago could make an appearance. However, he had declared publicly that he was ready to perform his duties this Christmas day. God would look out for him. He was brave, the Assassin gave him that much. He was not so sure about divine interference. The Franks seemed to think Allah was some invincible father who’d help them anytime they were in trouble, he thought, chewing a piece of freshly baked honey cake. The Assassin knew better. From the likes of him, there was no deliverance by human or divine agency. The Assassins were relentless in their pursuit of the victim. Nothing and no one could be allowed to stand in their way. And if they did, they too went to their Maker whoever that happened to be. One’s religion was no protection against an Assassin Hidden Blade. It could strike from anywhere at any time. Robert de Sable surely knew this and had taken precautions. Altair expected the Templar soldiers to be present in the Cathedral as well as in adjacent buildings. The Christmas Mass would be the single largest event in the city this month. Robert would need to ensure that no one in position of power died or his ambition of becoming the Grand Master of the Templars could be jeopardized. If he proved unable to save an Archbishop, could he be trusted with the safety of a whole Church Order?

Altair finished his meal and got up to go. Etienne came up to him as he reached the door. “Altair?”

The Assassin turned. In his friend’s face was an uncertainty that he had not seen before. Etienne seemed so solid, so ensured of his identity and place. He wants to ask the final question, Altair surmised. He kept still as Etienne nerved himself up.

“Are you sure… you have to do this?” His eyes pled for a comforting lie. The Assassin wished he could give him one. He had no choice. His mission was set, and he would see it through. Altair believed in its necessity and his skill. All doubt had been left behind this morning when he’d got up. Altair sighed heavily. The Creed was unforgiving. More so than al Mualim would be if he happened to fail. He would not.

“I am,” the Assassin turned to the door. “I’ll see you tonight, friend.” He did not see Etienne’s hand lifted in farewell as the tavern door closed behind him.


No one saw a white shape flit from roof to roof over their heads. The citizens were too busy celebrating. They walked about in families watching morality plays put on by the monks of the local churches. There were processions of Host-bearing priests through the streets. Many churches were full of praying people. The bells rang. The children laughed at the capering of the dolls on the make-shift stages telling stories out of the Franks’ Holy Book. The adults shared in the joy. Street vendors called out hot pastries and sweetmeats. They had a lot of buyers that day. The only people not smiling or cheering were the patrolling city guards and Templar soldiers who prowled the city in packs. They looked into every side street and back alley. They stopped anyone who seemed the least bit out of place, often harassing otherwise-innocent citizens who shouted indignantly. The soldiers even entered churches full of people at service. They were not chased out, however, as they were armed. Everyone stared at them silently and in fear until they left.
Altair was aware of all this and skirted the patrols as much as he could. Not one looked up. He moved carefully over the top of the city. The snow had not been cleaned and was up to his ankles in places. He tried to jump over narrow crossings and avoid big avenues as there was more chance of being noticed. He kept to the higher roofs, checking the depth of snow with his eyes beforehand. He tried to keep away from chimneys as moving smoke would have given him away. He was starting to sweat by the time the Cathedral’s steeple came into view. He’d dressed warmly but did not burden  himself with layers. He was planning on being in motion most of the time. The less he wore the quicker he’d be able to cover distances. He stood on a warehouse roof a few streets over and scanned the rooftops nearby on this side. There were no tall buildings to obstruct his view. He saw archers pacing and watching the square in front of the Cathedral. The Assassin moved to the edge of the roof he was standing on and peered over the edge. There were more patrols here than elsewhere. There are bound to be more in the immediate vicinity of the Cathedral, Altair surmised.

He’d have to be especially careful in getting down to the ground. Once there he’d have no problem becoming one with the crowd. Allah knew it was thick enough. He walked to the other side of the roof, snow settling and crunching under his feet. There was a small space to jump down between this and the next building. He listened to the noise in the streets. He’d found that the presence of the guards excited protests and curses. There were not any on either side. He grabbed the edge of the roof and dropped down. He landed with hands splayed on the ground, legs wide. Altair straightened, gazing from side to side. The celebration of this important holiday was in full swing. No one had marked him. Good, the Assassin nodded to himself.

He pulled the hood further forward to conceal his face a little more. He mingled with the people thronging the street, weaving his way through. In this densely packed street he was not likely to be remarked on unless he pushed someone or his face was recognized. That last was unlikely: there were many faces in this mass that could seem familiar. Nonetheless, the Assassin kept his head down. This was not a day or place to take unnecessary novice risks.

His way to the Cathedral proved uneventful. He emerged onto the square unremarked. The entire space before and to the sides of the Cathedral of Notre Dame was filled with people. They were kneeling in the snow, murmuring prayers as the black-robed priest on the porch of the decked out Cathedral led them in the Christmas service. Some crossed themselves. Tapestries with the scenes from the Frankish Book, hung from the sides of the porch roof, fluttered in the wind. They were colourful like the stained glass in the windows of the Cathedral. Frankish churches, Altair had found, told the Holy stories by pictures since most Franks were illiterate. The Assassin had often wondered why this was so. In the Holy Land many could afford to send their children to a madrasah – a school attached to a mosque – to receive at least the rudimentary reading and writing skills. At Masyaf all novices were taught literacy extensively. More than that, they learned other languages so as to acclimate better to any alien culture. He guessed that the Franks’ arrogance led them to disregard higher learning. Why learn when Allah could provide for you and bring you glory? The nobles here were just as illiterate as their peasants. They subscribed to the idea that books clouded one’s warrior instincts. And yet, Altair had thought, here he was, a perfect example to contradict that condescending attitude. His knowledge of books only sharpened his instincts, allowed him to see others better, to understand their motives and desires. Once he had that, he could move in for the kill.

Avoiding attention was fairly easy here. The patrolling guards were at that moment on the other side of the Cathedral and so he had no fear that he’d be noted. The citizens’ attention was riveted on the priest and Allah. All he had to do was walk around the periphery of the crowd. He made for the bell-tower entrance located beside the huge entryway to the Cathedral. He’d brought his lock-picking instruments he never went anywhere without. They were not necessary on this occasion. Since the bell-tower was occupied, there was no need to keep it closed. This was a holiday and no danger was expected despite the patrols in the city. The citizens did not seem too worried about what might or might not happen with regard to the Assassin who was still out there somewhere.

The bells pealed out the welcoming dirge as the Prophet Isa was welcomed into this world. The belfry door was slightly ajar. Altair walked in, leaving it to as it had been. He stamped the snow off his boots. That’d be a trail but there was nothing to be done about it. Hopefully, no one, not even the bell-ringer, would come down here any time soon. There was another door across from him. From behind it he could hear a muted heavy sound of voices. It seemed like singing. He listened closer, stepping up to the door and pushing it slightly. Latin reached his ears. By the sonorous quality he guessed the choir on either side of the pews was singing Psalms. All he could see were people’s backs covered in cloaks and surcoats and fur against the cold air. Candles were lit all around the interior: on stands along the pews, held in citizens’ hands, on the ceiling chandeliers. He smelled wax. A rich Cathedral then. The Frankish Church did not seem to deny itself the worldly pleasures it preached against. He only had to look at the vestments worn by the highest clergy and the buildings they built to honour Allah.

The Assassin opened the door wider and slipped in. No one heard or even turned in his direction. All the people seemed to be in a trance. As if in touch with a higher power through the sound of the Latin prayer, he thought. He stood for some time taking stock of the situation. His height allowed him to see over the other’s heads, although there were a few who were equally tall. He saw fur hats and collars of rich robes at the front. Jewelry worn by the nobles and dignitaries at the front flashed in the candle-light. The further one got from the altar the poorer the attire got.  

The Assassin espied the Archbishop clad in shining gold vestments performing the Mass. His back was to the crowd as he lifted his hands before the carved Christ and intoned a Latin prayer. The congregation crossed themselves. Altair ducked his head slightly as the Archbishop faced the crowd. He began a long series of prayers addressing the people packed into every crevice they could find. Cold air blew through the open doors and the sounds of the services outside carried in dimly.

He turned to the aisle left between the parishioners and the choir. As he moved along, he mimicked the gestures of the people about him: knelt when they did, crossed as they did, and murmured prayers when they did. The Assassin moved slowly. Any running would be noticed in a place like this where one was supposed to contemplate the Creator. He passed many wooden and stone statues in alcoves: saints, the Virgin and others from the Frankish Holy Book. Their expressions seemed dull to the Assassin as they stared into space as if unseeing. Or perhaps they saw something which deadened their senses to all else. The folds of their robes were too straight. It seemed that even a light breeze would not stir them. The air was cold aided by the open doors. The citizens’ breaths misted the air and the candlelight made it shimmer as if alive.

As he passed he noted that some wore weapons due to the anxiety surrounding the presence of an Assassin in the city. Usually, he knew, such was not allowed. The Cathedral was a house of peace, and the men who tended it taught of poverty and self-sacrifice, not violence. But he’d noted that many a noble disregarded that rule. In the anxious times of baron wars to walk about anywhere unarmed was asking for trouble. He was not the only assassin on the prowl in this city.

And speaking of trouble. Was that pristine white mantle what he thought it was? Altair stopped for a moment as his eyes caught a glimpse of mail and a white cloak. A bald head with scars. Robert de Sable was watching the Archbishop intently but Altair did not think his thoughts were pious. No, this man’s mind would be full of the Assassin that had escaped him. Where had he come from? Who was he here to kill? What was his name? Who was his master? These and many other questions undoubtedly kept him occupied. Altair’s gaze swept on. There were more Templars, ten at least. From their raiment he could tell they were the same men he’d seen two days ago when he’d gotten Abbas out of their clutches. All were armed. They were ready for trouble here. He had to take even more care now. He began looking for an opening in the press of people as he was pretty close to the altar. His every sense tingled with anticipation. His concentration was absolute. He was the Blade of Fate. He was the Eagle of Masyaf. No matter this Templar complication he would carry his mission through. Not even death could stop him now. Not even any God.

Gently pushing people or even sliding by he got to within two rows of the Archbishop, eyes on the Templars. They still had not seen him. Good. The crowd about him was glassy eyed: the Mass was a long affair and even the most devout of them were getting tired and restless. The children whimpered and whispers carried from the back. There were a few yawns. No one at the front showed any signs of restlessness. They were very important dignitaries and did not behave like the common people. They had an example to set in good manners. No one bothered him. He released the Hidden Blade as his gaze hit the Archbishop whose back was turned. He’d just blessed the wine for communion and was about to set the golden gem-studded chalice down. Altair moved forward.

All anyone saw that day was a flash of white out of the crowd. They never knew even months afterwards what happened exactly. All anyone was sure of was a huge white-clad spirit – or an angel? – appear out of nowhere. A ghost like figure flew out of the crowd, between rich merchant and a count, and straight for the Archbishop who’d only began to turn to begin communion. He never had a chance. Altair crashed into him and bore him to the altar. The Archbishop had no time to offer a final prayer as the Hidden Blade ended his long life. All he saw were the merciless eyes of the young Assassin above. Black, dead. No expression. They watched the life go out of the old man. Amaury the Archbishop who’d sought to help his friend the King into a Crusade died in the Cathedral he’d loved all his life. He’d crowned the King here some years back. They’d been friends for years. Now the King would be alone with all the sycophantic courtiers and nobles of the court. Who’d guide him? Who’d offer spiritual guidance? The chamberlains at the court were useless. There was no one now. But now all that did not matter did it? The Angel of Death that the people had been talking about here for a week at least had finally come for his soul. He sighed. He’d left much undone but let others carry on as they would his work. He smiled as his spirit departed his body.


Altair withdrew the Blade in complete silence. He reached into his belt and withdrew the feather. He swiped it across the Archbishop’s throat that was spurting blood all over his white-gold chasuble. He’d watched as the Archbishop’s eyes glazed over in death. He gave one choked sign and died. Altair gently lowered his body to the altar and closed his glassy eyes. As he put the Marker away, pandemonium began.

He heard screams and wails. As the Assassin turned to assess the panic level, he saw a crush at the wide doors of the Cathedral. He could not go out that way. The bell-tower then. He’d have to run along the choir where the singer monks were standing thunderstruck and paralysed. Then as he moved in their direction, they scuttled for the vestry door and into the crowd as well. He heard Robert de Sable shout, “That’s the Assassin! Kill him, men!” as he got his sword out and tried to break through the press of the completely frightened sheep who trampled each other regardless of rank. Some were smothered in the rush at the door. The din was unbelievable.

Altair took all this in with one glance. Then he sprinted for the choir benches and along them back to the belfry door. Some candelabras had fallen on the flagstone floor. They smoked. The smell of wax was very strong. He reached the door and, without looking back, was through it and up the winding staircase to the bell chamber itself. It was open to the air. The bells were of several sizes, from small to a behemoth. The pulling ropes were strung all around the chamber, going from bell to wall and connecting the bells to each other. The bell-ringer was startled to find an intruder but could not deal with him as he was tied with the bell ropes to keep from losing balance as he rang them. Altair ignored him and walked to the edge of the belfry floor. He was recovering his breath: in through the nose, out by the mouth. The archers on the roofs were alert now. They’d seen the crowd rush out of the Cathedral. He’d have to avoid them if possible. An arrow now would do him no favours.

He became aware of noise on the stairs. The sound of mailed steps, shouts and clang of weapons. Templars. And the city guard possibly as well. No time to lose then. He did not mind fighting but against such skilled opponents as he knew the religious Orders to be… battle was for a desperate last stand. If he were cornered with no way out. But for an Assassin of his talents there always was a way out. Taking no notice of the bell-ringers cries to the Templars he’d too had heard, the Assassin jumped from the belfry to the sloped roof of the Cathedral. He landed on crunching shingles and ran lightly across to the back side. He peered over to see if there were a lot of handholds. Just as he was about to go over he heard, “There! Shoot him!” Archers! He dropped, grabbed the edge of the roof and quickly reached down to the top of the window with his left hand, his left foot on part of the metal mesh that made up the glass stained window. Arrows flew overhead but none touched him. He fell the last few feet and sprinted into the maze of streets. The gate. He needed to reach it and be out before the alarm caused the gates to close. He turned a corner of the first street he came to and ran head on into a Templar troop. He stopped so suddenly he almost overbalanced. There was a moment of surprise and then swords hissed out. Altair had no choice but to face them. He could not go over the roofs now: too many archers. There was no time to climb either: the Templars were too close. They’d cut his legs out.

The Assassin drew his own weapon. It was a slightly curved saber with a gold plated hilt and guard. He took up a defensive stance. No point in wasting his energy. He still had half a city to run through.

One of the Templars sneered. “Oh, look here…,” he drawled from the back of the group. “He means to face us, the heathen.”

The rest of his comrades grinned and rushed Altair as one. He dodge the first one to reach him, backed against a wall and kicked out catching the man in the side. With a grunt the Templar slammed into his colleague, his balance lost. The Assassin was onto the second line now. He blocked an overhead swing meant to take his head off with a one-armed block. But before he could counter he felt a swish near his right ear as another blade passed. Instinctively he ducked. When he came up again he was surrounded on all sides. His opponents were smelling easy victory now.

“Give up, Assassin. You’re finished.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the Assassin saw some city guards joining the fray as they noted the naked steel in the alley. He realized the swing that he’d ducked had been a feint. He’d fallen into a trap. He had to fight his way out by frontal assault. A defensive stance was useless. There was not the time for it. Robert and his well-trained knights would be here any minute. The Hidden Blade hissed out.
Altair feinted at one of the men directly in front of him. As the man’s sword came up to stop his attack, the Assassin twisted coming up behind another Templar and ramming the Blade into the small of the man’s back. The Templar stiffened like a wooden board as his spine loosened. He fell twitching, his white surcoat stained red. The soldiers looked startled. That was all the time Altair needed. He ran another Templar through, heaving on the sword to cause more damage in the belly. The man toppled gaping open mouthed. He was dead before hitting the ground. The Assassin kept going. He ran the Hidden Blade through another’s head, up by the chin, and then threw him aside into his comrades.

The Templars, angry now after losing so many to one man’s blade, rushed him again. He met them squarely. He gave a little ground at a time, allowing himself to be pushed back out into the street. He’d have more chance of disengaging there and reaching the gate. Over the Templars’ heads he saw more of them coming.
Suddenly his hand snatched one of the Templar soliders by his coat and yanked him forward. Altair turned carrying his momentum forward. He pulled the man after him, flinging him into the city guard. In the ensuing confusion he leaped over the bodies on the ground, pushing aside any man in his way. As he ran out into the street he sheathed his long sword, red to the hilt. The upper part of his robes had droplets of blood on it. He paid it no attention. But the people on the street did. When they saw a man leap out of an alley with a dripping sword in his hand, they ran, spreading the panic even wider around the city. Altair’s task was easier this way as a corridor opened to another street. Yet another patrol hailed him as he made it across to another alley. He never stopped. The Templars would sort themselves out eventually, and he planned on being far away by the time they gave chase again. He found a ladder going up to the roof of a warehouse. Once there he quickly took stock of the situation. There were screams and shouts below him on all sides. An arrow flew by not five feet away. The archers could still see him and pointed him out to the ones on the ground as he watched. Choosing the narrower gaps between buildings to leap over, he worked his way towards the gate, head on a swivel for more rooftop archers. In the more populated or important areas arrow fire followed him constantly. He avoided such places as much as he could. He kept to the top of the city to slip by the ground patrols. None here could follow him on the roofs unless there was a ladder or a roof door.
He skirted the Chapter House and the Fair as those places were sure to be heavily guarded against him. No use in courting trouble. The gates were sure to be locked now and guarded by archers and soldiers. The alarm bells would have warned them by now. So the city wall was all that remained to him. The men up there would not expect anyone to be brash or foolish enough to climb right down their throats. Such a move was suicidal in their thinking. That was his advantage. They would be surprised and hesitate. His move would have to come then. He had no idea what it would be. Improvisation was his game, although he liked to have a back up plan. In this case, creativity was his best option since his presence had been known for a week courtesy of Abbas. He knew that Abbas would not change. Threatening him had been a waste of time but Altair had finally reached the limit of his patience. The man had to be taught a lesson.

Altair landed on a synagogue roof with a grunt. The Jewish quarter. Every Frankish city of significance had one. Such places were usually quieter than the rest of the city. The Jews went about their business quietly so as not to attract attention of their Frankish neighbours. These people, Altair had found, had the skill of blending in elevated to an art form. He looked around at the other roofs. No one had climbed up after him. No Frankish soldier or citizen would willingly enter the Jewish quarter. Today they had reason though, and Robert de Sable might simply demand entrance and be granted it. He was the Master of the Templar Order in Champagne and so had the necessary authority.

All of a sudden he heard hoof beats on the paved street behind him. The Assassin knew who they belonged to. The Templars had mounted. These would be knights. He was no match for them on foot, no matter his skill. They would be heavily armed and carry shields so his knives were useless. There were loud shouts as the gates to the Jewish quarter were broken, then screams as Jews were trampled. Altair shrank against the dome of the synagogue. The Jews were not allowed to build anything higher than a Frankish church would be. There was a small open space all around the building except where he’d jumped from the quarter wall. The religious temple abutted the wall. He slid forward to peer over the edge carefully. He’d been right. These were Templar knights. Their horses wore the Templar insignia as did their masters. They had foot troops and crossbowmen with them. He was aware all these soldiers were well trained. A crossbow might be slow but its hitting power especially at close range could prove lethal to someone without thick armour and even then the bolt might go through and kill.

Concealing himself was out of the question. The Templars meant to search every nook and cranny for him now. This was getting more and more serious. More dangerous. As the Templars milled and orders were issued, there was a cry from the wall to his left, “There! The Assassin bastard’s up here!” An archer had seen him. The arrow a moment later that bounced off the stone dome an inch from his face confirmed it. Altair, rested a little, jumped back to the wall and ran along it deeper into the city as arrows and crossbow bolts came from below and behind him. He did not stop or slow down in his half-bent pose. He heard the clatter of horses after him and now around him too. Ah, they were spreading out now, hoping to catch him in a net.

The Assassin came to a roof above a very narrow empty street. That instantly made him suspicious. There was not a soul here: not a citizen, not a beggar or thief, not a Templar. A perfect place to hide. A perfect place for an ambush. No animals. Only birds chirped. A quick inspection showed no ladders. Nor had he seen any on his way here. Altair could just make out the gate towers some half a mile away. He moved to leap across and continue. That probably saved his life that day. Something collided with his left shoulder, staggering him a little. He could not suppress a little cry of pain. Turning he saw Robert de Sable standing on the roof behind him. How the man had got here the Assassin did not know. Nor did it matter as the man was moving towards him preparing to leap over the gap separating them. He was grinning in anticipation.

Altair ran and leapt, disregarding the stabs of pain in his shoulder. He realized his Hidden Blade was useless now. Even were he to try and kill Robert, his men would eventually swarm him under. As he landed on roof opposite, Templar soldiers accompanied by the city guard sprang up all around him. They had been herding him! The thought hit him like a Hidden Blade. The Templars had this set up in advance. No doubt to catch him after he’d rescued Abbas. That had failed so they had patiently waited for him to make his next move. His assassination had been all the bait they’d given. Robert de Sable had sacrificed an Archbishop to catch an Assassin. Allah, the man was devious and cruel if he’d allow a man of God to die for his goals! If he got out of this Altair knew he’d have to tell al Mualim about this man. For now Robert had an excuse to urge a Crusade and wreak vengeance on the Assassins. His ambition of becoming Grand Master of the Templars had all but been assured by Altair’s actions.

All this ran through his mind as he stood facing more men than he’d ever thought to. As Robert pushed his way through to confront him, Altair withdrew the knife with one jerk, grimacing at the flare of fresh pain. More blood stained his white robes. It was his own knife, the one he’d thrown to kill the Marshal. The one he’d forgotten about. The sleek blade was covered with his own life blood now. He thrust it back into its place and bared his sword, wincing at the pain.

“It is pointless to fight, Assassin,” Robert said in his deep menacing voice. All his men had weapons out. The crossbowmen had Altair’s chest in sights. “You will die in any case. Executed for murdering the Archbishop of Rheims.”

Altair stared at him levelly. He had no fear of death. He was an Assassin. He’d been taught not to fear the unknown. He’d relied on his skill more than luck to get him out of tight places before. He was Altair ibn La-Ahad and he would not die here. Robert smiled as if reading his thoughts.

“Very well, Assassin,” he turned to his men. “Kill him then.”

Three of the Templar sergeants ran at him from different angles. One began a slow overhead swing. Another went for a quick swipe at his head. The third came from behind him. Altair was aware of all. He waited till all three were committed to their actions. Then whirled, robes flying out, and ran his saber through the one who’d decided to back stab him. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and horror. He gurgled as Altair withdrew his blade and met the blade of the strong attack. His arm did not bend even a bit as the stroke landed on his blade instead of his head or chest. The Assassin pushed the Templar back and dodged the second man. Now two more joined the fray. Soon four corpses lay around the Assassin. More Templars came on egged on by Robert who did not like what he was seeing. The Assassin should have been dead by now. He was wounded and alone. Yet still he tenaciously refused to give in. While the Master of the Templars admired his skill and courage, he knew this could not last. The damage would begin to tell. He’d grow weaker. So why not surrender now, Assassin? he thought. What did the man hope to gain? The Master of the Order of the Knights of Solomon continued to watch the Assassin tire himself more. The swings and blows of his sword were becoming slower and weaker. The blade of the sabre such as Robert had seen the Saracens use was coated with blood all the way to the man’s hand. It cut by luck more than edge. Still Robert de Sable observed. His men were dying, the snow beneath then red with blood and steaming with new bloodshed, but he had more. He would keep throwing more at him. The Assassin was bound to die sooner or later.

Altair sheathed his sword in the lull in the fight. He could have run at that moment. But something held him. Some feeling inside, some vestige of his Eagle spirit refused to quit. Winning this bout was out of the question. His left arm was numb and black circles appeared from time to time before his vision. His right arm, though hard as a rock, shook a little. There was not much time before it gave out completely. All common sense told him to survive and live another day. He was a lone man against how many? Thirty? Forty Templars? His foes multiplied as the sounds of the combat brought them here to see what the matter was.
He would not be defeated he decided. A mad idea he knew. He took pride in his combat skills. He’d let himself be chased here to this plight. So he’d showcase his mastery to these Franks who thought him easily overmatched. The deed had been done. His death would not break any of the tenets. He bore no incriminating letters.

As he reached for his Short Blade, Etienne’s face came to his mind. His friend was waiting for him anxiously in that little hut, cold and alone. He’d have a horse and food for his Assassin friend. He had most likely heard the sounds of panic in the city if he’d made it out before the alarm went off. He’d see the gates shut. He’d know his friend was trapped. Would he try to save him? If Altair knew his man, he would. And walk straight into danger. He’d die by accident: either trampled by the Templar knights who were disregarding everyone in their rush to get at him or crushed by the crowds running and stumbling about. Maybe some thief would take his opportunity to knife him for some trinket or other that he carried. Could Altair let the man die after all he’d done for him? In his befuddled mind, the first tenet repeated itself, the words burning his soul like salt in a wound. Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. And on the heels of that the heaviest duty of all: Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted. The Assassin could not permit himself to indulge his own fancy pride at the expense of his friend’s life.

Having made his decision, Altair acted. He had never been one for long reflection once the choice’d been made. He stepped back quickly and before anyone could react slashed a Templar’s throat with his Blade and cast him into the midst of his enemies. While confusion reigned, he ran for it, putting the Blade back in its place. He was ever more careful now as loss of blood and the fight fatigue began to tell. One misstep and he doubted he’d get up again. He pushed his body and mind to the limit. The Templars roared after him. Their cries carried clearly to him up here. He had to lose them for a moment to reach the gates.

He took to the streets at the first opportunity, twisting and turning, hoping to break their line on him. The Assassin panted with every breath he took. His legs burned, his lungs screeched for water. Sweat and blood mingled under his clothes into a wet mass that ran down to his wrist and side. He could not stop, dared not take a rest. He shook his head to clear it of cobwebs. This was the wrong time to give in to the wish to sit or lie down. His body was protesting his treatment of it. The Assassin’s self-control was iron though. He’d not trained for nothing. Being an Assassin was his life, and he relished every moment. To some that seemed like self-importance and affectation. He knew better. Even such times as these when his life hang by a thread he was full of energy and spark. He’d always felt more alive then. But now he had an added incentive: his friend’s life was probably at stake. He had no right to take it, indirectly as it might be.

Issuing into the open near the gates he did let himself have a small rest. He recovered his breath some near an abandoned but empty snow-filled cart. He leaned on it. He searched for a place to climb. Despite his left arm that was his only option. The gate as he’d expected was shut, and the city guard had a strong presence. The city wall then. He looked for the tallest building adjacent to the wall. There was a customs house to his left. Three stories at least. Made of stone. So far as he could tell there were no taller buildings. He began walking as the citizens shied like frightened horses from his appearance, blood covered as he was. Taking no account of their reaction, his one thought was to get up onto that building. He’d be seen of course and recognized. He licked his dry lips. They won’t catch me, Altair thought. Not now. Not ever.

The shouts behind him announced the arrival of Robert and his men. He was not far away now. Running up the wall under the startled gazes of the populace he slithered up the wall finding hand- and foot-holds in the badly mortared stone bricks. He gritted his teeth as his left shoulder screamed at being used. Dizziness set in. NO, he told himself sternly, now is not the best time for falling asleep.
Crossbow bolts skidded off the wall about him bringing his mind back to wakefulness. The Assassin was almost there. A drainpipe was in his way and then the sloping roof of the customs house. With a last mighty effort, paying no heed to the sounds below him, he flung himself up with a roar of rage and pain. His right hand grabbed the pipe. The injured left joined it. His legs came up to support him, soles against the wall. He was acting on instinct. He’d done so much crawling up sides of buildings and castles over the years that this was second nature. He did it absent-mindedly. It left his mind free to focus on his next move. He was up and over the lip of the roof. He lay for a moment gathering his strength for a last effort. Altair stood up slowly and faced the wall. Here it did not reach much above his height. All he’d need is a good head start.

“The Assassin is here!”

That cry galvanized him, gave him wings. Arrows whizzed by his head as he ran and leapt for the wall. He caught the edge and hauled himself up as the surprised archer took a step back. Getting to his feet he moved towards the edge of the wall. The archer warned him not to be a fool. Altair stood silently a few moments gazing out at the snow covered land outside the city. The village was on his right. Etienne had to be there. More archers had heard the one man’s warning and were congregating on him, arrows on bows. They were careful to tread slowly. As if he were some dangerous animal that could bite when least expected. Perhaps he could, he smiled grimly.

The toes of his boots cleared the edge of the wall. One of the men behind him cried out in alarm. He flew out and over the whiteness of the land. The Assassin soared as the Eagle in his dream weeks ago had done. Altair had been that Eagle’s name. The bird had been the man. He felt the cold air bear him up, rush past his face. He’d made a leap of faith.


The archers stared in amazement and stupefaction at the place where he’d stood but a blink earlier. Their mouths hang open. THAT had been the last thing they’d expected. There were murmurs.

“He just…”

“Lord Almighty…!” someone breathed.

“He can’t be alive…”

Some braver than the rest approached the spot the Assassin’d been. No matter how much they looked they could not see him. He wore white like the snow. Moreover, it was a full hundred feet down. No one could survive a leap like that.
Their thoughts and wonderings were interrupted by the arrival of the Master of the Templar Order who demanded to know where the Assassin was. No one spoke for some time. And when the Master finally barked out a command to know where the goddamn man was, someone pointed over the wall. Robert was stunned.

“He jumped?”

The archer swallowed. Addressing nobility was always a hard task. This one was angry nobility. He managed, “Yes, my lord.”

“He can’t have come out alive, sir,” another ventured.

Robert walked to the edge. He scanned the snow and the snow-bound fields about. He’d have to search the entire area on horseback. The man was wounded. He can’t have gotten far… unless he had associates. In which case they too would die. Obviously it had to be one inside the city. A heretic then. Or heretics. Robert strongly suspected the Assassin had more than one accomplice. That man he’d rescued undoubtedly was one. Else why risk his life to go down into the maw of the beast as he had done by sneaking into the Chapter House? As for the others, they had betrayed their religion. To aid a heathen Assassin. He swore then and there to bring the Assassins to ruin. And especially their Master, al Mualim who had cause him and his brothers much grief. The apostate. The traitor. He would find him and the Assassin. Whatever it took. That Assassin would pay for his actions. Al Mualim would pay for his treachery. They would all pay. They would all come to know and fear the name of Robert de Sable, the Master of the Templar Order.

Epilogue

Masyaf, Spring 1188 CE

Three months later, a lone weary rider approached the watch post at the five-mile mark to Masyaf. He wore dirty white robes, tattered, and splashed with what appeared to be dirt at first glance but on closer inspection proved to be blood. His bay horse was just as blown as its rider. The lone guard up high in the tower saw him and gave the alarm. The wooden gate of the tower wall opened and some moments later a party on horseback came out to meet the rider. Among them was Rauf. He had been sent by an anxious al Mualim to be on a lookout for Altair who’d sent no bird for three weeks now. He’d written of his arrival in Aleppo. That was the last they’d heard of him. Rauf had not the slightest doubt that this bent figure was the Eagle Assassin come home. What had happened to him?

Altair straightend in the saddle. He was tired and sore. His shoulder had reopened as he’d ridden here. He feared it was infected. Etienne had healed it as best he could. But he was dead now. The Templar ambush had seen to that at least. He should have been more careful. Expect the unexpected. He’d forgotten that lesson, drubbed into him by al Mualim himself. And his friend had paid for it with his life. For all his precautions, word of them had reached the Templars here before they’d made port at Aleppo. The Templars had been waiting. Altair had been so glad to set foot once more on familiar shores that he’d forgotten that for his ilk, the Assassins, danger was everywhere, even at home. They had been surrounded by a group of Templar knights as they rode out of Aleppo on a stony path a mile from the city. He’d known then that they’d not let the two travelers pass. They had fought and bravely. But Altair had still not fully recovered. His strength was not all there. The Templars were heavily armed. He saw Etienne die before he’d had time to save him from the sword stroke that plunged into his heart and killed him on the spot. He’d been dead before hitting the ground. Because Altair’s attention had been diverted, a Templar sword hit his shoulder tearing the tender new skin and going deep. He did not remember fighting his way out as rage overcame him. All he saw in his mind’s eye were the snarling faces of the knights as he mowed them down. He’d become Death unleashed. They had run eventually.

Sick at heart he’d buried Etienne as best he could under a pile of rocks. He’d taken the food they’d bought just an hour ago to last them well to Masyaf. He’d left the horse by its master’s grave. He’d ridden away, blooded and hurt deeply. His friend was dead. Because he, the Assassin, had not paid attention, had let emotion cloud his judgment.  They had searched for him as the enemies always did. And just as it happened all the time they could not find him. He was good at concealing himself and his tracks. Gradually, he’d made his way to the mountains and Masyaf.
Rauf wanted him off the horse and in a bed as soon as he’d seen his condition. Altair snarled wearily that he did not need a mother hen just now. He would ride on and report to al Mualim. After which he’d take all the rest he’d need. Rauf could smother him in care then if he wanted to. He could tell he’d hurt his friend. He’d have to apologize later. Right now he wanted to hand the Marker to al Mualim. As if getting rid of it could clear his conscience. He touched the heels of his boots to the horses’ flanks and pushed on. He knew Rauf would follow at a distance, thinking Altair would not feel him there. Let him do so if he would.

Altair rode through the village below Masyaf as the sun went down over the mountains. The villagers were long in their homes with cheery fires and cooking going on. He could smell and see life go on around him. The streets were empty. No guards, except those at the gate. They’d taken one look at his face and stayed put. He’d announce himself. The winding street took him up to the fortress itself. He looked at it in the sun’s last rays. His home, hewn out of bare rock. The Eagles’ Nest it was called in the lands about. For the fortress and its inhabitants lived here like eagles in an eyrie: high up and inaccessible save to those who knew the way like he did.

Al Mualim would undoubtedly be up and pacing the library. Waiting impatiently for news of him. A slow smile, the first one since Etienne died, made itself known to his tired brain. That man was like his father. He’d taught him, shaped him, punished him if necessary. Altair was his best student. He knew it. The Master knew it. The Assassin did question his Master at times but such was his Assassin nature. To carry out his mission better, he needed information and guidance which al Mualim had access to. He spurred his horse forward all the way up to the entrance. There were Brothers waiting by the doors. As he came into view they came down. He dismounted before they’d reached him. He must not show weakness now.

One of the Brothers bowed respectfully as per his rank as Master Assassin.

“Dai, welcome. The Master waits for you.”

Altair nodded and moved on up past the training ring. The entrance chamber was lit with torches and lamps that smoked. The central staircase that led to the Garden was lit from the chandeliers on the ceiling. Two rows of Assassin Brothers stood at attention as he entered. He walked slowly. The ache in his shoulder was a dull one now. He’d gotten used to it over the past weeks. He shivered. Fever. Allah, this would take a time to heal. He had no doubt al Mualim would give him that time if necessary. The Master was no fool to push his Assassins past endurance. He’d know Altair had been through a lot this past half a year.

Altair went up the second set of stairs and along the gallery to his Master’s table near the huge window overlooking the courtyard. He saw the black clad old man pacing, arm behind his back. His face could not be read as he wore a black hood. Smiling slightly the young Assassin approached his elder. As he came into view, al Mualim turned to him almost as if he’d heard his steps. His grey eyes settled on Altair who bowed the Assassin’s bow.

“Master.”

“Altair,” the old man greeted him gravely. “Your mission, my son. Was it a success?”

Altiar nodded, reaching into his belt and showing the feather which he then laid on the Master’s table littered with papers and books as it always was. The Archbishop’s blood had dried on it and become brown.

“Indeed.”

Al Mualim smiled. Altair could not believe what he was seeing. His sick mind must be playing tricks. His Master never showed any emotion. He was always grave and collected. At least to Altair’s knowledge the Master never allowed a flicker of emotion. Sometimes he forgot that al Mualim was a man like any other. He had feelings too, albeit he’d learned to control and hide them should occasion require. As the Master of the Assassins with an awesome reputation to maintain feeling was a luxury to him.

Then al Mualim shocked Altair even more. He came forward and embraced him lightly, mindful of his injury. Then holding him out at arms’ length, he spoke,
“Welcome home, Altair. Go to your rest now.”

Man of few words, was al Mualim, Altair reflected as a Healer Brother washed his wounds in the privacy of his rooms. The Healer worked silently in dressing the shoulder. He prescribed a week’s rest and was most adamant that his patient not train before that and even then lightly. He forced a vile concoction down Altair’s throat to help him sleep. Any other time the Assassin would have refused such treatment but his mind and body were completely worn out and took over his will. He needed rest.

He dreamed as he had in Rheims of an eagle flying over the Cathedral. Then it flew higher to the blue sky and wheeled east into the rising sun. Towards Masyaf. His soul flew with the eagle. He saw with its eyes the lands it swept over. The seas and the rivers. The deserts and the green fields. All passed beneath his gaze. The land appeared to be at peace with itself. For the moment. Even in his dream, Altair knew that the Crusaders would be coming soon. If not this year, then the next. They had to be ready. They would be, he promised himself. For now, he would rest and gather his dissipated strength back. He would restore the Eagle to the Brotherhood. But he would remember his dead friend for all time as a lesson in overconfidence. His selfishness was not worth a man’s life. He’d carry that scar forever. In his dream, the Eagle let out a lonely sorrowful cry. In the waking world tears streamed down Altair’s face as the full import of his biggest mistake hit him. The Assassin cried himself to sleep as his soul traveled the regions beyond man’s reason. Not for the last time. However, he would recover Altair ibn La-Ahad the Assassin, the Blade of Fate, to strike once more if needed.