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Connor: The Stuff of Life

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He walked right into it. He grunted, confronted with five men. They were a hard faced sort, smudged skin and clothes. Their chins had not seen a razor in weeks, probably. Not that he was worried about their appearance. At least not in the hygienic sense. It was what they held in their hands that drew his attention. Pistols. Swords. One of them had a rifle but no bayonet. The long barrel was pointed at his chest.

With his feet in a wide stance, Connor stood, assessing. Retreat was still possible. He did not sense anything behind his back. He had never been one to fall back, however. Not from battle. Threats did not frighten him.

"And just where do you think you are going, friend?" one of the cutthroats asked, his dark eyes glinting dangerously.

Connor did not answer, just fixed him with a long hard stare. He held his hands carefully away from his weapons. Perhaps this was a mistake, possibly it was not him they really were waiting for. But then, he'd never believed in coincidence. There was a reason for everything.

"I asked you, friend," the rough-voiced man repeated, an edge of threat in his voice now. "where are you going?"

"I owe you no explanation," Connor said evenly. "So either let me pass or suffer the consequences."

"O ho," the unshaven man chuckled, glancing at his mates whose expressions were just as unyielding. They were street rabble, criminals who had not been caught yet. Probably would never be taken. "I see one of you and five of me. The odds seem to favour me."

Connor sighed. "You leave me no choice then."

The pistol cleared the holster faster than the cutthroats could react. One man flew backwards in a thunderous explosion that coloured his face a dark red. He hit the dirty pavement with a thud and did not move. His mates had no time to react since another dropped the rifle from his hands and was clawing at his throat. A knife hilt protruded from his Adam's apple. Slowly, he toppled, the whites of his eyes visible to all until his head hit the drying puddle of water from the recent rain.

Connor adjusted his stance back into the relaxed posture of five minutes before. He had hardly moved at all. The three remaining foes stood stupefied, looking about in disbelief. The rough voiced man was the first to recover. He glowered at Connor.

"I think," the big Indian said calmly. "the odds just changed."

With an inarticulate roar of rage the first man charged him, his mates following suit. A bullet whizzed by where Connor's head should have been. He'd side-slid to a stack of crates by the wall, carelessly built and so unstable. Using it as a platform he launched himself into the men's flank. They fell in a heap with Connor up first. His fist connected with a man's nose, breaking it. A cry of hurt, red wetness – and he was clear of them. He lunged up for the edge of an overhang and pulled himself up. Ignoring shouts from below he pushed in the first window he came to. A scream – a female this time – as he ran through the living room into a bedroom and then up the stairs to another suite of rooms. The woman was still screaming when he'd emerged on to the roof close by a smoking chimney. This was mid-October, a time of cold when the trees were mostly bare of yellow and red leaves.

Quickly he glanced around. He needed to lose them. He slid down along the shingles to the edge of the sloped roof and launched himself across to another, a higher one that allowed him a view of the nearby neighbourhood. A tall steeple beckoned in the distance. As good a choice as any.

The roof crackled under his mocassin boots. He leapt to a balcony below and then to a corner of another building. Holding on far above the people he crawled up the brickwork to a balustrade that ran all along the floor. The wide windows were shuttered – no one saw him. He heard no sign of pursuit but there appeared to be some lively activity down below. He paused to swig a drink from his waterskin and wiped his hand across his mouth.

Red Coats. A troop of them, muskets and bayonets. Moving with precision, with purpose, pushing people aside. As if looking for something, searching for someone. Connor swirled some of the water around his mouth and spat to the side. The sooner he disappeared, the better.

The Union Jack fluttered in the cold breeze off the ocean. The nights were bitterly cold – and getting worse. He grabbed the edge of the window ledge that led into the belfry. The huge bell hung silent, the ropes stretching down into the tower. A staircase spiralled its way down, part wood, part stone work. This was not a belfry. This was the town hall.
"So much for luck," he muttered. The city hall backed onto a tenement block with poorly made buildings, slums really. The poor lived in squalor, hunger, sickness. He had seen them, had helped a few. But he could do only so much. It was not right – few things were in this life.

He walked down the stairs. There would be back door to the city hall belfry. There usually was – the bell ringer was not wanted in the central chambers. At this hour of the day, he was not needed so the belfry was empty. The sturdy oak door gave easily when Connor pushed it open. None opposed him, none accosted him. As far as he could tell, he was in the clear.
He hopped a wall, landing onto a soft pile of refuse. Ignoring the rising smell, he moved off down the dank dark alley away from the centre of the city. He almost made it out of the slums. Almost. But not quite. His luck ran out at the docks where a troop of Red Coats spotted him. They had him cornered before he had time to react and make a dash for it. His back was to the ocean and the little fishing craft moored there, bobbing quietly on the waves. The fishermen were in the nearby taverns, drinking through the meagre stock of coins. He heard their bawdy songs. They provided a sense of unreality to the situation.

"Well well," the commanding officer crowed. "Look what the cat dragged in."

From behind him there came a sneering laugh. The deep voiced man pushed through the press of Red Coats and bowed mockingly.

"We meet again," he greeted Connor who regarded him coolly. The unshaven man held out something in his hand. The knife. Still covered in blood. "I have come to return something of yours." He let the knife drop to the cobbles. One of the Red Coats picked it out at a nod from his commander.

"Now now," the Red Coat in charge said. "No need to get nasty." He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. "Here," he said holding it out to the cutthroat leader. "Your reward for bringing us to this dangerous criminal. Now be off with you." He dismissed the cutthroats with a casual wave of his hand and turned back to study Connor. "You have a lot to answer for," he began. "I do hope we can be reasonable about this." He nodded to two of his men who stepped forward. Connor raised his head and levelled his penetrating stare at the two Red Coats. They froze for a moment in their tracks, uncertain, sensing his cold hostility.

"Slavery has nothing to do with reason," Connor said as the two Red Coats disarmed him. His hands were tied behind his back. He did not resist. Against twenty men… not likely. The Red Coat guard formed ranks around him and set out along the wide avenue towards the jailhouse near the temporary barracks. This was a new unit, as yet unestablished. They had to prove their worth. And what better way than by capturing a wanted man whose face had been plastered across half the city and the eastern colonies?

The people on the street barely glanced in their direction preferring to pretend to be engaged in their own business. A criminal's capture was not unusual, not here by the ocean. Only so much space to escape. He walked along, calm, collected, thinking. The cutthroats had been waiting for him. That much was obvious. There had been a recognition in their faces, a dark kind of knowledge. Someone had set them up to meet him. Had it been the renegade?

From what he knew, the renegade had retreated far to the outer fringes of the frontier. Gone to ground. No one knew where he was. To Connor that was not surprising. The man had been one of them. A Brother. Someone who knew their secrets, their mentality, their mission. Someone whose mind had been broken when the Templars had captured him and his family. Slowly, over a period of several months, they'd killed off his children and wife in front of him. He had finally escaped, grief stricken and mad. He had blamed the Assassins for failing to save his family. How could one believe in the Creed which did not aid one's own family? His bitterness had finally swallowed him and he had run one day, never to return. He had been tracked to no avail. He was an Assassin – or had been. His training had been second to none.

Connor had come here, to Boston to see if he could not find out something about the man's whereabouts. It was impossible for a man to go to ground completely. He'd be bound to leave a trail somewhere, somehow. The last that he had been seen was here, at the ocean docks. Perhaps he had wanted to leave the colonies altogether – not an unreasonable assumption given what had happened to him. And then someone had claimed to have spotted him in a little town out by the Indian territory – in the company of a known Templar. That had intrigued and alarmed Connor and the others. Granted the renegade did not know much about the Brotherhood's plans but still – he was blatantly flouting the tenets: not to compromise the Brotherhood, not to expose himself. Connor himself subscribed to the view that once he'd abrogated the Creed he had no need for the tenets anymore. His life had been ruined. Connor wanted to find him, to minimize the damage. If possible.

The stocks pressed down onto his neck and wrists, a painful position at best. To be inside a contraption like this for a day and a night was less than pleasant. It afforded him time to think but also exposed him to social scrutiny, something he did not wish for at the moment. The city was abuzz with the news of the British army coming in of which the guard was just an outlier. If they found him here, the consequences would be less than good – not only for him but for his cause.

"Hey," whispered an unfamiliar voice close by. "You in the hood."

Connor twisted his head as far as he could to locate the interloper. It was dark but the little dais on which the stocks stood was lit by two tall lampposts. Everyone had to be able to see the criminal and the justice done – day or night.

"You do not know me," the whispering voice went on. A man's face appeared in the dim light. A hard angular face, clean, with the cheeks of a well fed man. "Probably do not remember. You helped me once in Philadelphia – last spring." An uncertain smile crept onto the stranger's face and he stepped closer.

"Who are you? And why are you here?" Connor demanded, keeping his own voice low. No need to attract unwanted attention. At night voices carried far and this was a still cold night, colder than the one before. His fingers were frozen, his knees were on fire from kneeling so long.

"No time for that. You have to leave." The man produced a hammer to knock out the pins holding the two halves of the stocks in place. The sound reverberated around the little square and he cringed. Hissing under his breath he tried again and finally succeeded. Connor massaged his aching wrists and neck.

"Come," the now nervous man beckoned walking away briskly. "I will take you out from the city. Away from here. Before the captain regrets his decision."

Connor snatched the man's arm and pushed him against the nearest wall. The man stopped speaking immediately, flinching slightly.

"Regrets?" Connor demanded. "Just who are you? And what do you know?"

The man sighed, slightly annoyed now. "We have no time," he repeated. "I bribed the guards – the captain owed me a favour – just like I owe you. I am discharging a debt here."

"You mentioned Philadelphia," Connor said quietly. "The man I helped was Saunders – he was thinner, less sure of his convictions."

"Well," the man shifted nervously. "I've had some luck since then, my friend. Business has been good – that always cheers a man up." He looked into the Assassin's cold black eyes. "I trusted you, once. You did the right thing by me – saved my life from those thugs. I cannot forget it. It was a surprise to see you, here of all places."

Connor let him go.

"I am sorry," he apologized. "I was remiss."

"No offence taken," Mr. Saunders forgave him. "You are a very sharp fellow, my friend. Too intense."

"So I've been told," Connor said with just a hint of a smile.

Together they walked down the street and across a wide avenue towards the better part of town where shops and crafts were located. Connor could smell the coal from a mile off. The horse dung strewn across the street did not help either. Stray dogs and cats prowled the dingier tenements. Mr. Saunders wrinkled his nose every time a cur ran across their way.

"Dirty creatures," he muttered at one point staring after a pair of growling fighting cats. "Useless."

Connor walked in silence, the surprise at being freed fading, his habitual calm descending over him again. Luck it seemed decided to favour him after all.

"I have your weapons," Mr. Saunders said once they'd entered the vestibule of his house and a servant had taken his cloak and hat. The merchant made his way to his study and lit candles from a banked fireplace. He offered Connor some whisky but the Assassin refused, choosing instead to sit in one of the chairs.

"I had to buy them off the captain," the merchant said grimacing. "Scoundrel."

"How much did he charge you?" Connor asked.

Mr. Saunders waved the question away. "Do not worry about it. Consider this a part of my debt to you. I always pay my debts," he said carefully putting the bow and quiver and the tomahawk on the table in front of his guest.

"I am grateful, Mr. Saunders," Connor said gravely, touching the wood of the bow lightly. "Unfortunately, I cannot remain to renew our acquaintance."

Mr. Saunders inclined his head. He was greying, Connor noted. Getting old. But still as spry as that last spring in Philadelphia when he'd run along from the murderers sent after him by his competitor. He'd become an ally of the Assassins after that, supplying them with some of the best materials for clothing, utensils and even weaponry.

"I know," he said heavily. "My children will be disappointed that you did not come to see them. They like you, you know." He shrugged in self deprecation.

Connor had to hide a smile. Mr. Saunders' children were a handful and no mistake. Little Joan especially. She'd tagged after Connor everywhere he went – it was embarrassing to say the least. Her wide eyes were indelibly etched into his memory. She was a sweet little girl and he did not want to see her suffer on his account.

"I will give you supplies – do you have a horse?"

"I do – unless the captain went to the public stables and took it," Connor replied.

"Ah, I should have checked that," Mr. Saunders tsked.

"If they see the horse is gone, then they'll know I've left the city," Connor pointed out calmly. "If you can spare a horse…"

"Indeed I can – you are right of course." He poured himself another shot of whisky and finished it in one gulp. He grimaced. "Nasty stuff – but does wonders for the cold weather."

The tall clock in the corner of the room chimed the hour. Two in the morning. The dead of night. When every sane person was asleep. The best time to escape a big city on another man's horse, with full saddle bags of food. Dodging the Red Coat patrols, Connor made his way out of Boston and onto the road that led west and south. Once he reached the frontier his task would be that much harder. No roads. No civilization. Only his Indian instincts could guide him there.

A long way. A seemingly impossible task. But he'd had worse, much worse. He'd made then and he'd make it this time. After all, it was not just that the renegade had become a Templar informant. He had led an Assassin patrol to their deaths: an ambush that had decimated the younger Assassins who'd just reached that rank. The Brotherhood could not afford to lose so many new Assassins, not at any time and certainly not now. For Connor, what the renegade had done was unforgivable – understandable, perhaps, but not forgivable. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

And now it appeared that the renegade had had a hand in his adventures in Boston. The man was making it personal – Connor wondered why. He'd never even known the man, let alone done anything to upset him. Unless…

He did not glance back at the diminishing city by the ocean. He'd had enough information to go on with. Along the way he'd gather some more. He would find the renegade – and what then? He did not know. That kind of uncertainty did not sit well with him. He would have to think, to decide – when the circumstances permitted a decision. Until it was best to reserve judgment. That was the only reasonable course of action. For now.

Tomorrow would be a new day.


The arrow whizzed spitefully right by his ear, thunked into the bole of the tree just ahead of him. He hit the ground, strewn with last year's leaves, and rolled. The bole of the tree at his back was comforting. His sweaty hands gripped his bow stave. The man was good. Very good. Too good for comfort. That last arrow had come a little too close. A sign that Connor himself was tiring. This pursuit had lasted for two weeks already.

He'd picked up the renegade's trail on the other side of the Delaware River. He'd followed the bread crumbs as it were – it had been almost too easy. As if the renegade were leading him on, wanted him to catch up. Connor had been aware of such a possibility so he had followed the trail carefully, always watchful.

The forest was quiet. He breathed slowly through his nose. No other arrows came. Not yet. The fact that the renegade was an excellent archer had come as a surprise. He'd killed Connor's horse first, two weeks ago. The animal had gone down squealing in pain. Connor had been very close to the renegade then, could almost see the whites of his eyes. And then his horse'd been shot under him. The Assassin had had to put the animal out of its misery and leave its body where it lay. He did not have the time or the tools to push it to the side of the road.

He counted to one hundred. Still nothing. The woods around were preternaturally silent. As if his hunter, the renegade, had simply melted into the thin air. The man had to be Indian or have spent some time with a tribe. Had to be. Nothing else would explain his archery skills.

Connor moved away from the tree, glanced around. Not even a bird sang. The forest seemed to be waiting, vigilant. Pulling the bow over his shoulder Connor reached for the lowest branch of a nearby tree and pulled himself up. It creaked under his weight. He tested the branch: it did not break. He began moving in a north east direction. There was a lake there. He needed water. His waterskin was empty. Food he could do without. Water, not so much.


The bank of the lake was deserted. No one was there. He extended his senses anyway. No danger. He probed the air. No strange smells. No premonitions. His eyes narrowed. Too good to be true. This was just incredible. That he was so alone out here. His enemy it appeared had left him – or rather, had left no trail to follow. Connor now was the prey. The renegade, the hunter.

Unstrapping his water skin Connor went down to the edge of the lake. The sun was on his right, pink light all that he could see over the tops of the pine and fir trees. This was a coniferous part of the forest, a wild region full of beasts that did not welcome human intrusion. He'd seen the tracks of bears and wolves and big deer. He'd had no chance to hunt for them or set a snare for a rabbit. The renegade was close on his trail.

He sunk the water skin into the cold water of the lake, cupping a palmful. His parched throat welcomed the soothing liquid. He splashed his face too. He felt sleepy, tired. He would get little sleep tonight unless he found a really good place to hole up. He needed a plan too. How long could one run after all?

He stood up. Time to leave. This bank was too exposed. He was just about to leave when an arrow came out of the forest aiming for his chest. He sidestepped and pain exploded up his leg, from just below the knee. It buckled. He went down with a grunt, letting go of the water skin which fell sloshing to the stony bank.

Dark laughter carried his way from under the trees. A mocking derisive laughter. He heard another arrow and watched in dismay which he did not let show on his face as it penetrated the water skin. The water soaked the ground, the quivering shaft of the arrow protruding from its flank. The hole was impossible to repair. He would need moose gut stitching which he did not have and was not likely to acquire.

"Well, Assassin," called a voice he'd not heard before. It had to be the renegade. "The tables have turned, haven't they?" A laugh, high pitched with glee – and a little hysteria. Connor reminded himself that the man was insane, mad – and an archer who had just upped the odds in his favour. "I knew you'd seek water. I have been tracking you for a long time."

Connor stared at where the voice was coming from. Slowly he reached back and grasped the protruding shaft in his leg. This had been a shot to slow him down, to sap his strength. The renegade toyed with him, taunted him. And Connor was growing tired of it. His decision was almost made in that instant as he pushed the arrow through his leg. The point grazed the bone on its way out. It protruded through his shin. He'd never taken his eyes off the dark spot where the renegade was no longer laughing. He felt the man's increasingly chagrined regard. The renegade was not so sure of himself after all. He feared – like all madmen, mostly the phantoms in his head. Connor was one of those phantoms come to life. They were one on one here: two men and nature which never gave up, which did not welcome human conflict easily.

Pressing lips together, Connor broke off the arrow head and threw it aside after one glance. Not poisoned. The renegade did not want him dead – not yet anyway. He only wanted to play with Connor, a deadly game that the wounded Assassin decided had to end. Soon. With a finality that would be beyond recovery.


His hands were slick with blood by the time he at last managed to tie up his leg. He leaned back against the rock and looked out over the night lake. He was alone again. The renegade had melted off into the trees, no longer laughing in derision. Connor wiped his sweating face. His chest heaved, the heart hammering his rib cage. The fatigue made him drowsy and yet strangely awake. He wanted to sleep but could not. His body tugged him first one way, then the other. At last he leaned to the side and vomited, resigned to the fact that he was not about to avoid being sick.

He shivered once it was over. The nights were cold. Winter was so close on his heels he could sense its snowy breath on his neck. He had no food, a lake full of water which he could not carry and a leg that would stiffen up by tomorrow. He would be lucky if he managed a few steps.

Light-headed as he was, he tried to stand anyway. He swayed when his weight settled a little on to the leg. He fell against the rock with a soft curse. A wave of warmth broke over him. Fever… damn… another complication. He struck the surface of the unyielding rock with a helpless fist. Breathing deeply he looked up at the cloudy sky where the moon showed itself for just a moment, its reflection broken on the smooth lake water.

Stumbling, half falling, Connor made his way down the stony shore to the edge of the water. He drank, the coldness of the water shocking him into some sense of wakefulness. That he knew would not last. Especially not after he'd left the lake. Which he had to. He was a sitting target here. He had to keep moving. That was his only choice now. Water he would have to find somewhere else. Perhaps there was a river that fed this lake. He set out.


He slid down the bank to the water, unmindful of the searing pain in his leg. He'd not had a drink in two days. He was more than parched. He was exhausted. The days had grown colder, windier. And the renegade was just behind him. He could feel the man's eyes boring into the back of his head as he drank. The man had had many chances to kill him. His game apparently was not played out yet. He was running Connor down, cruelly so. Playing with his life. Sometimes he would talk to Connor, ramblings that made little sense. Except for one thing: he was a Templar now and he would kill the Assassin eventually to cover up the fact that he was a traitor. It appeared that no one knew that yet. No one except Connor that is.

And that knowledge was to prove deadly.

But not until after this game of cat and mouse unravelled itself to the end.

"Why not just kill me and be done with it?" he asked raggedly over his shoulder, kneeling on the bank. His right hand made a fist on his thigh, his left lay on the rocks.

A stunned silence answered him at first. Apparently the man thought that Connor could not sense him, that he was so well hidden. Then the renegade laughed. That same high pitched sound of madness.

"Because that would be too easy – and ruin the game besides," the renegade explained. "I like games. Don't you?"

Connor sighed wearily, getting to his feet. He did not turn around, his back presenting a tempting target to the renegade's arrows. He did not care much about that. Strangely, matters of life and death did not bother him anymore. Only one goal remained: to keep on moving, one foot in front of the other, one breath after the other.

"Ah," the renegade crowed. "Have I stirred up the unflappable bear?" He giggled. Not a pretty sound, at any time but especially not with lowering skies and an incipient storm. He would be very surprised if the rain did not have snow mixed with it. A dire night that he was not looking forward to. Especially if he had to listen to his foe goading him.

"I would suggest you leave," Connor said softly scanning the far bank of the river. He was uneasy. "Play elsewhere."

The renegade was about to answer when a roar came from the other side. Just as Connor had thought. A hungry bear looking for the last fishing opportunities of the year. A big bear too by the sound of him. The day was dark already so that at first the bear's shape was not discernible from the general gloom of the trees or the rocky bank. When the beast finally did emerge into the open, shambling down to the sluggish river, the renegade whistled in appreciation.

"Well well, the game's just changed a little," he said gleefully. Connor heard the bowstring drawing back and braced himself for the impact between his shoulder blades. Here it was. His death finally come. The bow string twanged – he imagined the bow springing forward with the pressure of release and the arrow speeding off. Only when the long shafted arrow flew by his ear did he realize that it was not meant for him. The renegade was shooting at the bear, the fool. The arrow would only irritate the bear, enrage it. With a sinking feeling, Connor realized that was the renegade's plan born this moment from an insane yet highly intelligent brain.

"HAHA!" the madman giggled again as the bear shook itself. The arrow had been embedded in its front paw causing it pain every time it stepped. The huge beast swung its head side to side sniffing, its small eyes finally settling on Connor as yet another arrow whistled by him stirring his hood just a little. With an angry growl of retribution the bear waddled into the river, its mangled paw impeding it but little. The second arrow had only grazed its ear causing another roar that reverberated across the expanse of the river.

"I wish you luck," said the renegade, disappearing into the conifers silent as a whisp.
He had no bullets or he'd have tried to shoot the bear. That would have been just as useless as arrows – grasping at straws, the mark of a desperate mind. He wondered if he were desperate yet. Maybe. Possibly. He sighed and straightened his shoulders, his leg shaking badly under him. Playing dead would do no good. The bear had smelled blood, its carnivorous instincts were awakened. It did not understand that he was not the cause of its irritation and minor injuries. It did not think that way. It was a beast: it had no human reason to fall back on. Such a concept was alien to its animal mind.

Connor retreated towards the trees that would provide some cover. The bear appeared big enough to just barrel through any tree trunks. It was a giant – as it got closer with surprising alacrity, its size was revealed to be that of a grizzly. Not the most friendly of forest denizens to meet at the best of times. This now was the worst possible time. It was hungry and had been stung. It wanted to attack – to kill, for food.

He cursed silently with every step, aware that the bear was gaining, that he was slow. Sweat ran down his face, his palms were slick on the haft of the tomahawk, a puny weapon compared with the size of the enemy. His luck and odds were dwindling indeed.

He would have pushed further on, would have tried to climb a tree and move above the bear, if not for his leg finally giving out on him. He could feel the bear's meaty breath on the back of his neck when he made the enormous mistake of stepping into a fox's nest. He tripped, fell forward, choking on the excruciating pain. Blood flowed down his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut against the fire raging up his leg into his brain.

By the time he gathered himself to get up the bear had reached him. Its nose was just at the back of his neck sniffing and then a swipe of its paw sent him sprawling at the roots of an oak tree. His tomahawk flew out of his hand. He coughed, lungs constricted with the impact. Dark spots danced in his eyes. Urgently he shook his head. This was not the time to be weak. Damn it, no…

The huge beast's shadow fell over him. It growled again, prodded him with the wounded paw. The arrow had been broken off – probably in the pursuit. The bear cringed just a little at the pain. Its fur was thick – the arrow had not gone in as deep as he'd thought.
He looked the bear in the eye.

"So what now?" he managed face to face with the nature he'd though he knew so well.
The bear's lips drew back from yellowed fangs. It was an old bear, hoary with age. Its once black fur had streaks of grey across the forehead and flanks. It obviously thought his words a threat, an incomprehensible noise that registered as… Connor could not even think what the bear thought.

Once again the bear prodded him, the claws long and chipped. Connor did not resist being thrown again. He'd have bruises when he had time to himself – if he ever would which did not seem likely at the moment.

"No will to fight now?" came the inane voice of the madman again. Connor did not glance up. The voice came from above, from the safety of a very tall tree branch. The renegade's eyes blazed down at the clearing, the false smile of concern pasted on to his face. "What a shame! And here I thought you were the best."

Connor let his eyes fall closed, resting his face against the drying leaves. The rain had not started yet but he could smell its arrival. The air felt moist. He wondered if that would be his reprieve, if the bear would give up…

The bear shambled across to him once more and flipped him onto his back. He looked up into its beady eyes, unresisting. The bear's paw pressed onto his chest, the claws ready to rip him to shreds. His hand found his knife, another useless weapon but what else did he have?
Thunder ripped the sky asunder, the lightning flashed across the supine Assassin's eyes. The bear started, the claws raking down Connor's chest but not too deep. Another drum of thunder and a shattering burst of lightning. The bear roared in confusion, twisting around looking for the new enemy. Only there was none. Anger tinged its growling again.

"Aw, the poor beastie is confused," the renegade chuckled from his perch. So he was still there. Connor located him just above him, bow stave across his shoulder. "Go beastie! Get out of here!" he shouted cackling madly. At another burst of white light the bear finally gave up and made for the cover of the woods as the first sheet of rain at last came down.


He was shivering, and not just from the cold and the wet clothes. His head thrown back against the rock, he stared at the clear blue sky. So blue it hurt. A black speck wheeled overhead. A hawk, an eagle or a vulture. Looking for prey, for food. His eyes snagged on the bird, he listened for its cry. But nothing came. Perhaps he was imagining the whole thing.

That happened when one was delirious.

His fever had lasted all of the last night. He'd spent it stumbling from tree to tree to rock – always up, up from the ravine where the rain collected in pools that hid tripping hazards such as badger holes and fallen trees. He'd banged his shins on the way up here – to clear air, to a sight unencumbered by trees. Where he could see his enemy coming.

His chest rose and fell, his heart laboured. His hands shook, his head felt packed in wool. He was beyond misery, beyond any thoughts of the future. He only hoped for the fever to finally end. It had to. Sooner or later. Patience. O yes, patience. That was the requirement. Patience – something he'd learned from the Assassins, something that had stood him in good stead.

Until now, it seemed.

Death stalked him.

The bear had mauled – not badly. He had bruises and blood had dried on his chest. It was the leg wound that worried him. It had bled again, despite a new bandage. He'd managed to find some almost dead herbs only to realize he'd have no fire with wet wood all around. He had pushed on his way, ignoring the searing pins. Now pain did not matter. His mind was detached, latching onto details from the past, from the present that would seem trivial to most rational men. But then, he was not quite rational – not at this stage.

A ragged sound escaped him. It was a while before he realized that it was laughter.
Humour. He was laughing in the face of death.

Just like an Assassin should.

Just like a Mohawk would.

Just as Connor Kenway did.


The renegade stamped his foot in annoyance.

"You do not play any more," he complained at the man standing with his back to the cliff face. "That is not by the rules."

Connor regarded him coolly. His fever had gone, leaving him weakened. He swilled saliva in his mouth and spat at the renegade's feet. That would be his only answer.

Slowly the renegade smiled. His thin face was rather expressive. If not for his blazing eyes, he'd appear normal. Perhaps that was the problem: he exuded insanity like an infectious disease.

"If not for you," the renegade hissed, slapping his thigh. "we would not be here. I would still have a home." His features became distorted as if in a broken mirror. The range of emotion flitting across that troubled visage was such that Connor did not even want to try and separate them. "It was YOUR fault." A quivering finger pointed at Connor, a judgmental one. "YOU told them all that I was a traitor. YOU!"

With surprisingly steady hands, he drew a black shafted arrow from the quiver at his side. Quite deliberately he set the arrow to the bow string. Connor heard the rasp as it was drawn back to the renegade's ear. The arrow head pointed straight at his heart.

"So you kill me," Connor croaked. "What then? Will you run to your Templar friends? Or simply starve to death here?"

The madman's face twitched into a sickening smile. "They are waiting for me, my friends," he explained in a tight voice. "After I am finished with you, I will be rewarded."
"They sent you…" It finally dawned on him. "They bought you and then set you on me…" He would have laughed if it did not hurt so much. "So simple… so damnably simple…" He chuckled.

"You laugh!" exclaimed the renegade, the bow shaking in his hands. "You who believes a LIE!"

"No lie," Connor demurred, leaning forward slightly to ease the pain in his back. "The lie is in you – in your madness. Your grief broke you and the Templars re-assembled you with parts missing. You are incomplete… living a lie."

With an inarticulate roar of rage – something finally snapped inside his foe's head – the unhappy madman drew back his bow and let go of the string. Connor did not have time to step aside – nor did he try to avoid it. Let the man kill him. At least then, the renegade would leave him be. His madness would kill him eventually. If his 'friends' did not do it first. They had a reputation for discarding weapons once their usefulness was over.

The impact of the arrow slammed him back against the rock and then he folded over its length protruding from his chest. He fell onto his side, facing the cliff face, his hand cupped around the shaft that was becoming slick with blood. He gasped, aware of a hollow feeling in his mind and body – almost as if his soul were parting company. Was this dying? Possibly.

But even that was not to be allowed to run its course. A scrape of a boot behind his head and a shove that sent him over onto his back. A heavy weight settled on his bleeding chest. He coughed, blanking out and back in. The world was spinning. It made no sense. A jab with the end of a bow stave into his ribs brought him back for a moment, long enough to realize that his enemy, his hunter, was not done with him just yet. This was not over. The man was saying something, foam at the corners of his mouth. He was completely insane now. Perhaps he had been wrong to goad him. Mistakes… Regrets… all pointless now….
Only the Creed remained and even that was slipping away – as was his mind and everything else… thought… emotion… awareness…
ah, i have not written in quite some time. i am not dead yet. the Templars have not taken over my writing mojo.

i've had this idea kicking around for some time, where the hunter becomes the hunted and how it would unfold... this is only part of the story... don' you just LOVE cliffhangers?
© 2012 - 2024 altair-creed
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chthonic-dream's avatar
This is great. I enjoyed this, but the cliffy killed me! Onward to the next chapter! :D