recalling the last time they had met when he had easily bested Altair.
Altair was recalling the same encounter. He was telling himself that he was a different warrior now: last time he had been handicapped by arrogance, which was why he had been so easily defeated. He was trying not to recall the knight’s great strength. How he had picked up and tossed Altair as easily as hefting a sack of wheat.
De Sable was remembering that, though, and he turned to King Richard, bowing his head in assent. ‘If that is what you wish,’ he said.
‘It is.’
‘So be it. To arms, Assassin.’
The King and his right-hand men stood to one side while the remaining members of the bodyguard formed a ring around Altair and the smiling de Sable. Unlike Altair he was not already battleworn and weary. He wore armour where Altair had only a robe. He had not suffered the cuts and blows that Altair had received in his battle to reach the clearing. He knew that, too. As he pulled on chainmail gauntlets and one of the men came forward to help him with his helmet, he knew that he had the advantage in every way.
‘So,’ he said, taunting, ‘we face each other once more. Let us hope you prove more of a challenge this time.’
‘I am not the man you faced inside the Temple,’ said Altair, raising his sword. The thunder of the great battle of Arsuf seemed distant now; his world had shrunk to just this circle. Just him and de Sable.
‘You look the same to me,’ said de Sable. He raised his sword to address Altair. In reply the Assassin did the same. They stood, Robert de Sable with his weight adjusted to his back foot, evidently expecting Altair to come forward first.
But the Assassin claimed the first surprise of the duel, remaining unmoved, waiting instead for de Sable’s attack. ‘Appearances can deceive,’ he said.
‘True. True,’ said de Sable, with a wry smile and, in the very next second, struck, and chopped hard with his sword.
The Assassin blocked. The force of de Sable’s strike almost knocked the sword from his hand, but he parried and skipped to the side, trying to find a way inside de Sable’s guards. The Templar’s broadsword was three times the weight of his blade, and though knights were famed for their dedication to sword training and usually had the strength to match, they were nevertheless slower. De Sable could be more devastating in his attack, but he could never be as fast.
That was how Altair could beat him. His mistake before had been to allow de Sable to use his advantages. His strength now was to deny him them.
Still confident, de Sable pressed forward. ‘Soon this will be over and Masyaf will fall,’ he muttered, so close with the mighty blade that Altair heard it whistle past his ear.
‘My brothers are stronger than you think,’ he replied.
Their steel clashed once more.
‘We’ll know the truth of that soon enough,’ grinned de Sable.
But Altair danced. He defended and parried and deflected, cutting nicks in de Sable, opening gashes in the mail, landing two or three stunning blows on the knight’s helmet. Then de Sable was backing away to gather his strength, perhaps realizing now that Altair wouldn’t be the easy kill he had assumed.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So the child has learned to use a blade.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice. Your men saw to that.’
‘They were sacrificed in service to a higher cause.’
‘As will you be.’
De Sable leaped forward, wielding the great sword and almost knocking Altair’s blade from his hand. But the Assassin bent and twisted in one easy movement ramming back with the hilt of his weapon so that de Sable was sent stumbling back, falling over his own feet. The wind came out of him and he was only just prevented from falling to the dust by the knights forming the ring, who righted him so that he stood there, bristling with fury and breathing heavily.
‘ The time for games is ended! ’ he bellowed, as though saying it loudly might somehow make it come true, and he sprang forward, but with no deadly grace now. With nothing more deadly than blind hope.
‘It ended long ago,’ said Altair. He felt a great calmness, knowing now that he was pure – pure Assassin. That he was to defeat Robert de Sable with thought as much as might. And as de Sable pressed forward once more, his attack more ragged this time, more desperate, Altair easily fended him off.
‘I do not know where your strength comes from…’ gasped de Sable. ‘Some trick. Or is it drugs?’
‘It is as your king said. Righteousness will always triumph over greed.’
‘ My cause is righteous! ’ cried de Sable, grunting now as he lifted his sword, almost painfully slowly. Altair saw the faces of his men. Could see them waiting for him to deliver the killing blow.
Which he did. Driving his sword straight through the centre of the red cross de Sable wore, parting the knight’s mail and piercing his chest.
31
De Sable gasped. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, hands going to the blade that impaled him, even as Altair withdrew it. A red stain spread across his tunic, and he staggered, then sank to his knees. His sword dropped and his arms dangled.
Straight away Altair’s eyes went to the men forming a ring around them. He was half expecting them to attack at the sight of the Templar Grand Master dying. But they remained still. Past them Altair saw King Richard, his chin tilted as though the turn of events had done little more than pique his curiosity.
Now Altair bent to de Sable, cradling him with one arm and laying him on the ground. ‘It’s done, then,’ he told him. ‘Your schemes – like you – are put to rest.’
In response, de Sable chortled drily. ‘You know nothing of schemes,’ he said. ‘You’re but a puppet. He betrayed you, boy. Just as he betrayed me.’
‘Speak sense, Templar,’ hissed Altair, ‘or not at all.’ He stole a look at the men of the ring. They remained impassive.
‘Nine men he sent you to kill, yes?’ said de Sable. ‘The nine who guarded the Treasure’s secret.’
It was always nine who had that task, the responsibility handed down through generations of Templars. Almost a hundred years ago, the Knights Templar had formed and made the Temple Mount their base. They had come together to protect those making the pilgrimage to the holiest of holies and lived their lives as warrior monks – or so they maintained. But, as all but the most gullible knew, the Templars had more on their minds than helpless pilgrims. In fact, they were searching for treasure and holy relics within the Temple of Solomon. Nine, always, were tasked with finding it, and nine had finally done so: de Sable, Tamir, de Naplouse, Talal, de Montferrat, Majd Addin, Jubair, Sibrand, Abu’l Nuqoud. The nine who knew. The nine victims.
‘What of it?’ said Altair carefully. Thoughtfully.
‘It wasn’t nine who found the Treasure, Assassin,’ smiled de Sable. The life force was seeping fast from him now. ‘Not nine but ten.’
‘A tenth? None may live who carry the secret. Give me his name.’
‘Oh, but you know him well. And I doubt very much you’d take his life as willingly as you’ve taken mine.’
‘Who?’ asked Altair, but he already knew. He understood what it was now that had been bothering him. The one mystery that had eluded him.
‘It is your master,’ said de Sable. ‘Al Mualim.’
‘But he is not a Templar,’ said Altair, still not wanting to believe. Though he knew in his heart it was true. Al Mualim, who had raised him almost as his own son. Who had trained and tutored him. He had also betrayed him.
‘Did you never wonder how he knew so much?’ pressed de Sable, as Altair felt his world falling away from him. ‘Where to find us, how many we numbered, what we aspired to attain?’
‘He is the Master of the Assassins…’ protested Altair, still not wanting to believe. Yet… it felt as though the mystery was finally solved. It was true. He almost laughed. Everything he knew, it was an illusion.
