instead of remaining on the ground, he vanished, leaving just a disturbance in the air behind him, a ripple of disrupted space. Talal, de Montferrat, Sibrand and de Sable were the most skilled fighters and, accordingly, they hung back, allowing the weaker among them to go forward first in the hope of tiring Altair. The Assassin dashed from the marble terrace and leaped from the ridge, landing on a second square of decorated marble, this one with a waterfall nearby. The targets followed him. Tamir died screaming at one, two slashes of Altair’s sword. The Assassin felt nothing. No remorse. Not even gratification at seeing the men die a deserved second death. De Naplouse vanished as the others had, his throat cut. Jubair fell. Talal he grabbed, and the two grappled before Altair drove his sword deep into his stomach and he, too, was nothing but an absence. Montferrat was next to go. Sibrand followed him, then de Sable, until once more Altair was alone in the garden with Al Mualim.
‘Face me,’ demanded Altair, catching his breath. The sweat poured from him but he knew the battle was far from over. It had only just begun. ‘Or are you afraid?’
Al Mualim scoffed. ‘I have stood before a thousand men – all of them superior to you. And all of them dead – by my hand.’
With a litheness and athleticism belying his years, he jumped from the balcony, landing in a crouch not far away from Altair. He still held the Apple. He clasped it as though he was proffering it to Altair and his face was bathed in its light. ‘I am not afraid,’ said Al Mualim.
‘Prove it,’ challenged Altair, knowing that Al Mualim would see through his ploy – his ploy to bring the traitor close. But if he did – and he surely did – then he cared nothing. He was right. He was unafraid – unafraid because he had the Apple, which was burning even more brightly. Dazzling. The whole of the area was lit up, then just as quickly darkened again. As Altair’s eyes adjusted he saw copies of Al Mualim appear, as though generated from within the body of the Master himself.
He tensed. He wondered if these copies, like those he had just fought, would be inferior, weaker versions of the original.
‘What could I possibly fear?’ Al Mualim was mocking him now. (Good. Let him mock. Let him be careless.) ‘Look at the power I command.’
The copies came to Altair, and once again he was fighting. Once again the garden rang to the chimes of crashing steel – and as the copies fell beneath Altair’s blade they vanished. Until he was again alone with Al Mualim.
He stood, trying to regain his breath, feeling exhausted now, then once again he was embraced by the power of the Apple, which sparkled and throbbed in Al Mualim’s hand.
‘Have you any final words?’ said Al Mualim.
‘You lied to me,’ said Altair. ‘You called Robert’s goal foul – when all along it was yours as well.’
‘I’ve never been much good at sharing,’ said Al Mualim, almost rueful.
‘You won’t succeed. Others will find the strength to stand against you.’
At this Al Mualim sighed heavily. ‘And that is why, as long as men maintain free will, there can be no peace.’
‘I killed the last man who said as much.’
Al Mualim laughed. ‘Bold words, boy. But just words.’
‘Then let me go. I’ll put words into action.’
Altair’s mind was racing now as he searched for something to say that would incite Al Mualim to carelessness.
‘Tell me, Master, why did you not make me like the other Assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?’
‘Who you are and what you do are entwined too tightly together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other. And those Templars had to die.’ He sighed. ‘But the truth is, I did try. In my study, when I showed you the Treasure… But you are not like the others. You saw through the illusion.’
Altair’s mind returned to the afternoon when Al Mualim had shown him the Treasure. He had felt its lure then, that was true, but he had resisted temptation. He wondered if he would be able to do so indefinitely. Its insidious powers seemed to work on all who came into contact with it. Even Al Mualim, whom once he had idolized, who had been a father to him, and had been a good man then, fair and just and temperate, concerned only with the well-being of the Order and those who served it – but he had been corrupted. The glow of the Apple cast his face in a ghastly hue. It had done the same to his soul.
‘Illusion?’ said Altair, still thinking of that afternoon.
Al Mualim laughed. ‘That’s all anything’s ever been. This Templar Treasure. This Piece of Eden. This Word of God. Do you understand now? The Red Sea was never parted. Water never turned to wine. It was not the machinations of Eris that spawned the Trojan War, but this…’ He held up the Apple. ‘Illusions – all of them.’
‘What you plan is no less an illusion,’ insisted Altair. ‘To force men to follow you against their will.’
‘Is it any less real than the phantoms the Saracens and Crusaders follow now? Those craven gods who retreat from this world that men might slaughter one another in their names? They live among an illusion already. I’m simply giving them another. One that demands less blood.’
‘At least they choose these phantoms,’ argued Altair.
‘Do they? Aside from the occasional convert or heretic?’
‘It isn’t right,’ snapped Altair.
‘Ah. Now logic has left you. In its place you embrace emotion. I am disappointed.’
‘What’s to be done, then?’
‘You will not follow me and I cannot compel you.’
‘And you refuse to give up this evil scheme.’
‘It seems, then, we are at an impasse.’
‘No. We are at an end,’ said Altair, and perhaps Al Mualim was correct, for he found himself fighting a wave of emotion. Of betrayal and sadness and something he could not quite place at first but then did. Loneliness.
Al Mualim drew his sword. ‘I will miss you, Altair. You were my very best student.’
Altair watched the years fall away from Al Mualim as he took up position, readying his sword and forcing Altair to do the same. He skipped to the side, testing Altair’s guard, and Altair realized he had never seen him move so quickly. The Al Mualim he knew paced slowly, walked unhurriedly across the courtyard, made slow, sweeping gestures. This one moved like a swordsman – who thrust forward, slashing with his blade. Then, as Altair defended, he adjusted the attack to a jab. Altair was forced to his toes, his arm bent as he swept his blade back to deflect Al Mualim’s offensive. The move left him off balance and, with the guard on his left side down, Al Mualim saw his chance and came in with a second quick swipe that met its mark.
Altair winced, feeling the wound on his hip leak blood, but dared not look. He couldn’t take his eyes from Al Mualim for one second. Opposite him, Al Mualim smiled. A smile that said he had taught the young pup a lesson. He stepped to his side, then feigned an attack, going first one way then the other, hoping to catch Altair off guard.
Fighting pain and fatigue, Altair came forward with an offensive of his own – taking Al Mualim by surprise, he was pleased to see. But though he made contact – he thought he made contact – the Master seemed to slide away as though transporting.
‘Blind, Altair,’ chuckled Al Mualim. ‘Blind is all you’ve ever been. All you’ll ever be.’ Again, he attacked.
Altair was too slow to react in time, feeling Al Mualim’s blade slash his arm and crying out with the pain. He couldn’t take much more of this. He was too tired. He was losing blood. It was as though the energy was being slowly drained from him. The Apple, his wounds, his exhaustion: all were combining slowly but surely to cripple him. If he couldn’t turn the battle soon he faced defeat.
But the old man was letting the Apple make him careless. Even as he was gloating Altair danced forward and struck again, his swordpoint striking home, drawing blood. Al Mualim shouted in pain, transported then reappeared, snarling and launching his next offensive. Feigning an attack to the left he spun, wielding his sword backhand. Desperately Altair fended him off, but was almost sent reeling, and for some moments the two traded blows, the salvo ending when Al Mualim ducked, sliced upward and nicked Altair’s cheek, dancing away before the Assassin could respond.
Altair launched a counter-attack and Al Mualim transported. But when he reappeared, Altair noticed he looked more haggard, and when he attacked it was a little more carelessly. Less disciplined.
Altair came forward slicing with his blade, forcing the Master to transport and materialize several feet away. Altair saw a new stoop to his shoulders, and his head was heavy. The Apple was sapping Altair’s strength but was
