see.’
‘I suppose so. But how long can it last? The Bull and the Templars do not exactly see eye to eye on matters of faith.’
‘Ah, the less you say about that the better,’ rejoined the first.
Altair let them go past, then moved on, the corridor darkening. Maria had said the castle was well defended, and it certainly was if you had raised an army and planned to storm its walls. For a lone Assassin, though, penetrating the fortress by stealth was an easier task. Especially when you were the Master. When you were Altair.
Now he found himself in a vast banqueting hall. At the opposite end stood two guards and he took out two throwing knives. He flicked them: one, two. In moments the men lay twitching on the stone and Altair stepped over them, knowing that he was near now, that Moloch couldn’t be far away.
He wasn’t. Altair came to what looked like a dead end and turned, checking behind him – why had this been guarded? Then he saw a trapdoor. Bending to it, he listened, then smiled. He had found the Bull.
Very gently he lifted the trapdoor and lowered himself into the roof beams below. He was in the rafters of the castle’s place of worship, a large empty room lit by the fire of a large brazier near the altar.
Kneeling before the fire, tending it, was Moloch.
Maria’s description of him had been accurate. He was a bear of a man: bare-headed, drooping moustache, bare-chested, apart from a medallion, and with the tree-trunk arms she’d described. Sweat glistened on him as he stoked the fire, chanting an incantation that sounded as much like a growl as it did pious devotion. Absorbed in his work he didn’t move from the fire, didn’t look away from it, bathing his face in the heat of the flames, oblivious to anything else in the room, even – especially – his killer.
Good. Moloch looked strong, easily more powerful than Altair, who had no desire to engage him in combat. Not only did he have the muscular advantage but it was said that he wielded a weapon like a meteor hammer, with a deadly weight attached to a chain. It was said that he used it with unfailing accuracy, and was ruthless with it.
So, no. Altair had no desire to engage him in combat. This was to be a stealth kill. Quick, clean and silent.
Noiselessly, Altair made his way along the beams, then dropped silently into the centre of the room behind Moloch. He was slightly further away than he would have liked and he held his breath, tensing. If Moloch had heard him…
But no. The brute was still engrossed with the brazier. Altair took a few steps forward. Silently he engaged the blade and raised it. Orange light danced on the steel. The Bull now just a heartbeat away from death. Altair dipped slightly, his leg muscles bunching, then launched himself, blade about to strike.
He was in mid-air when Moloch spun, far more quickly than his size should have allowed. At the same time he grinned and Altair realized that he had known he was there all along; that he had merely let Altair come close. Then the Assassin was in the embrace of those huge arms, raising him off the ground, feeling a hand go to his throat and squeeze.
For a moment or so he was held that way, Moloch lifting him one-handed into the air as though he were a trophy to be displayed on the castle steps, and he choked as he struggled. His feet kicked at thin air and his hands scrabbled at Moloch’s gauntlet, desperately trying to loosen the monster’s grip. His vision began to cloud, blackness closing in. He felt himself losing consciousness. Then Moloch was tossing him backwards and he was sprawling on the chapel floor, his head rebounding painfully off a flagstone, wondering why he had been allowed to live.
Because the Bull wanted more sport. He had produced his meteor hammer and, with a single looping swing above his head, launched it at Altair, who only just managed to roll clear as it came smashing down, opening a crater in the flagstone and showering him with stone shards.
Altair scrambled to his feet, dazed, shaking his head to clear it. He drew his sword. Blade in one hand, sword in the other. He was darting to the side as the Bull retrieved his hammer and launched it again.
It crashed into a pillar beside Altair and once again he was hit by a hail of stone fragments. With Moloch’s hammer unspooled, Altair had a chance and darted in, jabbing with sword and blade. But, faster than seemed possible, Moloch had retrieved the chain and held it two-handed, blocking Altair’s sword, then swinging the hammer again and sending the Assassin diving for safety once more.
Altair thought of Al Mualim – the Al Mualim who had trained him, not the traitor he had become. He thought of Labib and of his other swordskills tutors. He took a deep breath and backed off, stepping to the side, circling Moloch.
The Bull followed him, knowing he had the Assassin worried. When he smiled he revealed a mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth, most worn down to diseased stumps. From the back of his throat he made a growling sound as Altair came closer, needing to coax Moloch into throwing the hammer. The Assassin had an idea. It was a good idea but it had a flaw. It would be fatal if he got it wrong. He needed the Bull to release the hammer – but every time that happened it came dangerously close to caving in Altair’s skull.
It came. Looping through the air. Smashing into the stone. Altair only just leaped clear but he landed on his feet and, instead of taking cover, dashed towards the hammer. He stepped on the weight and ran up the taut chain towards Moloch.
Moloch stopped grinning. He had a second to comprehend the sight of the agile Assassin running up the tightrope of his chain before Altair’s sword sliced through the front of his throat and exited at the neck. He made a sound that was halfway between a shout and a choke, the sword protruding through his neck as Altair let go of the hilt and twisted to straddle the Bull’s shoulders, driving his blade deep into the man’s spine. Still the Bull fought and Altair found himself hanging on for grim life. He grabbed the chain and dragged it up to loop around his victim’s neck with his free hand, grunting with the effort of pulling it hard. Moloch twisted and pushed backwards and Altair saw that he was being manoeuvred towards the fire.
He felt the heat at his back and redoubled his efforts. The beast would not die. He smelt something burning – the hem of his robe! Yelling with pain and effort, he pulled hard on the chain with one hand, digging the blade deeper with the other until at last something gave, some last life force snapped within Moloch and Altair was riding his bucking shoulders as the brute folded to the floor where he lay, breathing heavily, syrupy blood spreading across the stone, slowly dying.
At last his breathing stopped.
Altair heaved a huge sigh of relief. Moloch would not be able to turn the people against the Resistance. His reign of tyranny was over. However, he couldn’t help but wonder what might replace it.
He was to get his answer very shortly.
43
Maria was gone. Taken by Crusaders. While Altair had been battling at Kantara Castle, soldiers had attacked the safe-house and, despite a battle, had made off with some prisoners, Maria among them.
Markos, one of the few who had escaped capture, was there to greet the Assassin, worry etched into his face, fretting as he babbled, ‘Altair, we were attacked. We tried to fight them off but – but it was no use.’ He dropped his eyes, shame-faced.
Or was he feigning it?
Altair looked at the door to the drying room. It was open. Beyond, the door to the barred cell hung open too and he pictured her there, watching him with her almond eyes, her back against the wall and boots scuffing in the rushes strewn on the stone.
He shook his head to rid himself of the image. There was more at stake than his feelings for the English woman: he had no business thinking of her before the concerns of the Order. But… he had.
‘I wanted to stop them,’ Markos was saying, ‘but I had to hide. There were too many.’
Altair looked at him sharply. Now that he knew of Barnabas’s duplicity he was reluctant to trust anybody. ‘This was not your fault,’ he said. ‘The Templars are crafty.’
‘I’ve heard they harness the power of a Dark Oracle in Buffavento. That must be how they found us.’
Was that so? Altair thought about it. Certainly the Templars seemed to know their every move. But maybe
