piles. His sumptuous robes flowed about him, his long hair lay over his shoulders, and he was, as usual, contemplative.
‘Master,’ said Altair, breaking the thick silence. He lowered his head.
Wordless, Al Mualim turned and moved towards his desk, scrolls littered the floor beneath it. He regarded Altair with one sharp, flinty eye. His mouth, hidden within his grey-white beard, betrayed no emotion until at last he spoke, beckoning to his pupil. ‘Come forward. Tell me of your mission. I trust you have recovered the Templar treasure…’
Altair felt a trickle of perspiration make its way from his forehead and down his face. ‘There was some trouble, Master. Robert de Sable was not alone.’
Al Mualim waved away the notion. ‘When does our work ever go as expected? It’s our ability to adapt that makes us who we are.’
‘This time, it was not enough.’
Al Mualim took a moment to absorb Altair’s words. He moved from behind his desk, and when he next spoke, his voice was sharp. ‘What do you mean?’
Altair found himself having to force out the words. ‘I have failed you.’
‘The treasure?’
‘Lost to us.’
The atmosphere in the room changed. It seemed to tense and crackle as though brittle, and there was a pause before Al Mualim spoke again. ‘And Robert?’
‘Escaped.’
The word fell like a stone in the darkening space.
Now Al Mualim came closer to Altair. His one eye was bright with anger, his voice barely restrained, his fury filling the room. ‘I send you – my best man – to complete a mission more important than any that has come before and you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses?’
‘I did -’
‘ Do not speak.’ His voice was a whipcrack. ‘ Not another word. This is not what I expected. We’ll need to mount another force so -’
‘I swear to you I’ll find him – I’ll go and…’ began Altair, who was already desperate to meet de Sable again. This time the outcome would be very different.
Now Al Mualim was looking about himself, as though only just recalling that when Altair had left Masyaf he had done so with two companions. ‘Where are Malik and Kadar?’ he demanded.
A second bead of sweat made its way from Altair’s temple as he replied, ‘Dead.’
‘ No,’ came a voice from behind them, ‘not dead.’
Al Mualim and Altair turned to see a ghost.
6
Malik stood at the entrance to the Master’s chamber – stood swaying, a wounded, exhausted, blood-soaked figure. His once-white robes were streaked with gore, most of it around his left arm, which looked badly wounded, dangling uselessly at his side and crusted with blackened, dried blood.
As he moved into the room his injured shoulder dipped, and he hobbled slightly. But if his body was damaged, then his spirit was surely not: his eyes burned brightly with anger and hatred – hatred that he turned on Altair with a glare so intense that it was all Altair could do not to shrink away.
‘ I still live, at least,’ growled Malik, his bloodshot eyes brimming with fury as he stared at Altair. He took short, ragged breaths. His bared teeth were bloody.
‘And your brother?’ asked Al Mualim.
Malik shook his head. ‘Gone.’
For a beat his eyes dropped to the stone floor. Then, with a sudden burst of angry energy, he raised his head, narrowed his eyes and raised a trembling finger to point at Altair. ‘ Because of you,’ he hissed.
‘Robert threw me from the room.’ Altair’s excuses sounded feeble, even to his own ears – especially to his own ears. ‘There was no way back. Nothing I could do -’
‘Because you would not heed my warning,’ shouted Malik, his voice hoarse. ‘All of this could have been avoided. And my brother… my brother would still be alive. Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today.’
‘Nearly?’ said Al Mualim, carefully.
Calming, Malik nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips – a smile directed at Altair, for even now he was beckoning another Assassin, who came forward bearing a box on a gilt tray.
‘I have what your favourite failed to find,’ said Malik. His voice was strained and he was weak, but nothing was going to sour his moment of triumph over Altair.
Altair felt his world falling away from him as the Assassin set down the tray on Al Mualim’s desk. The box was covered with ancient runes and there was something about it – an aura. Inside it, surely, was the treasure. It had to be. The treasure that Altair had been unable to recover.
Al Mualim’s good eye was wide and gleaming. His lips were parted, his tongue darting from his mouth. He was entranced by the sight of the box and the thought of what was inside. Suddenly there came an uproar from outside. Screams. Running feet. The unmistakable ring of clashing steel.
‘It seems I’ve returned with more than the treasure,’ reflected Malik, as a messenger crashed into the chamber, forgetting all protocol as he breathlessly exclaimed, ‘Master, we are under attack. Robert de Sable lays siege to the Masyaf village.’
Al Mualim was snatched from his reverie, in the mood to face de Sable. ‘So he seeks a battle, does he? Very well. I’ll not deny him. Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared.’
Now he turned his attention to Altair, and his eyes blazed as he said, ‘As for you, Altair, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders. Drive them from our home.’
‘It will be done,’ said Altair, who could not help but be relieved at this sudden turn of events. Somehow the attack on the village was preferable to having to endure more of this humiliation. He had disgraced himself in Jerusalem. Now he had the chance to make amends.
He vaulted from the landing behind the Master’s chamber to the smooth stone floor and dashed from the tower. As he ran across the training yard and through the main gates, he wondered whether being killed now might provide the escape he desired. Would that be a good death? A proud and noble death?
Enough to exonerate him?
He drew his sword. The sounds of battle were closer now. He could see Assassins and Templars fighting on the upland at the foot of the castle, while further down the hill villagers were scattering under the force of the assault, bodies already littering the slopes.
Then he was under attack. A Templar knight rushed him, snarling, and Altair twisted, letting his instincts take over, raising his sword to meet the Christian, who bore down upon him fast and hard, his broadsword slamming into Altair’s blade with a clash of steel. But Altair was braced, feet planted wide apart, the line of his body perfect, and the Templar’s attack barely moved him. He swept aside the other’s sword, using the weight of the huge broadsword against the knight, whose arm flailed uselessly for a blink that Altair used to step forward and plunge his blade into the man’s stomach.
The Templar had come at him confident of an easy kill. Easy, like the villagers he had already slaughtered. He’d been wrong. With the steel in his gut he coughed blood and his eyes were wide with pain and surprise as Altair yanked the blade upward, bisecting his torso. He fell away, his intestines spilling to the dust.
Now Altair was fighting with pure venom, venting all of his frustration in his sword blows, as though he might pay for his crimes with the blood of his enemies. The next Templar traded blows, trying to resist as Altair pushed him back, his posture instantly changing from attack to defence, and then into desperate defence, so that even as he parried, he was whimpering in expectation of his own death.
Altair feinted, wheeled, and his blade flashed across the Christian’s throat, which opened, sheeting blood down the front of his uniform, staining it as red as the cross on his chest. He sank to his knees then fell forward, just as another soldier rushed Altair, sunlight glinting from his raised sword. Altair stepped aside and buried his
