Assassin's Creed The Secret Crusade (22 page)

Then, from above, he heard his name being called. Malik was standing on the promontory by the fortress approach. With him were Jabal of Acre and two more Assassins he didn’t recognize. He found himself studying them. Had they, too, been brainwashed? Drugged? Whatever it was that Al Mualim was doing?

But no. Malik was waving his good arm, and though Altaïr had never conceived of a day when he might be pleased to see Malik, here it was.

‘Altaïr. Up here.’

‘You picked a fine time to arrive,’ grinned Altaïr.

‘So it seems.’

‘Guard yourself well, friend,’ Altaïr told him. ‘Al Mualim has betrayed us.’ He was prepared for disbelief, even anger from Malik, who trusted and revered Al Mualim and deferred to him in all matters. But Malik merely nodded sadly.

‘Betrayed his Templar allies as well,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon’s Temple. Robert had kept a journal. Filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart … But it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altaïr. All along our master has used us. We were not meant to save the Holy Land, but deliver it to him. He must be stopped.’

‘Be careful, Malik,’ warned Altaïr. ‘What he’s done to the others he’ll do to us, given the chance. You must stay far from him.’

‘What would you propose? My blade arm is still strong and my men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us.’

‘Distract these thralls, then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim.’

‘I will do as you ask.’

‘The men we face – their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them …’

‘Yes. Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I’ll do what I can.’

‘It’s all I ask,’ said Altaïr.

Malik turned to leave him.

‘Safety and peace, my friend,’ said Altair.

Malik smiled wryly. ‘Your presence here will deliver us both.’

Altaïr dashed along the barbican to the main courtyard and now he discovered why there had been no villagers in the marketplace. They were all here, crowded into the courtyard, filling it. The whole village surely. They milled around aimlessly, as though barely able to lift their heads. As Altaïr watched, he saw a man and a woman collide, and the woman fall, landing heavily on her backside. Neither acknowledged it, though. No surprise, no pain, no apologies or angry words. The man staggered a little, then moved off. The woman stayed seated, ignored by the other villagers.

Cautiously, Altaïr moved through them towards the tower, struck by the silence, just the sound of dragging feet and the odd murmur.

‘The will of the Master must be obeyed,’ he heard.

‘O Al Mualim. Guide us. Command us.’

‘The world will be cleansed. We will begin anew.’

The new order, he thought, dictated by the Knights Templar, yes, but one Templar above all. Al Mualim.

He came into the entrance hall of the tower, no guards there to greet him. Just the same sense of thick, empty air. As though an invisible mist hung over the entire complex. Looking up he saw that a wrought-iron gate was open. The gate that led to the courtyard and gardens at the rear of the tower. Wisps of light seemed to hang in the air by the portal, as though beckoning him onwards, and he hesitated, knowing that to go through was to play into Al Mualim’s hands. Though, surely, if the Master wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. He drew his sword and ascended the stairs, realizing that he’d instinctively thought of Al Mualim as ‘the Master’ when he was no longer Altaïr’s master. He had ceased to be his master the moment Altaïr had discovered that Al Mualim was a Templar. He was the enemy now.

He stopped at the doorway to the garden. Took a deep breath. What lay on the other side he had no idea, but there was only one way to find out.

33

It was dark in the garden. Altaïr could hear the low babble of a stream and the soothing cascade of a waterfall, but otherwise the air was still. He came to a marble terrace, the surface smooth beneath his boots, and he looked around, squinting at the dark, irregular shapes of trees and pavilions dotted about him.

Suddenly he heard a noise from behind him. The gate slammed shut and there was a clank as though a bolt had been thrown by unseen hands.

Altair spun. His eyes went up and he saw Al Mualim standing on the balcony of his library, looking down at him on the terrace. He held something: the Treasure taken from the Temple Mount, the Piece of Eden. It glowed with a power that painted Al Mualim a dusky orange, which intensified as Altaïr watched.

Suddenly the Assassin was gripped by an incredible pain. He screamed – and found that he was being raised from the ground, imprisoned by a shimmering cone of bright light controlled by the outstretched hand of Al Mualim, the Apple pulsing like a muscle flexing and tensing.

‘What’s happening?’ cried Altaïr, defenceless in the artefact’s grasp, paralysed by it.

‘So the student returns,’ said Al Mualim, evenly. He spoke with a victor’s assurance.

‘I’ve never been one to run,’ returned Altaïr, defiant.

Al Mualim chortled. None of this – none of it – seemed to bother him. ‘Never been one to listen, either,’ he said.

‘I still live because of it.’ Altaïr struggled against his invisible bonds. The Apple pulsed in response and the light seemed to press in on him, restricting him even more.

‘What will I do with you?’ Al Mualim smiled.

‘Let me go,’ snarled Altaïr. He had no throwing knives but, free of these shackles, he could reach the old man in just a few bounds. Al Mualim would have a few last moments to admire his climbing skills before Altaïr slid his blade into his gut.

‘Oh, Altair. I hear the hatred in your voice,’ said Al Mualim. ‘I feel its heat. Let you go? That would be unwise.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Altaïr.

Al Mualim seemed to consider. ‘I believed once. Did you know that? I thought there was a God. A God who loved and looked after us, who sent prophets to guide and comfort us. Who made miracles to remind us of his power.’

‘What changed?’

‘I found proof.’

‘Proof of what?’

‘That it is all an
illusion
.’

And with a wave of his hand he released Altaïr from the imprisoning light. Altaïr expected to drop, then realized he had never been suspended at all. Confused, he looked around himself, sensing a new change in the atmosphere, a building of pressure he felt in his eardrums, like the moments before a storm. Above him on the library balcony, Al Mualim was raising the Apple above his head, intoning something.

‘
Come
. Destroy the betrayer. Send him from this world.’

Suddenly figures were appearing around Altaïr, snarling, teeth bared, ready for combat; figures he recognized but found hard to place at first – but then did: they were his nine targets, his nine victims returned from the other life to this one.

He saw Garnier de Naplouse, who stood wearing his blood-stained apron, a sword in his hand, looking at Altair with pitying eyes. He saw Tamir, who held his dagger, his eyes glinting with evil intent, and Talal, his bow over his shoulder, sword in hand. William de Montferrat, who grinned wickedly, drew his weapon and grounded it, biding his time before the attack. Abu’l Nuqoud and Majd Addin were there, Jubair, Sibrand and, last, Robert de Sable.

All of his targets, sent from the world by Altaïr and summoned back to it by Al Mualim so that they might have their revenge.

And they attacked.

Majd Addin he was pleased to dispatch first, for a second time. Abu’l Nuqoud was as fat and comical in his resurrected form as he had been the first time around. He sank to his knees on the point of Altaïr’s sword, but 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 Altaïr. 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 Altaïr’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 Altaïr 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 Altaïr was alone in the garden with Al Mualim.

‘Face me,’ demanded Altaïr, 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 Altaïr. He still held the Apple. He clasped it as though he was proffering it to Altaïr and his face was bathed in its light. ‘I am not afraid,’ said Al Mualim.

‘Prove it,’ challenged Altaïr, 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 Altaïr’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 Altaïr, and once again he was fighting. Once again the garden rang to the chimes of crashing steel – and as the copies fell beneath Altaïr’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 Altaïr. ‘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.’

Altaïr’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.’

Altaïr’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 Altaïr, 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 Altaïr. ‘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 Altaïr.

‘Do they? Aside from the occasional convert or heretic?’

‘It isn’t right,’ snapped Altaïr.

‘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 Altaïr, 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, Altaïr. You were my very best student.’

Altaïr watched the years fall away from Al Mualim as he took up position, readying his sword and forcing Altaïr to do the same. He skipped to the side, testing Altaïr’s guard, and Altaïr 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 Altaïr defended, he adjusted the attack to a jab. Altaïr 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.