Oliver Bowden - The Secret Crusade

‘You’re right,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Then how shall we proceed?’

‘We must confront Abbas. We must dispute the accusation made against our son’s murderer. The Order will have to accept that, and Abbas will be forced to answer for himself.’

‘It will be the word of Malik against Abbas and his agent, whoever that is.’

‘A weasel like Abbas? His agent is even less trustworthy, I should imagine. The Brotherhood will believe you, my love. They will want to believe you. You are the great Altair. If you can resist your desire for revenge, if you can take back the Order by fair means, not foul, then the foundations you lay will be even stronger.’

‘I shall see him now,’ said Altair, standing.

They checked to make sure that Malik was asleep, then left, taking a torch. With early-morning mist swirling at their feet, they walked fast around the outside of the inner curtain and then to the main gate. Behind them were the slopes of Masyaf, the village empty and silent, yet to awake from its slumber. A sleepy Assassin guard looked them over, insolent in his indifference, and Altair found himself fighting his rage, but they passed the man, climbed the barbican and went into the main courtyard.

A bell sounded.

It was not a signal Altair knew. He raised his torch and looked around, the bell still ringing. Then he sensed movement from within the towers overlooking the courtyard. Maria urged him on and they came to the steps leading to the dais outside the Master’s tower. Now Altair turned and saw that white-robed Assassins carrying flaming torches were entering the courtyard behind them, summoned by the bell, which stopped suddenly.

‘I wish to see Abbas,’ Altair told the guard at the door to the tower, his voice loud and calm in the eerie silence. Maria glanced behind, and at her sharp intake of breath Altair turned. He gasped. The Assassins were assembling. All were looking at himself and Maria. For a moment he wondered if they were in some kind of thrall, but no. The Apple was with him, safely tucked into his robe, and dormant. These men were waiting.

For what? Altair had a feeling he was soon to find that out.

Now the door to the tower was opening and Abbas was standing before them.

Altair felt the Apple – it was almost as though a person were prodding him in the back. Perhaps it was reminding him of its presence.

Abbas strode on to the platform. ‘Please explain why you broke into the Order’s cells.’

He was addressing the crowd as much as Altair and Maria. Altair glanced behind him and saw that the courtyard was full. The Assassins’ torches were like balls of flame in the dark.

So Abbas meant to discredit him in front of the Order. But Maria had been correct – he wasn’t up to the task. All Abbas had achieved was to accelerate his own downfall.

‘I meant to establish the truth about my son,’ said Altair.

‘Oh, really?’ smiled Abbas. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t to exact revenge?’

Swami had arrived. He climbed the steps to the platform. He was holding something in a burlap sack that he handed to Abbas, who nodded. Altair looked at the sack warily, his heart hammering. Maria too.

Abbas peered into the sack and gave a look of mock concern at what he saw inside. Then, with a theatrical air, he reached in and paused for a moment to enjoy the frisson of anticipation that ran through the assembly like a shiver.

‘Poor Malik,’ he said, and pulled out a disembodied head: the skin at the neck was ragged and dripping fresh blood, the eyeballs had rolled up, and the tongue protruded slightly.

‘ No! ’ Altair started forward, and Abbas motioned to the guards, who rushed forward, grabbing Altair and Maria, disarming Altair and pinning his hands behind his back.

Abbas dropped the head back into the sack and tossed it aside. ‘Swami heard you and the infidel plotting Malik’s death. What a shame we could not reach Malik in time to prevent it.’

‘ No! ’ shouted Altair. ‘Lies! I would never have killed Malik.’ Pulling at the guards who held him, he indicated Swami. ‘He’s lying.’

‘Is the dungeon guard lying, too?’ said Abbas. ‘The one who saw you drag Malik from his cell. Why did you not kill him there and then, Altair? Did you want to make him suffer? Did your English wife want to make vengeful cuts of her own?’

Altair struggled. ‘Because I did not kill him,’ he shouted, ‘I learned from him that it was you who ordered the murder of Sef.’

And suddenly he knew. He looked at Swami and saw his scorn, and knew that he had killed Sef. He felt the Apple at his back. With it he could lay waste to the courtyard. Kill every treacherous dog among them. They would all feel his fury.

But no. He had promised never to use it in anger. He had promised Maria he wouldn’t allow his thoughts to be clouded by vengeance.

‘It is you who has broken the Creed, Altair,’ said Abbas. ‘Not I. You are unfit to lead the Order. I hereby assume leadership myself.’

‘You can’t do that,’ scoffed Altair.

‘I can.’ Abbas came down from the platform, reached for Maria and pulled her to him. In the same movement he produced a dagger that he held to her throat. She scowled and struggled, cursing him, until he jabbed the dagger at her neck, drawing blood and calming her. She held Altair’s gaze over his arm, sending messages with her eyes, knowing that the Apple would be calling to him. She, too, had realized that Swami had killed Sef. Just like Altair she would crave retribution. Her eyes pleaded with him to keep calm.

‘Where is the Apple, Altair?’ said Abbas. ‘Show me, or I shall open the infidel a new mouth.’

‘Do you hear this?’ called Altair, over his shoulder, to the Assassins. ‘Do you hear how he plans to take the leadership? He wants the Apple not to open minds but to control them.’

It was searing his back now.

‘Tell me now, Altair,’ repeated Abbas. He prodded harder with the dagger and Altair recognized the knife. It had belonged to Abbas’s father. It was the dagger Ahmad had used to cut his own throat in Altair’s room a whole lifetime ago. And now it was being held to Maria’s.

He fought to control himself. Abbas pulled Maria along the dais, appealing to the crowd: ‘Do we trust Altair with the Piece of Eden?’ he asked them. In return there was a noncommittal murmur. ‘Altair who exercises his temper in place of reason? Should he not be compelled to hand it over without recourse to this?’

Altair craned to see over his shoulder. The Assassins were shifting uncomfortably, talking among themselves, still in shock at the turn of events. His eyes went to the burlap bag and then to Swami. There was blood on Swami’s robes, he noticed, as though he’d been hit by a fine spray of it: Malik’s blood. And Swami was grinning, his scar crinkled. Altair wondered if he had grinned when he stabbed Sef.

‘You can have it,’ called Altair. ‘You can have the Apple.’

‘No, Altair,’ cried Maria.

‘Where is it?’ asked Abbas. He remained at the end of the dais.

‘I have it,’ said Altair.

Abbas looked concerned. He pulled Maria closer to him, using her as a shield. Blood poured from where he’d nicked her with the knife. At a nod from Abbas the guards loosened their grip on Altair, who reached for the Apple, bringing it from within his robe.

Swami reached for it. Touched it.

And then, very quietly, so that only Altair could hear, he said, ‘I told Sef it was you who ordered his death. He died believing his own father had betrayed him.’

The Apple was glowing and Altair had failed to control himself. Swami, his hand on the Apple, suddenly tautened, his eyes popping wide.

Then his head was tilting to one side, his body shifting and writhing as though it were operated by some force inside. His jaws opened but no words came out. The inside of his mouth glowed gold. His tongue worked within it. Then, compelled by the Apple, he stepped away, and all watched as his hands went to his face and he began to tear at the flesh there, gouging deep trenches in it with his fingernails. Blood ran from the churned skin and still he mauled himself, as though he were attacking dough, ripping at the skin of his cheek and tearing a long flap from it, wrenching at one ear, until it dangled from the side of his face.