Oliver Bowden: The Secret Crusade

‘Whose faith, Altair?’

Altair waved an arm. ‘Yours. That of the people and of the Assassins.’

‘And how will you restore it?’ asked Mukhlis.

‘By example,’ replied Altair, ‘a little at a time.’

The next day Altair went out into the village where he began not simply to preach the way of the Assassins but to demonstrate it.

There had been fights in which Altair had had to intervene, disputes between traders that had required his moderation, land arguments between neighbours, but none had been as thorny as that of the two women who appeared to be fighting over a man. The man in question, Aaron, sat on a bench in the shade, cowering as the two women argued. Mukhlis, who had walked the village with Altair as he went about his business, was trying to intercede, while Altair stood at one remove, his arms folded, patiently waiting for a break in hostilities so that he might speak to them. He’d already decided what to say: Aaron would have to exercise free will in this instance, whether he liked it or not. Altair’s real concerns lay with the boy, whose fever had yet to break and to whom he had administered a potion, its recipe, of course, gleaned from the Apple.

Or with the basket weaver who was creating new tools for himself to specifications given to him by Altair, who had transcribed them from the Apple.

Or to the blacksmith, who had cast his eye over the drawings Altair had given him, turned them upside down and squinted at them, then laid them out on a table so that Altair could point out exactly what needed forging. Soon the Assassin would have new equipment; new weapons, the like of which had never been seen.

Or to the man who had been watching him these past few days, who had moved with him like a shadow, staying out of sight, or so he thought. Altair had seen him at once, of course. He had noted his bearing, had known he was an Assassin.

It had had to happen, of course. Abbas would have sent his agents into the village in order to learn about the stranger who fought with the hidden blade of the Assassin. Abbas would surely come to the conclusion that Altair had returned to reclaim the Order. Maybe he hoped that the brigands would kill Altair for him; maybe he would send a man down the slopes to kill him. Perhaps this shadow was also Altair’s Assassin.

Still the women argued. Mukhlis said, from the side of his mouth, ‘Master, it seems I was mistaken. These women are not arguing about who should have the unfortunate Aaron, but who should take him.’

Altair chuckled. ‘My judgment would remain the same,’ he said, casting an amused look to where Aaron sat chewing his fingernails. ‘It is for the young man to decide his own destiny.’ He stole a glance at his shadow, who sat in the shade of the trees, mud-coloured robes pulled around him, looking for all the world like a snoozing villager.

To Mukhlis he said, ‘I shall return presently. Their talk is giving me a thirst.’

He turned and left the small group, some of whom were about to follow until Mukhlis surreptitiously waved them back.

Altair sensed rather than saw his shadow stand also, following him as he walked into a square and to the fountain at its centre. There he bent, drank, and stood, pretending to take in the view over the village below. Then…

‘It’s all right,’ he said, to the man he knew stood behind him. ‘If you were going to kill me you would have done it by now.’

‘You were just going to let me do it?’

Altair chuckled. ‘I have not spent my life walking the path of a warrior in order to let myself be taken by a young pup at a fountainhead.’

‘You heard me?’

‘Of course I heard you. I heard you approach with all the stealth of an elephant and I heard that you favour your left side. Were you to attack I should move to my right in order to meet your weaker side.’

‘Wouldn’t I anticipate that?’

‘Well, that would depend on the target. You would, of course, know your target well and be aware of their combat skills.’

‘I know that this one has combat skills unmatched, Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.’

‘Do you indeed? You would have been but a child when I last called Masyaf my own.’

Now Altair turned to face the stranger, who pulled down his hood to reveal the face of a young man, perhaps twenty years old, with a dark beard. He had a set to his jaw and eyes that Altair recognized.

‘I was,’ said the boy. ‘I was a new-born.’

‘Then were you not indoctrinated against me?’ said Altair, jutting his chin towards the citadel on the promontory above them. It crouched there as if watching them.

‘Some are more easily indoctrinated than others,’ said the boy. ‘There are many who have remained loyal to the old codes, and greater numbers, as the pernicious effects of the new ways have become more pronounced. But I have even more reason to remain loyal than most.’

The two Assassins stood facing each other by the fountainhead, and Altair sensed his world lurch a little. Suddenly he felt almost faint. ‘What is your name?’ he asked, and his voice sounded disembodied to his own ears.

‘I have two names,’ said the boy. ‘I have the name by which I’m known to most of the Order, which is Tazim. But I have another name, my given name, given to me by my mother to honour my father. He died when I was but a baby, put to death on the orders of Abbas. His name was…’

‘Malik.’ Altair caught his breath and came forward, tears pricking his eyes as he took the boy by the shoulders. ‘My child,’ he exclaimed. ‘I should have known. You have your father’s eyes.’ He laughed. ‘His stealth I’m not so sure about, but… you have his spirit. I didn’t know – I never knew he had a son.’

‘My mother was sent away from here after he was imprisoned. As a young man I returned to join the Order.’

‘To seek revenge?’

‘Eventually, maybe. Whatever best suited his memory. Now that you have come, I see the way.’

Altair put an arm around his shoulders, steered him from the fountain, and they crossed the square, talking intently.

‘How are your combat skills?’ he asked the young Malik.

‘Under Abbas such things have been neglected, but I have trained. Assassin knowledge has barely advanced in the last twenty years, though.’

Altair chuckled. ‘Not here, perhaps. But here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘ Here Assassin learning has progressed tenfold. I have such things to show the Order. Plans. Stratagem. Designs for new weapons. Even now the village blacksmith forges them for me.’

Respectful villagers moved out of their way. All knew of Altair now, and here, in the foothills of the fortress at least, he was the Master once again.

‘And you say there are others in the castle loyal to me?’ said Altair.

‘There are as many who hate Abbas as serve him. More so, now that I have been reporting on what I have seen in the village. News that the great Altair has returned is spreading slowly but surely.’

‘Good,’ said Altair. ‘And could these supporters be persuaded to rally, so that we might march upon the castle?’

The young Malik stopped and looked at Altair, squinting as though to check the older man wasn’t joking. Then he grinned. ‘You mean to do it. You really mean to do it. When?’

‘The brigand Fahad will be bringing his men into the village soon,’ he said. ‘We need to be in control before that happens.’

The next morning, as day broke, Mukhlis, Aalia and Nada went from house to house, informing the people that the Master was to march up the hill. Alive with anticipation, the people gathered in the marketplace, standing in groups or sitting on low walls. After some time, Altair joined them. He wore his white robes and a sash. Those who looked closely could see the ring of his wrist mechanism on his finger. He moved into the centre of the square, Mukhlis standing to one side, a trusted lieutenant, and waited.