Revelations

FORTY-FIVE

Altair fled before they could react-fled from the castle, through its gaping portal, down the escarpment, and into the sparse wood that bounded the area between fortress and village on the northern side. And there, in a clearing, as if by a miracle, he was brought short by an encounter with another man, like him, but a generation younger.

“Father!” exclaimed the newcomer. “I came as soon as I’d read your message. What has happened? Am I too late?”

From the castle behind them, horns were crying out the alarm.

“Darim! My son! Turn back!”

Darim looked past his father, over his shoulder. There, on the ridges beyond the wood, he could see bands of Assassins assembling, getting ready to hunt them down. “Have they all gone mad?”

“Darim-I still have the Apple. We have to go. Abbas must not get his hands on it.”

For answer, Darim unslung his pack and drew a scabbard of throwing knives from it before placing it on the ground. “There are more knives in there, take them if you need them.”

The Assassins loyal to Abbas had seen them by then, and some were heading toward them while others fanned out to outflank them.

“They’ll try to ambush us,” said Altair grimly. “Keep a good stock of knives with you. We must be prepared.”

They made their way through the wood, going ever deeper.

It was a perilous passage. Often, they had to take cover as they spotted groups of Assassins who’d got ahead of them or who tried to take them from the side, or obliquely, from behind.

“Stay close!” Darim said. “We go together.”

“We’ll try to work our way around. There are horses in the village. Once we’ve got mounts, we’ll try to make for the coast.”

Up until then, Darim had been too preoccupied with their immediate danger to think of anything else, but now he said, “Where is Mother?”

Altair shook his head, sadly. “She is gone, Darim. I am sorry.”

Darim took a breath. “What? How?”

“Later. Time for talk later. Now we have to get clear. We have to fight.”

“But they are our Brothers. Our fellow Assassins. Surely we can talk-persuade them.”

“Forget reason, Darim. They have been poisoned by lies.”

There was silence between them. Then Darim said, “Was it Abbas who killed my brother?”

“He killed your brother. He killed our great comrade, Malik Al-Sayf. And countless others,” replied Altair, bleakly.

Darim bowed his head. “He is a madman. Without remorse. Without conscience.”

“A madman with an army.”

“He will die,” said Darim, coldly. “One day, he will pay.”

They reached the outskirts of the village and were lucky to make their way to the stables unmolested, for the village itself was teeming with Assassin warriors. Hastily, they saddled up and mounted. As they rode away, they could hear Abbas’s voice, bellowing like a beast in pain as he stood atop a small tower in the village square. “I will have the Apple, Altair! And I will have your HEAD, for all the dishonor you have brought upon my family! You cannot run forever! Not from us, and not from your lies!”

His voice faded into the distance as they galloped away.

Five miles down the road, they reined in. They had not-as yet-been pursued. They had gained time. But Darim, riding behind him, noticed that his father sat slumped in the saddle, exhausted and anguished. He spurred his horse closer and looked into Altair’s face with concern.

Altair sat low, hunched, on the verge of tears.

“Maria. My love…” Darim heard him murmur.

“Come, Father,” he said. “We must ride on.”

Making a supreme effort, Altair kicked his horse into a gallop, and the two of them sped away, specks disappearing into the forbidding landscape.