Altair heard movement in the gallery.
‘You did not call me here,’ he shouted. ‘I came on my own.’
Laughter echoed from the balconies above him.
‘Did you?’ scoffed Talal. ‘Who unbarred the door? Cleared the path? Did you raise your blade against a single man of mine, hmm? No. All this I did for you.’
Something moved on the ceiling above the gallery, throwing a patch of light on to the stone floor.
‘Step into the light, then,’ called Talal from above, ‘and I will grant you one final favour.’
Again, Altair told himself that if Talal wanted him dead his archers would have filled him with arrows by now, and he stepped into the light. As he did so, masked men appeared from the shadows of the gallery, jumping down and noiselessly surrounding him. They regarded him with dispassionate eyes, their swords hanging by their sides, their chests rising and falling.
Altair swallowed. There were six of them. ‘Little challenge’ they were not.
Then there came footsteps from above and he looked to the gallery where Talal had moved out of the half-light and now stood gazing down at him. He wore a striped tunic and a thick belt. Over his shoulder was a bow.
‘Now I stand before you,’ he said, spreading his hands, smiling as though warmly welcoming a guest to his household. ‘What is it you desire?’
‘Come down here.’ Altair indicated with his sword. ‘Let us settle this with honour.’
‘Why must it always come to violence?’ replied Talal, sounding almost disappointed in Altair, before adding, ‘It seems I cannot help you, Assassin, for you do not wish to help yourself. And I cannot allow my work to be threatened. You leave me no choice: you must die.’
He waved to his men.
Who lifted their swords.
Then attacked.
Altair grunted and found himself fending off two at once, pushing them back, then straight away turning his attention to a third. The others waited their turn: their strategy, he quickly realized, was to come at him two at a time.
He could handle that. He grabbed one, pleased to see his eyes widen in shock above his mask, then threw him backwards into a fifth man, the pair of them smashing into a scaffold that disintegrated around them. Altair pressed home his advantage and, stabbing with his swordpoint, heard a scream and a death rattle from the man sprawled on the stone.
His assailants reassembled, glancing at one another as they slowly circled him. He turned with them, sword held out, smiling, almost enjoying himself now. Five of them, trained, masked killers, against a lone Assassin. They had thought him easy prey. He could see it in their faces. One skirmish later and they weren’t quite so certain.
He chose one. An old trick taught to him by Al Mualim for when facing multiple opponents.
Altair very deliberately fixed his gaze on a guard directly in front of him…
Don’t ignore the others but home in on one. Make him your target. Let him know he’s your target.
He smiled. The guard whimpered.
Then finish him.
Like a snake, Altair struck, coming at the guard, who was too slow to react – who stared down at Altair’s blade as it thrust into his chest, then groaned as he sank to his knees. With a tearing of meat, Altair withdrew his sword, then turned his attention to the next man.
Choose one of your opponents…
The guard looked terrified, not like a killer now, as his sword began trembling. He shouted something in a dialect Altair didn’t understand, then came forward messily, hoping to bring the battle to Altair, who sidestepped, slashing at the man’s stomach, gratified to see glistening insides spill from the wound. From above Talal’s voice cajoled his men to attack even as another fell and the two remaining attacked at once. They didn’t look so intimidating now, masks or not. They looked like what they were: frightened men about to die.
Altair took another down, blood fountaining from a slashed neck. The last turned and ran, hoping to find shelter in the gallery. But Altair sheathed his sword, palmed a pair of throwing knives, which spun, glittering – one, two – into the escaping man’s back so that he fell from the ladder. Escaping no more.
Altair heard running footsteps from above. Talal making his escape. Bending to retrieve his knives, he took the ladder himself, reaching the second level just in time to see Talal scramble up a second series of steps to the roof.
The Assassin went after him, arriving through a hatch in the top of the warehouse and only just jerking his head back in time as an arrow smacked, quivering, into the wood beside him. He saw the bowman on a far rooftop, already fitting a second shaft, and pulled himself from the hatch, rolling forward on the rooftop and tossing two knives, still wet with the blood of their previous victim.
The archer screamed and fell, one knife protruding from his neck, the other in his chest. Further across, Altair saw Talal darting across a bridge between housing then jumping to a scaffold and shimmying down into the street. There, he craned his neck, saw Altair already following him, and set off at a run.
Altair was already gaining. He was quick and, unlike Talal, he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Which meant he wasn’t barrelling into unsuspecting pedestrians as Talal was: women who screeched and reprimanded him, men who swore and shoved him back.
All this slowed his progress through the streets and markets, so that soon he had squandered his lead, and when he turned his head Altair could see the whites of his eyes.
‘Flee now,’ Talal screamed over his shoulder, ‘while you still can. My guards will be here soon.’
Altair chuckled. Kept running.
‘Give up this chase and I’ll let you live,’ screeched Talal. Altair said nothing. Kept up his pursuit. Nimbly, he wove through the crowds, hurdling the goods that Talal pulled behind himself to slow his pursuer. Altair was gaining on Talal now, the chase almost done.
Ahead of him Talal turned his head once more, saw that the gap was closing and tried appealing to Altair again.
‘Hold your ground and hear me out,’ he bellowed, desperation in his voice. ‘Perhaps we can make a deal.’
Altair said nothing, just watched as Talal turned again. The slave trader was now about to collide with a woman whose face was hidden by several flasks. Neither of them was looking where they were going.
‘I’ve done nothing to you,’ shouted Talal, forgetting, presumably, that just minutes ago he had sent six men to kill Altair. ‘Why do you persist in chasing -’
The breath left his body in a whoosh, there was a tangle of arms and legs and Talal crashed to the sand along with the flask woman, whose wares smashed around them.
Talal tried scrambling to his feet but was too slow and Altair was upon him. Snick. As soon as his greedy blade appeared he had sunk it into the man, and was kneeling beside him, blood already gushing from Talal’s nose and mouth. At their side, the flask woman dragged herself to her feet, red-faced and indignant, about to let fly at Talal. On seeing Altair and his blade, not to mention the blood leaking from Talal, she changed her mind and dashed off wailing. Others gave them a wide berth, sensing something was amiss. In Jerusalem, a city accustomed to conflict, the inhabitants preferred not to stand and stare at violence for fear of becoming part of it.
Altair leaned close to Talal. ‘You’ve nowhere to run now,’ he said. ‘Share your secrets with me.’
‘My part is played, Assassin,’ responded Talal. ‘The Brotherhood is not so weak that my death will stop its work.’
Altair’s mind flashed back to Tamir. He, too, had spoken of others as he died. He, too, had mentioned brothers. ‘What Brotherhood?’ he pressed.
Talal managed a smile. ‘Al Mualim is not the only one with designs upon the Holy Land. And that’s all you’ll have from me.’
‘Then we are finished. Beg forgiveness from your God.’
‘There is no God, Assassin.’ Talal laughed weakly. ‘And if there ever was, he’s long abandoned us. Long abandoned the men and women I took into my arms.’