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Assassin –’
    Altaïr slammed his sword into the throat of the Christian, whose last word was a gurgle.
    But behind the escaping villagers and Assassins came more Templars, and Altaïr hesitated on the slope, wondering if now was the moment to take his final stand – die defending his people and escape his prison of shame.
    But no. There was no honour in a wasteful death, he knew, and he joined those retreating to the fortress, arriving as the gates were closing. Then he turned to look out on the scene of carnage outside, the beauty of Masyaf sullied by the bloodied bodies of the villagers, the soldiers and the Assassins.
    He looked down at himself. His robes were splashed with Templar blood but he himself was unharmed.
    ‘ Altaïr!’ The cry pierced his thoughts. Rauf again. ‘Come.’
    He felt weary all of a sudden. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘We have a surprise for our guests. Just do as I do. It should become clear soon enough …’ Rauf was pointing high above them to the ramparts of the fortress. Altaïr sheathed his sword and followed him up a series of ladders to the tower summit where the Assassin leaders were gathered, Al Mualim among them. Crossing the floor, he looked to the Master, who ignored him, his mouth set. Then Rauf was indicating one of three wooden platforms jutting out into the air, bidding him to take his place on it. He did so, taking a deep breath before he walked carefully to the edge.
    And now he stood at the top of Masyaf, able to look down upon the valley. He felt air rushing around him; his robe fluttered in the wind and he saw flocks of birds gliding and swooping on warm pockets of air. He felt giddy with the height yet breathless with the spectacle: the rolling hills of the countryside, cast in lush green; the shimmering water of the river; bodies, now specks on the slopes.
    And Templars.
    The invading army had gathered on the upland in front of a watchtower, close to the gates of the fortress. At their head was Robert de Sable, who now stepped forward, looking up to the ramparts where the Assassins stood, and addressed Al Mualim.
    ‘ Heretic! ’ he roared. ‘Return what you have stolen from me.’
    The treasure. Altaïr’s mind drifted momentarily to the box on Al Mualim’s desk. It had seemed to glow …
    ‘You’ve no claim to it, Robert,’ replied the Master, his voice echoing across the valley. ‘Take yourself from here before I’m forced to thin your ranks further.’
    ‘You play a dangerous game,’ replied de Sable.
    ‘I assure you this is no game.’
    ‘So be it,’ came the reply.
    Something about the tone of his voice – Altaïr didn’t like it. Sure enough, de Sable turned to one of his men. ‘Bring forward the hostage.’
    From among their ranks they dragged the Assassin. He was bound and gagged and he writhed against his bonds as he was hauled roughly to the front of the assembly. His muffled cries rose to where Altaïr stood on the platform.
    Then, without ceremony, de Sable nodded to a soldier who stood nearby. He yanked the Assassin’s hair so that his throat was exposed and swept his blade across it, opening it, then let the body fall to the grass.
    The Assassins, watching, caught their breath.
    De Sable moved and stood near the body, resting one foot on the dying man’s back with his arms folded like a triumphant gladiator. There was murmur of disgust among the Assassins as he called up to Al Mualim, ‘Your village lies in ruins and your stores are hardly endless. How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain when the wells run dry and their food is gone?’ He could hardly keep the gloating note from his voice.
    But in reply Al Mualim was calm: ‘My men do not fear death, Robert. They welcome it – and the rewards it brings.’
    ‘Good,’ called de Sable. ‘Then they shall have it all around.’
    He was right, of course. The Templars could lay siege to Masyaf and prevent the Assassins receiving