The Order's Strongest Years

Mirror and Image

The New Master

"Altair!"

The master assassin had collapsed, and the vision of the golden globe had disappeared back into the artifact. Malik ignored it with single-minded intent, instead dashing to the fallen assassin's side. His friend was a mess, the debacle in Jerusalem having already broken his fingers, to say nothing of whatever brutal fight he'd endured making his way to Robert de Sable. In Masyaf, Malik and the other assassins had watched as brothers, blind, unthinking, controlled brothers had beaten him, a young apprentice moving with skill of a master and stabbing Altair. Then, of course, there had been the brutal fight with Al Mualim himself. Malik had only seen a few brief moments of it, and had not realized that that battle, too, had taken its toll on the master assassin. His stab wound was bleeding profusely, and he gasped with the injury as Malik worked to rip off a coattail and roll it to staunch the bleeding.

"Malik," Altair asked, his soft tenor now dark and rough. "Is he dead? Is he truly dead? Or is this another illusion?"

The pain - not the physical but the emotional pain - on his face burned into Malik's mind, and he had to work through his own reaction to the sight before getting up and darting over to the old man's body. He saw the knife wounds Altair had inflicted on their teacher, and the puncture wound to the neck, blood still slowly seeping out. The sight was both disturbing and a relief at the same time. Al Mualim... he had done so much for the Order, had such a personal connection to everyone in the brotherhood, but that made the betrayal so much deeper. The hurt so much stronger. Grieving and rejoicing at the same time, Malik put his ear to the old man's mouth, looking to see if the chest would rise and fall.

Nothing tickled his ears, and no motion occurred.

"Yes," Malik said, releasing a breath he was not aware he had been holding. "He is dead."

Altair struggled, but eventually sat up, holding his side and pressing Malik's compress against his wound. "Cut his throat," he grunted.

"... What?"

"Cut his throat," Altair said again. If Malik didn't know the man better, he would have thought the master assassin was begging. He winced against a fresh wave of pain, before turning to look Malik in the eye. "Please, Malik," he said, "I need to be sure."

Something in his eyes spoke to the one-armed man, and with deft skill he pulled out a throwing knife - the last one in his arsenal after the diversionary attack - and ran it along the two key veins on either side of the old teacher's neck. Some blood leaked out, but very little, most of it pooled by the body's head.

"It's done," Malik said, slightly shocked at what he had just done. This man was like a father to him, to them, and he had just desecrated his body...

Altair slumped forward slightly, a heavy breath leaving his lungs. "I killed him four times..." he moaned, a four-fingered hand with broken fingers moving up to rub his face. "But he disappeared in light, I couldn't be sure..."

Malik left the body and was by Altair's side in an instant. "You've lost a lot of blood. You need rest. A night's sleep will help you feel convinced."

"I can't," Altair said, pulling his hand away to look up to Malik. "I have to be sure."

"Look, brother," Malik pressed, "After you've rested you can burn or bury or dismember the body for all I care, but you need strength first before you can do any of those things. If the old man is tricking us again, believe me, we will find out."

Altair eventually relented, but it only lasted for a few hours. Masyaf was a mess, the influence of the cursed artifact lingering and slow to fade. There were also the losses of brothers, controlled or otherwise, and the body count was higher than any attack by the Templars had ever staged. Malik kicked the ball of torment into Al Mualim's study, uncertain of how to destroy it, and it was the middle of the night when Altair sought him out.

"Stupid novice, what are you doing?" Malik demanded in a harsh whisper, respectful of the mourning and nightmares happening around him.

Altair shook his head. "We have to tell the others. They need to know what's happened here."

"That can wait-"

"No, it can't," the master assassin pressed. A hand went to his side, but with a deep breath he straightened. "You say you sent letters everywhere. You'll likely have responses by the dozens, you need to go to Jerusalem and tell them what's happened here, find out what's going on in Damascus and Ibtisam and why he wasn't here. Al Mualim's betrayal, it will bring chaos, and we need to contain it as quickly as possible before it turns into more tragedy. Enough..." he winced, but not from physical pain, "Enough have died."

Malik took a long moment to measure Altair, gauging, calculating, searching; ultimately, he nodded, and put his hand on the master assassin's shoulder. "Do nothing until I return," he said. "The old man's betrayal has hurt you most of all; you were the one who fought him. Take the time to think before you act rashly." He gave a crooked smile, "We don't want the others to find out what a novice you are."

Even that did not bring about a smile, and Malik knew that this was serious. Once he'd managed to cajole Altair to bed, he gathered up the men he had brought with him from Jerusalem and explained what his assignment was.

"Halim," he said, turning to the newly promoted journeyman, "I need you to keep an eye on Altair. Try to prevent him from doing something stupid."

The journeyman gave a stout nod. "Yes, dai. I'll do what I can."

"Good. Seosamh, work with Jabal to explain what's going on to the brothers that were under Al Mualim's control. They're very confused, and Altair was right that we need to clear this up as quickly as possible."

"Agreed," the Jewish journeyman said.

Leaving Masyaf had been more difficult than Malik had even imagined. Everything important was in there: his men, Altair, the other assassins, Al Mualim's corpse, the home of the Order, all of it was there and all of it was suffering. He felt like he was somehow abandoning them in riding back to Jerusalem, but he could not shake the frightening vision of Al Mualim invisible in the garden, his ears dying in a painful shriek generated from the artifact, and Altair unerringly throwing knives where the old man was. That was merely an illusion? The sorcery involved was terrifying.

So much had happened that Malik had nearly forgotten about the Saracen and Crusader armies, both were battered and licking their wounds in camps, the dai of Jerusalem had to be very careful on his ride, sticking to the less traveled but more difficult mountain roads. Life still occurred outside the Order, and Malik was forced to realize that it would be good to go back to Jerusalem - if for no other reason than his Bureau was closest to the armies and likely had the most information on their movements and future plants.

He was issuing orders as soon as he entered the Bureau, apprentices and journeymen alike flooding to him. He called for one meeting for most the members and explained - in painful detail - exactly what had happened in Masyaf since he left. He explained the state of the villagers, the beating Altair had sustained, brother fighting brother, the assault on the keep, and the sorcery involved in the battle with the mad master. Everyone listened with pale faces and shocked expressions.

"We have a job to do," Malik concluded. "We need to know what those Crusaders are doing and whether or not Salah ad-Din knows that some of his most trusted advisors were killed by us - and if so, whether or not he knows they were planning to betray him. We need to send a diplomat to him. Also, how many letters have we received in my absence? The rest of the Order needs to know what has happened. A representative from all the nearby cities, Acre, Damascus, Cairo, anyone who can ride or sail here in less than a month need to send a representative to create enough of a conclave to decide who the knew master will be."

"... Won't it be Altair?" someone asked.

Malik shook his head. "That is what the conclave is to decide."

He meted out assignments, having the novices draft copies of a letter he dictated to all the city leaders. After that, he sent an envoy to Salah ad-Din to visit Jerusalem.

Then came the waiting.

It was three weeks before he could meet with Salah ad-Din; in that time he absorbed every scrap of information about the two armies, learned what he could of the major battle that had happened at Arsuf, how Jaffa had at last fallen to Crusaders, replied to letters from other assassins, and sent a dozen letters himself to Masyaf to update Altair on what was happening. The last thing the Order needed was an information blackout.

The Sultan of the kingdom stood and waited patiently under the shade of the Dome of the Rock as Malik met with him, the most senior journeymen he had left at his side.

"Words speak of a conflict inside your own borders," Salah ad-Din said. "I am surprised that you have the time to call a meeting with me."

"You are right," Malik said, nodding his head and keeping level eyes on the sultan. "The conflict is being dealt with as we speak, but what is most troubling is the source: Templars."

Salah ad-Din nodded in turn. "They are a thorn in everyone's side."

"Especially yours."

"No more than Hospitaliers or any other Crusader force."

Malik offered a black smile. "Do you think so? Then perhaps you are not aware of the favor we have done for you."

The sultan's eyes narrowed. "...Favor?"

"Majd Addin, regent controlling Jerusalem after every other man you named was mysteriously killed. Jubair al Hakim, an 'illuminated' scholar from your court. Abu'l Nuquod, one of your chief financiers. What do these names mean to you?"

Salah ad-Din's eyes had narrowed even further, thoughts were running through his head. He knew those names, and damn well had his suspicions, but he held his tongue. Malik suspected as much and continued.

"Were you aware that they, and others, had affiliated themselves with the Templar cause? They were planning on killing you and Richard both, and use sorcery to control the entire Holy Land, perhaps even further. If you doubt me," he added, gesturing to his journeyman, who handed him several scrolls, "You need only look at these documents we apprehended from them and theirs. Note that one of them is the personal journal of Robert de Sable, grandmaster of the Templars. I've already made my copies, these are the originals, for you, to do with as you please."

The sultan sat down and examined the documents. Salah ad-Din was no fool - his belief in sorcery aside - and was shrewd when it came to tactical decisions. He was thorough in his reading, taking several hours to go through all the scrolls, checking back and forth for verification. The original handwriting of Robert de Sable was compelling, as was the account information for Abu'l Nuquod, and color completely drained from the sultans face when he read of Jubair's book burnings.

"Were it not for the handwriting of my own men, I would have thought this an assassyun trick, but I cannot deny it now." He returned the scrolls to Malik, which surprised the dai, before getting up and signaling to one of his men. "I will deal with these men personally, but I thank you for the information."

The one armed man smirked. "You've been chasing Richard too long, it seems," Malik said. "The assassins have already solved the problem for you: all of them are dead."

Salah ad-Din looked sharply to Malik. "What?" he demanded.

"They were Templars," he answered, shrugging his shoulders and grinning. "You of all people know what we think of their ideology. We would have dealt with them regardless, but I thought it would be a courtesy to keep you apprised of these recent developments."

"Ah, and now I begin to see why we are having this meeting," Salah ad-Din said. "You think you've done me a favor, and now you want me to do you one in return. I've already told you that defending Masyaf is on your own shoulders, I will not help if it falls under assault."

"Nor would we expect you to," Malik said, conceding the point. "Besides, I wouldn't dream of asking you a favor; we are allies, helping you helps us, we would not desire recompense for such honorable companions such as you. However," he said, drawing out the word. "Winter is approaching, and we all know how difficult it is to travel when entire mountain passes are buried in snow. My information tells me that Richard will be spending the season solidifying his claim on Jaffa, perhaps you can use that time to look through the rest of your inner circle, see if there are other traitors in your midst. Or maybe the two of you can settle this dispute over the heir of Jerusalem in the interim.

"After all," Malik said a deadly grin on his face, "We all want peace in this land. It is why we are allies, is it not? I would hate to think you are more interested in killing people than you are in ruling over them justly."

Color drained from the Sultan's face again, no doubt remembering the terrifying events that happened to him during his assault on Masyaf in the past.

"You judge me too rashly," he said, his voice strong even if his face had given him away. "I am a Muslim first and foremost. Chivalry, charity, honor come first. If Richard and his Crusader infidels can actually manage to understand reason and honor, I am more than willing to talk to him."

"Then we are agreed," Malik said, nodding. "Safety and peace, sultan."

Salah ad-Din nodded his head. "Safety and peace, assassyun. If nothing else, you've done right by me and mine since our alliance. I hope your conflict resolves itself."

After he turned and left, Malik's frown appeared, and he gave a deep sigh. "Let us hope," he whispered.

It was two days after that that he left Jerusalem, his work as complete as he could stand it, and rode back to Masyaf. If all went well, he would be in time for the conclave, the other Bureau leaders arriving, and they could settle succession of the Order.

The atmosphere in the village was tense as he entered. Even a month after the fact, the villagers looked to one another in confusion and disbelief. Trauma like what they had suffered would not disappear quickly, and Malik grieved that such an atrocity had occurred in his very home. Halim, the journeyman he had left in charge of looking after Altair, all but ran up to him.

"Master!" he said quickly, dressed in a guard uniform rather than the more invisible journeyman robes.

"You run like a Templar is at your tail, what has happened?"

"Not much in recent days," he said, "but just after you left! It was horrible! I don't know how he did it!"

"Slow down, brother," Malik said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulders. "What are you talking about? Did he do something stupid?"

Halim's face crunched together in indecision, thoughts racing, before finally explaining. "Master Altair, he wanted to make sure Al Mualim was dead, after the visions we saw in the garden I do not blame him. He arranged for a pyre the morning after you left. I tried to tell him to wait but he said he was well enough to no longer be rash. He... he burned the body on the cliffs overlooking the village. Everyone watched it; nobody knew what to make of it. Cremation... it's forbidden. Someone, he had been talking to Altair and he... he... he pushed Altair over the cliff!"

Malik saw red.

He would kill, kill the idiot who tried to murder a brother in cold blood when he still possessed his faculties. He could forgive those that had fallen under that cursed artifact's influence, but to have one's own mind and attack a brother? Inconceivable! The tenets were clear - do not compromise the brotherhood! Malik growled and resumed his trek up the mountain, Halim hard pressed to catch up, still explaining.

"It... It was chaos after that! Brother was fighting brother, some were against the cremation and wanted to do further harm to Altair, others knew what he was trying to do and were defending him, and Master Altair..."

It was just getting worse and worse. The Order had never been so divided; even more reason to kill the wretch who had started this. Malik spun on his heel when Halim stopped talking, the silence suddenly making him fear the worst. Assassins knew how to take a fall, but if there was no preparation, no haystack to soften the blow... "What about Altair?" he demanded.

Halim's face was slack with awe, a look Malik knew all too well from when he was the dai of Jerusalem. Halim's apprenticeship had been filled with that reverent look whenever Altair's name came up.

"He... he broke an arm in that fall," the young journeyman said, "but in spite of that and his other injuries, he took up the fight and... and he only disarmed the brothers. He grew a pile of swords at his feet instead of bodies. He... he did not break the Creed, and then..."

Malik worked to hide his stare. Altair had always been gifted, but there came a point when things were just beyond belief. Broken fingers, a stab wound that had only a night to heal, battered and bruised, and now a broken arm and the master assassin was still fighting? The one armed dai tried to remind himself that this was Halim, a boy who worshiped Altair, and to take his words with a grain of salt. But then, he had seen the new Altair, the one changed by his demotion and public humiliation; the new Altair had come to treasure the Creed, had asked Malik and Jabal and the others to not kill the brothers controlled by the Apple as they planned their assault, had asked Malik to survive and tell everyone what had happened in Masyaf if he failed to kill Al Mualim. It was all too easy to picture the changed master assassin fight to disarm brothers, and to neglect himself in the process. But... a broken arm?

"What happened next?" he asked.

"Abbas," Halim said, "The brother who pushed Altair... he had the Apple in his hand."

Malik paled.

"He must have taken it while we were fighting, he was up on the watchtower at the base of the keep. He and Altair shouted at each other about fathers, I didn't understand it, and then... and then... The artifact glowed, and everything hurt so much... everyone was screaming... we all fell to the ground... it was so hard to think past the pain..."

The only thing Malik could think to do was put his hand on Halim's shoulder, the teen's face wrought with emotion and remembered pain. He waited.

"I wasn't sure until after, but I thought I saw Master Altair get up. He seemed unaffected by those... pulses. He... he climbed the watchtower somehow, and was able to take the Apple and make it all stop. He's locked it away in the lower library for now, and nobody quite knows what to do. Your letters have helped; everyone breathed a sigh of relief when you reported setting up a meeting with Salah ad-Din - I assume it went well. Altair's been keeping to the keep, and Abbas... the man who tried to kill him... he had nightmares for two weeks after it all happened. We could all hear him screaming."

"You mean he is still alive?" Malik demanded.

Halim shrank back against the dai's vehemence. "Y... Yes. Master Altair won't let anyone kill him. He told us, and so far we're all obeying. I hope the conclave votes him as the new grandmaster."

Malik sighed. "Don't let your opinions cloud your judgment."

"I'm not!" the journeyman said, defensive. He caught himself, however, and changed his tone. "Master, I think Altair the best choice because he's the only one immune to the Apple, and he adheres to the Creed better than others, than almost anyone, and we know he's smart because he was able to learn of Al Mualim's betrayal, and..."

"Enough, Halim," Malik said, weary of trying to teach the teen how to think. He brought up compelling reasons, true, Altair's intelligence and newfound respect for the Creed would certainly help, but immunity to the artifact was moot once the damned thing was to be destroyed, and Altair still ran against tradition and was clearly still impulsive. Whatever tradition dictated, Malik privately agreed with burning the body. Al Mualim had done nothing to earn an honored funeral, and the added bonus of confirming his death actually made it a smart idea - but doing it so quickly after the battle, doing it on the lower cliffs in front of the entire village, that had been out and out idiocy.

He rubbed his face, scratching at his stubble, and made his way to the keep. He saw many faces he didn't know, rafiq and dai of other cities far away, having arrived because of Malik's letters. He did not know where or who Abbas was, but he had a good idea on where to find Altair, and so he made his way into the keep and up the many flights of stairs to a roof access. Sure enough, Altair was standing by one of the eagle statues, looking out over the village that sprawled below them. The wind this high up was downright chilly, and the scent of snow just barely danced in the air. It would be an early winter.

"You've been quite busy, novice," Malik said slowly over the wind, coming up to stand next to the master assassin. He could see the bindings on Altair's arm, the sling and tight wrappings that kept it from moving. He had broken an arm after all. Malik winced at the very thought, his missing arm twitching where it no longer existed.

"As have you," Altair said, his soft tenor only barely heard over the wind. "How did the meeting with Salah ad-Din go?"

"As I wanted it," Malik replied, allowing the avoidance for the moment. "He'll spend his winter looking through his ranks and sending envoys over to Richard. The Crusaders are busy 'fortifying' Jaffa. I don't know if he plans to take Jerusalem come spring, his ego seems to be satisfied with proving to the world that Salah ad-Din isn't infallible. We'll see."

The two looked out over Masyaf on either side of the eagle statue. Neither said anything for a long time.

But, then,

"Why is this man, Abbas, still alive?"

Altair remained perfectly still; made no motion that he had even heard Malik, and the one armed dai almost thought he would have to repeat himself.

"... because he is a brother," was the soft reply.

Altair turned suddenly and made his way to the roof access, Malik quick to follow. "He tried to kill you!"

"No, he tried to kill his inner demons."

"And what does that mean? Altair!"

They made their way down a steep, narrow, circular staircase, Malik trailing after the master assassin and uncertain if the man was running away or not. When Altair suddenly stopped the dai almost ran into him, but the master assassin turned and looked up at him, his brown eyes almost golden.

"Abbas is chained to his father, and sees me as the center of his strife," he said slowly, softly. "On reflection, what I did was the right thing to do, but how I did it was not, and he has blamed me ever since."

Malik frowned, trying to understand. "What are you talking about?" he pressed hoping for more.

But Altair turned back around, closing the topic permanently. "I'm sure everyone saw your arrival; now that you're here the conclave can meet and decide who the next grandmaster is. I'm sure you'll have to give a report, too, on the work you've done in Jerusalem, everyone is anxious about Salah ad-Din and Richard, and they will be relieved to know we at least have the winter to wash away all this blood."

Author's Notes: Yes, yes, another AC fic.

First and foremost, a HUGE thanks to our beta Tenshi. It's so rare that we even have a beta, and getting one for this was great. She helped catch typos we both missed and, most important of all, helped divide this 65 page fic into manageable parts.

The point of this fic is to cover the 30 gap between Altair memory sequences in ACR. You don't have to play ACR to know what's going on, but that was the inspiration for this fic. This is also based - very loosely - to our AC Novelization and a fic called It Must Be You. Neither of these are necessary to read this fic, either, but names like Halim and Ibtisam may make more sense if you have. If not, they're just throw-away characters regardless.

This fic jumps around in time a bit - we have 30 years to cover, after all - so keep that in mind if you suddenly find yourself five year ahead of where you left off.

We hope you enjoy.