Templar's Creed

Chapter 6

As I reached the door, I risked a glance over my shoulder. Richard had stopped his pursuit, his blade lowered. "We will meet again, Altaïr," he called out, his voice echoing in the now-silent chamber. "If you do not find a way to walk a different path, we will be enemies forever." His words were a warning, a promise of battles to come.

I didn't stop running until I was back at the fortress of Masyaf, my chest heaving with the exertion. I stumbled into Al Mualim's chamber, the candlelight flickering over his face, casting shadows that danced like demons in the night. "Al Mualim," I panted, "the king...he knows of us. He came to Acre, to the bureau...he stopped me from killing my target."

Al Mualim's expression remained stoic, his eyes the calm center of a storm. "Tell me everything," he instructed, his voice as cold and sharp as the steel of my blade.

I recounted my encounter with Richard, the king's knowing smile, his words that had cut deeper than any sword. The room grew colder as I spoke, the candles flickering as if in response to the gravity of the situation. "He knows of the Order," I finished, my voice barely above a whisper. "He knows what we do."

Al Mualim's expression remained unchanged, his eyes unblinking as he digested my words. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Then, slowly, he stood, his robes billowing around him like a dark cloud. "This complicates matters," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within the very stones of the chamber.

"He knows my name," I said, my voice hollow with the weight of the revelation. "He knows of the Order, and he does not intend to stand idly by while we dismantle the Templars."

Al Mualim's gaze grew distant, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight as he absorbed my words. He was a man of great wisdom, a leader whose calmness was both comforting and unsettling in the face of adversity. For a brief moment, I saw a flicker of something else in his gaze, a hint of fear perhaps, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Altaïr," he began, his voice measured, "you have done well to bring this to my attention. The fact that Richard the Lionheart has personally intervened is troubling indeed." His words were like a cool breeze, calming the storm of emotions that raged within me. "We must be cautious. The Templars are a formidable enemy, but one that operates in the shadows. To have the might of a king at their command is a complication we had not foreseen."

Al Mualim paused, stroking his beard in contemplation. The candlelight danced across his face, casting him in a contemplative glow. "Your mission now is to strike a blow that will resonate throughout the Holy Land," he continued. "I want you to gather a force of one thousand five hundred men. We will attack a Templar outpost outside of Damascus. It is a strategic location, one that they believe is secure, surrounded by a lake with massive wooden spears as its first line of defense."

The gravity of the task settled upon me like a heavy cloak. "But how can we breach such defenses?" I asked, my mind racing.

"The key lies in the very thing that protects them," Al Mualim said, a glint in his eye. "The lake around the outpost. We will turn their strength into their weakness."

The night of the attack, I approached the outpost with a sense of trepidation and excitement. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the lake and the imposing wooden spears that surrounded the camp. They stood tall and proud, a silent sentinel to the Templars' supposed invincibility. But in the quiet of the night, I saw the flaw in their defenses - not a single torch burned within the camp, a sign that they were most likely asleep. The Templars were overconfident, and their arrogance would be their downfall.

I gave the signal to my men, and with swift precision, we began to light the spears on fire. The flames licked at the dry wood, eager to consume it. The crackling and popping grew louder as the fire spread, sending plumes of smoke into the night sky. The smell of burning wood filled my nostrils, a scent that would forever be etched into my memory as the scent of victory.

Suddenly, the gates of the outpost burst open, and the armored Templars charged out, their swords gleaming in the moonlight. They had been waiting, it seemed, for the chaos of the fire to obscure their counterattack. The lake reflected the horror unfolding on its banks, the water dancing with the flickering flames.

The air was filled with the cries of dying men and the clang of steel on steel. The element of surprise had been ripped from our grasp, and in its place was a brutal reality check. The Templars fought with the ferocity of cornered animals, their discipline and training on full display. Each swing of their swords sent a spray of blood and sparks into the night, a gruesome dance of death that seemed to fuel their rage.

I watched as our men fell around me, their screams a chilling symphony that pierced the air. The Templars were indeed a formidable enemy, their will unshaken by the inferno that engulfed their fortress. They pushed through the flaming spears, the fire's embrace doing little to slow their advance. Their eyes gleamed with a fanaticism that sent shivers down my spine, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated precision of our own tactics.

And then, as if the very fabric of the night had been torn, I saw a head roll across the dirt, separated from its body by a swift Templar blade. One of our own, a young man with a face full of hope just moments before, now lifeless and forgotten in the carnage. The sight was a stark reminder of the reality of our war, a grim counterpoint to the lofty ideals that had driven us to this moment.