Templar's Creed

Chapter 9

The blade sliced through the air, a silver streak in the red-orange glow of the lava below. It caught the edge of his armor, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness. Abu'l Nuqoud grunted in pain but did not release me. Instead, he used the momentum to pull himself up, his hands now wrapped around my waist. His grip was like iron, unyielding and unrelenting.

The heat from the lava was a living, breathing entity, wrapping around us like a fiery embrace. The air grew thick with the scent of burning stone and the acrid smell of fear. The weight of Abu'l Nuqoud was unbearable, his desperation feeding his strength. I could feel the edge of the pit crumbling beneath my fingertips, the promise of oblivion beckoning.

"It is not your time yet, Altaïr," he hissed in my ear, his breath hot and rancid.

For a moment, his words hung in the air, a taunt that stung like a slap to the face. And then, with a suddenness that left me reeling, Abu'l Nuqoud released his grip on my waist and let go.

He fell, his armor clattering against the rock face as he disappeared into the abyss. His screams were swallowed by the roar of the lava, a chilling cacophony that seemed to echo the anguish in my own soul. The sudden lightness was a stark contrast to the crushing weight of his presence, and for a brief moment, I was left dangling above the fiery pit, my world reduced to the jagged edge of the cavern floor.

I pulled myself up with a grunt, my muscles screaming in protest. My eyes searched the darkness below for any sign of my men, but the lava had claimed them all. The sight was a blow to my very essence, a brutal reminder of the cost of our failure. The artifact lay forgotten in the corner of the chamber, its gleam dimmed by the horror that had unfolded.

With heavy steps, I approached the edge of the pit, the heat of the lava still a palpable presence against my skin. The cavern was eerily silent, save for the occasional pop and crackle of the cooling stone. The torches cast flickering shadows across the floor, as if the very walls mourned the loss of our comrades.

The walk back to Masyaf was a torturous march, each step a painful reminder of the lives lost in the fiery embrace of the earth. The weight of their absence was a burden I bore alone, the silence of my fifty companions now a stark contrast to the vibrant energy they had brought to our mission.

As I approached the gates of the fortress, the guards' eyes widened in shock at the sight of me, singed and bloodied. I could see the question in their gazes: 'Where are the others?' But I had no words to give them, no comfort to ease the horror that awaited them when the truth was revealed.

With leaden steps, I climbed the stairs to Al Mualim's chamber, the weight of failure dragging me down. The door creaked open, and the light from the torches outside cast flickering shadows across the room. He looked up from his studies, his eyes immediately taking in my ravaged appearance. "Altaïr," he said, his voice filled with a mix of concern and anticipation. "What news do you bring?"

The words stuck in my throat, a jagged lump of grief and regret. "The Templar, Abu'l Nuqoud, is no more," I managed to say, my voice a mere whisper of what it once was. "But the artifact..." I paused, the pain of the admission nearly overwhelming me. "It was not found."

Al Mualim's expression was unreadable, a mask of stoicism that had seen countless battles and betrayals. "And your brothers?" he asked, his eyes searching mine.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, the words coming out ragged and raw. "Gone," I said, the pain of the admission cutting through me like a dagger. "Lost to the earth's embrace in the depths of the cave."

Al Mualim's gaze bore into me, his eyes a storm of emotions. "Their sacrifice will not be in vain," he said, his voice a solemn promise. "We will find another way to uncover the truth behind the Templars' quest for power."

The fortress of Masyaf seemed to close in around me, the weight of the loss pressing down like a heavy shroud. I could feel the eyes of the others upon me, their whispers a constant reminder of the failure that stained my name. But amidst the shadows of doubt, a flame of resolve flickered to life within my chest. This was not the end, but a new beginning, a chance to rise from the ashes of defeat and forge a new path to victory.

In the following weeks, Al Mualim and I pored over the ancient texts, seeking any clue that could lead us to the next piece of the puzzle. Our search was relentless, fueled by the memory of those who had fallen. The air in the library was thick with dust and the scent of burning candles, as we worked tirelessly to uncover the secrets of the Templars and the artifacts they sought.

One evening, as the shadows grew long and the candles guttered low, an urgent knock at the door broke the solemn silence. An assassin burst into the room, his eyes wild with panic. "Al Mualim," he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "Sibrand is here! He's outside fortress!"

Al Mualim's eyes snapped up from the scrolls scattered across the table, his expression shifting from contemplative to alert in an instant. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice sharp as a whip crack.

The assassin, his chest heaving with panic-filled breaths, managed to get out the words, "Sibrand... he's at the gates... with Malik... as his prisoner!"

Al Mualim's gaze hardened, the calm of the library shattered like a dropped vase. "Show me," he barked, and together we sprinted through the corridors, the echoes of our footsteps a rhythmic chant of urgency.

We reached the fortress gates to find Sibrand, the monstrous Templar, standing tall and menacing, a twisted smile playing on his lips. Malik, my trusted comrade and brother, knelt before him, a knife pressed to his throat, the blade glinting in the fading light. The courtyard was a tableau of horror, the air thick with tension and the scent of impending bloodshed.

Sibrand spoke up, his voice a cold knife slicing through the silence. "You have been warned," he said, his eyes gleaming with malice, "but you did not listen. Whoever does not listen, must feel." His words were a chilling echo of the lesson he had come to teach, a grim reminder that our war was far from over.