Templar's Creed

Chapter 12

A week later, the night was eerily calm, the only sounds the distant howl of the wind and the occasional call of a night bird. We had buried our fallen brothers and fortified our defenses, preparing for the inevitable Templar retribution. But despite our readiness, the fortress was still a bastion of sadness, the echoes of Malik's final breaths haunting every corner.

The stillness was shattered by the thunderous hooves of an approaching cavalry. My heart lurched as I saw the unmistakable silhouettes of Templar knights galloping towards us, their horses' breaths frosting in the cold air. The alarm bells rang out, a cacophony that pierced the quiet of the night, jolting the fortress from its mournful slumber into a frenzied state of panic and preparation.

Our defenses were hastily manned, but the shock of the sudden assault left us reeling. The once-mighty gates of Masyaf lay in ruins from our previous battle, an open invitation to the enemy's wrath. The Templars thundered through the breach, their horses' eyes wild with the scent of blood. The courtyard that had borne silent witness to our grief was now a whirlwind of chaos, the air thick with the scent of fear and the acrid tang of iron.

The Assassins, though taken by surprise, did not go quietly. They fought with the ferocity of cornered animals, their blades flashing like lightning in the moonlit night. Yet, their valor was no match for the unbridled fury of the Templar cavalry. The clang of steel on steel filled the air, a grim counterpoint to the cries of the dying and the desperate shouts of those trying to rally the defense.

And then, through the chaos, a figure emerged. A knight clad in the lion's crest of the House of Plantagenet, his sword a blur as he cut down Assassins without mercy. It was Richard the Lionheart, his eyes cold as ice, his blade drenched in the lifeblood of my brethren.

Al Mualim, his eyes gleaming with a sudden understanding, reached into the folds of his robe and produced an object that gleamed with an otherworldly light, the Apple of Eden. Its power, a secret known only to the most devoted among us, pulsed in his grip, a beacon of hope amidst the carnage.

"Hold the line!" he bellowed once more, his voice now imbued with an authority that seemed to resonate with the very air. The Apple's power was palpable, a force that seemed to push back the tide of Templar aggression.

In an instant, the courtyard was bathed in a blinding flash, and a deafening roar echoed through the night. The world around me went still, the chaos of battle frozen in a heartbeat of silent fury. When the light receded, the scene before me was one of utter devastation. The once-mighty Templars lay lifeless, their armor crumpled like discarded paper, their eyes staring vacantly into the abyss of death.

I looked over to my brothers, their bodies now still and cold, each one a silent testament to the brutality of our war. The realization of their sacrifice hit me like a hammer to the chest, the weight of their loss a crushing burden.

And yet, amidst the lifeless sea of Templars, there was one figure that remained untouched by the Apple's power. Richard the Lionheart, his sword still clenched in a fist that trembled with the fury of the battle-lust, his eyes locked onto Al Mualim. The air around him crackled with tension, his very presence a challenge to the newfound peace the artifact had brought.

Suddenly, Al Mualim dropped to his knees, the Apple slipping from his grasp to clatter on the stone beneath him. A groan of pain and confusion tore from his lips as his eyes rolled back, revealing the whites. The light that had once emanated from the artifact flickered and died, plunging us into darkness.

"No..." I whispered, the word a prayer on my lips. "This cannot be."

The world had gone silent, save for the distant wail of a dying man and the harsh breaths of the living. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the acrid tang of burnt flesh. My eyes searched the lifeless forms scattered around us, hoping to find a spark of life, a flicker of hope amidst the carnage.

And then, Richard spoke up, his voice a stark contrast to the quietude that had enveloped us. "The Apple's power was too strong," he said, his tone a mix of awe and revulsion. "It claimed the life of your master just as it claimed everyone else's."

He stepped closer, his sword lowering but not fully sheathed. His eyes, once filled with the fiery rage of battle, were now calm, almost serene. "The war is over, Altaïr," he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to crush the very air around us. "Your order is no more. Surrender, and I will show you the mercy I have shown your brethren who attacked my caravan just two days ago."

Knowing that Richard was the superior fighter, I had no choice but to consider his words. The loss of Al Mualim and my brothers weighed heavily on my shoulders. The future of the Assassins was uncertain, our fortress in ruins, and our numbers decimated. Yet, I could not bring myself to yield. The knowledge I had gained, the truths I had uncovered, burned within me like an unquenchable flame.

With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, I launched myself at Richard, my blade singing a mournful melody of vengeance and defiance. Our swords met with a clang that echoed through the desolate courtyard, a grim symphony of clashing steel. His eyes widened in surprise, but the shock was quickly replaced by a cold, calculated fury.

The battle was unlike any I had ever fought. Richard moved with the grace of a panther, each blow a masterstroke of precision and power. His praise fell on my ears like a knell, a twisted mantra that fueled my anger. "Your skill is commendable," he said, his voice a taunting whisper that seemed to dance on the edge of a sadistic laugh. "But it is no match for the divine will that guides me."