Arabesque

Altaïr

He was almost there.

Hiril Altaïr's heart pounded furiously as he raced across the square. A drum hammered in his head, until he felt as if it would explode from the pressure. Every breath shot agonizing pain down his sides.

Not now.

Not yet.

Sweat trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. Still he ran. Each step thundered against the great expanse of stone, echoing, waking foreboding in his mind. Altaïr scanned the buildings for a familiar sign. Light flickered and caught his attention.

At last.

He spied a long standard of burgundy with gilded edges, swaying seductively in the wind. Blazoned in the center was a Qurnaj calligram of the word Eliës, rendered in the shape of a falcon.

Sanctuary.

But would they harbor him? Could anyone be trusted with the knowledge he held?

Nearing exhaustion, he stumbled and nearly fell just three paces short of the entrance to the Eliës embassy. The twin doors that faced the square were closed. Altaïr paused, panting, and dashed sweat from his eyes. This deadly game was finally at its end. Just three steps. Once he was across the threshold, he would be safe.

For how long, though?

The Eliësans would give him sanctuary. They were fiercely independent from the Sultanate of Qatana and the Rassan Majalis of Miranes'. Altaïr carried with him the proof—and could show them even more. He would make them believers, and they would have to protect him.

Altaïr was still half stunned by the revelations he had uncovered. Everything he'd been taught to believe was a lie. It had cost his friend's life and the lives of four others.

How many others had already been killed?

He staggered up the remaining three steps. Just as he reached for the door handle, a faint whisper behind him broke the silence. Before he could react, something grabbed his shoulder with hideous strength and spun him around. Lifting him into the air as though he were a child's toy, the unseen attacker slammed Altaïr into one of the embassy's stone pillars, shattering bones, and then tossed him effortlessly back down the stairs. For a moment, Altaïr faced a wall of darkness as he landed on the ground, screaming in agony. The darkness receded briefly as he fought to stay conscious. Altaïr's blurred vision found his attacker—a tall, menacing figure cloaked entirely in black, stretching a hand out toward him.

A wave of dark scarabs flowed from the assassin's fingertips, sweeping down on their prey. They flew to embrace Altaïr, shrouding him in a pulsing, inky mass. The creatures tightened around him and punctured his flesh, plunging Altaïr into unbearable pain.

The doors to the embassy promised sanctuary, but for Altaïr it was too late. He gave one last great strain against the merciless onslaught, to no avail. The spellbound creatures stripped away his skin, ripping apart muscle and sinew as he flailed helplessly—and hopelessly—to escape.

Altaïr looked up into the cold black eyes of his killer. He knew at once. It was Ciris Sarn—widowmaker. The hooded form gazed back at him with no trace of mercy or remorse, his face lined in angles, sharp and unforgiving.

The pain swelled as time slowed, seemingly endless, and Altaïr knew that the sight of the assassin would be his last.

It ended with the sharp, swift movement of a thin blade whispering through the air. Cruel steel pierced Altaïr's eye and drove deep into his skull. His head wrenched back in a silent scream as a crimson curtain fell, then faded into eternal darkness.

His last thought was of his wife.

Marin.