the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

down and saw his chance, coming forward once again, launching a wild
attack aimed at panicking his opponent. Blade met blade and, sure
enough, the Saracen was forced messily backwards and into the pool of
blood on the platform – just as Altaïr had intended. He slipped, his
footing lost, and for a second his guard was down – enough time for
Altaïr to dart inside his sword arm, impaling him in the chest. He
gurgled. Died. His body slipped to the wood, and Altaïr straightened to
face more attackers, seeing doubt and maybe a little fear in their eyes
now. The Assassin’s mettle had been duly tested and he had not been
found lacking.
Still, though, the guards had the advantage of numbers, and more,
surely, would be on their way, alerted by the commotion. News of
events at the square would have spread throughout Jerusalem: that the
city regent had been slain on his own execution scaffold; that his guards
had set upon the Assassin responsible. Altaïr thought of Malik’s glee at
the news.
Yet Malik had appeared changed when Altaïr had last visited the
Bureau. It wasn’t as though he’d welcomed Altaïr with open arms but,
nevertheless, open hostility had been replaced by a certain weariness,
and he had regarded Altaïr with a frown, not a glare.
‘Why do you trouble me today?’ He’d sighed.
Grateful not to have to spar, Altaïr had told him his target: Majd
Addin.
Malik nodded. ‘Salah Al’din’s absence has left the city without a
proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part.
Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to
the position.’