the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

out there, Assassin,’ he screeched. He unslung his bow. ‘How long do
you think you can hide? I’ve a hundred men scouring the docks. They’ll
find you. And when they do, you’ll suffer for your sins.’
Altaïr hugged the frame of the platform, out of sight. Water lapped at
its struts. Otherwise, silence. An almost ghostly quiet that must have
unnerved Sibrand as much as it pleased Altaïr.
‘Show yourself, coward,’ insisted Sibrand. His fear was in his voice.
‘Face me and let us be done with this.’
All in good time, thought Altaïr. Sibrand fired an arrow at nothing,
then fitted and fired another.
‘On your guard, men,’ shouted Sibrand, to the lower decks. ‘He’s out
there somewhere. Find him. End his life. A promotion to whoever brings
me the head of the Assassin.’
Altaïr leaped from the platform to the ship, landing with a slight
thump that seemed to resonate around the area of still water. He waited,
clinging to the hull, hearing Sibrand’s panicked shouts from above. Then
he began to climb. He waited until Sibrand’s back was turned then
pulled himself on to the deck, now just a few feet away from the Grand
Master of the Knights Teutonic, who was prowling the deck, shouting
threats to the empty sea, hurling insults and orders at his guards, who
hurried about below.
Sibrand was a dead man, thought Altaïr, as he crept up behind him.
He had died as much from his own fear, though he was too stupid to
know it.
‘Please … don’t do this,’ he said, as he folded to the deck with Altaïr’s
blade in his neck.
‘You are afraid?’ asked the Assassin. He withdrew his blade.