the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

make a long dash, coming ever closer to where he could now see
Richard. The King was in a clearing. He had dismounted, wary of the
commotion approaching, and his immediate bodyguard were forming a
ring around him, making him a small target.
Still fighting, his sword still swinging, men falling at his feet, his
robes stained with Crusader blood, Altaïr broke clear of an attack and
was able to dash forwards. He saw the King’s lieutenants draw their
swords, eyes fierce under their helmets. He saw archers scrabbling up to
surrounding boulders, hoping to find a lofty position in order to pick off
the intruder.
‘Hold a moment,’ called Altaïr. Just a few feet away now, he looked
King Richard in the eyes, even as his men came forward. ‘It’s words I
bring, not steel.’
The King wore his regal red, at his chest a gold-embroidered lion. He
was the only man among them not cursed by fear or panic and he stood
utterly calm at the battle’s centre. He raised an arm and his men stopped
their advance, the battle dying in an instant. Altaïr was grateful to see
his attackers fall back a few paces, giving him room at last. He dropped
his sword arm. As he caught his breath, his shoulders rose and fell
heavily and he knew that all eyes were on him. Every swordpoint was
aimed at his gut; every archer had him in his sights. One word from
Richard and he would fall.
Instead, Richard said, ‘Offering terms of a surrender, then? It’s about
time.’
‘No. You misunderstand,’ said Altaïr. ‘It is Al Mualim who sends me,
not Salah Al’din.’
The King darkened. ‘Assassin? What is the meaning of this? And be