the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

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De Sable gasped. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, hands
going to the blade that impaled him, even as Altaïr withdrew it. A red
stain spread across his tunic, and he staggered, then sank to his knees.
His sword dropped and his arms dangled.
Straight away Altaïr’s eyes went to the men forming a ring around
them. He was half expecting them to attack at the sight of the Templar
Grand Master dying. But they remained still. Past them Altaïr saw King
Richard, his chin tilted as though the turn of events had done little more
than pique his curiosity.
Now Altaïr bent to de Sable, cradling him with one arm and laying
him on the ground. ‘It’s done, then,’ he told him. ‘Your schemes – like
you – are put to rest.’
In response, de Sable chortled drily. ‘You know nothing of schemes,’
he said. ‘You’re but a puppet. He betrayed you, boy. Just as he betrayed
me.’
‘Speak sense, Templar,’ hissed Altaïr, ‘or not at all.’ He stole a look at
the men of the ring. They remained impassive.
‘Nine men he sent you to kill, yes?’ said de Sable. ‘The nine who
guarded the Treasure’s secret.’
It was always nine who had that task, the responsibility handed down
through generations of Templars. Almost a hundred years ago, the