the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

him. Tamir died screaming at one, two slashes of Altaïr’s sword. The
Assassin felt nothing. No remorse. Not even gratification at seeing the
men die a deserved second death. De Naplouse vanished as the others
had, his throat cut. Jubair fell. Talal he grabbed, and the two grappled
before Altaïr drove his sword deep into his stomach and he, too, was
nothing but an absence. Montferrat was next to go. Sibrand followed
him, then de Sable, until once more Altaïr was alone in the garden with
Al Mualim.
‘Face me,’ demanded Altaïr, catching his breath. The sweat poured
from him but he knew the battle was far from over. It had only just
begun. ‘Or are you afraid?’
Al Mualim scoffed. ‘I have stood before a thousand men – all of them
superior to you. And all of them dead – by my hand.’
With a litheness and athleticism belying his years, he jumped from
the balcony, landing in a crouch not far away from Altaïr. He still held
the Apple. He clasped it as though he was proffering it to Altaïr and his
face was bathed in its light. ‘I am not afraid,’ said Al Mualim.
‘Prove it,’ challenged Altaïr, knowing that Al Mualim would see
through his ploy – his ploy to bring the traitor close. But if he did – and
he surely did – then he cared nothing. He was right. He was unafraid –
unafraid because he had the Apple, which was burning even more
brightly. Dazzling. The whole of the area was lit up, then just as quickly
darkened again. As Altaïr’s eyes adjusted he saw copies of Al Mualim
appear, as though generated from within the body of the Master himself.
He tensed. He wondered if these copies, like those he had just fought,
would be inferior, weaker versions of the original.
‘What could I possibly fear?’ Al Mualim was mocking him now.