the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

way then the other, hoping to catch Altaïr off guard.
Fighting pain and fatigue, Altaïr came forward with an offensive of
his own – taking Al Mualim by surprise, he was pleased to see. But
though he made contact – he thought he made contact – the Master
seemed to slide away as though transporting.
‘Blind, Altaïr,’ chuckled Al Mualim. ‘Blind is all you’ve ever been. All
you’ll ever be.’ Again, he attacked.
Altaïr was too slow to react in time, feeling Al Mualim’s blade slash
his arm and crying out with the pain. He couldn’t take much more of
this. He was too tired. He was losing blood. It was as though the energy
was being slowly drained from him. The Apple, his wounds, his
exhaustion: all were combining slowly but surely to cripple him. If he
couldn’t turn the battle soon he faced defeat.
But the old man was letting the Apple make him careless. Even as he
was gloating Altaïr danced forward and struck again, his swordpoint
striking home, drawing blood. Al Mualim shouted in pain, transported
then reappeared, snarling and launching his next offensive. Feigning an
attack to the left he spun, wielding his sword backhand. Desperately
Altaïr fended him off, but was almost sent reeling, and for some
moments the two traded blows, the salvo ending when Al Mualim
ducked, sliced upward and nicked Altaïr’s cheek, dancing away before
the Assassin could respond.
Altaïr launched a counter-attack and Al Mualim transported. But
when he reappeared, Altaïr noticed he looked more haggard, and when
he attacked it was a little more carelessly. Less disciplined.
Altaïr came forward slicing with his blade, forcing the Master to
transport and materialize several feet away. Altaïr saw a new stoop to