the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

his shoulders, and his head was heavy. The Apple was sapping Altaïr’s
strength but was it doing the same to its user? Did Al Mualim know it?
How well did the old man understand the Apple? Its power was so great
that Altaïr doubted it was possible ever to truly know it.
So. He had to force Al Mualim to use it and so deplete his own
energy. With a yell he leaped forward, slashing at Al Mualim, whose
eyes went wide with surprise at the sudden vehemence of Altaïr’s
approach. He transported away. Altaïr came at him the moment he
reappeared and Al Mualim’s face now wore anger – frustration that the
rules of engagement had changed, needing to find the space to adjust.
He materialized further away this time. It was working: he looked
even more tired. But he was ready for Altaïr’s undisciplined attack,
rewarding the Assassin with another bloody arm. Not serious enough to
stop him, though: the younger man pushed forward again, forcing Al
Mualim to transport. For the last time.
When he reappeared he staggered slightly, and Altaïr could see that
he found his sword heavier to hold. As he raised his head to look at
Altaïr, the Assassin saw in his eyes that he knew the Apple had been
sapping his strength and that Altaïr had noticed.
And, as Altaïr engaged his blade and leaped, driving it deep into Al
Mualim with a roar that was part victory and part grief, perhaps Al
Mualim’s final thoughts were of pride in his former pupil.
‘Impossible,’ he gasped, as Altaïr knelt astride him. ‘The student does
not defeat the teacher.’
Altaïr hung his head, feeling tears prick his cheeks.
‘You have won, then. Go and claim your prize.’
The Apple had rolled from Al Mualim’s outstretched hand. It sat