the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

a duel between two of his men. The sight of him made Altaïr smile. The
genial spy Osman had been right. Frederick the Red was indeed a brute
of a man.
‘No mercy, men,’ he was roaring. ‘This is an island of superstitious
heathens. Remember, they do not want you here, they do not like you,
they do not understand the true wisdom of your cause, and they are
scheming at every turn to cast you out. Stay on your guard, and trust no
one.’
Both in full armour, the two knights battled it out, the sound of their
swords ringing around the yard. Staying out of sight on the balcony
above, Altair listened to the Templar leader as he spurred them on.
‘Find the chinks in your opponent’s armour. Strike hard. Save your
celebrations for the tavern.’
Now Altaïr stood and took a step up to the wall, in plain sight of the
three men in the training yard below. Still they remained engrossed in
the battle. He gauged the height from where he stood to the stone
below, then took a deep breath, stretched out his arms and jumped.
With a soft thump he landed directly behind Frederick the Red, his
knees bent, arms out for balance. The bearded leader turned as Altaïr
straightened. Eyes blazing, he roared, ‘An Assassin on Cyprus? Well,
well. How quickly you vermin adapt. I’ll put an end to –’
He never finished his sentence. Altaïr, who had wanted to look into
the Templar’s eyes before he delivered the killing blow, engaged his
blade and sliced his neck in one movement, the entire action over in the
blink of an eye. With a short, strangulated sound, Frederick the Red
crumpled, his neck a gaping red hole and his blood flooding over the
stone around him, truly living up to his name.