the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

For a second his men stood silent, their helmets robbing them of any
emotion so that Altaïr could only picture the looks of shock behind the
steel. Then they recovered – and attacked. Altaïr drove his blade through
the eye slit of the first. From behind the helmet there was an agonized
choking noise and blood leaked from the visor as the swordsman fell.
Then the second of the two duellists struck, wielding his broadsword
more in hope than expectation of finding his target. The Assassin
sidestepped easily, palming a throwing knife at the same time, then
twisting and, in a single motion, ramming upwards with his knife under
the knight’s chestplate.
Battle over, the three corpses settled on the stone, and Altaïr looked
around the yard catching his breath. The castle, being so lightly
populated, had its advantages, he thought. He returned to the balcony,
letting himself out as he had come in. On his return journey the nagging
voice of doubt grew louder. Most of the bodies he passed were those he
had left earlier, still undisturbed, and there were no sentries at all now.
None. Where was everybody?
He got his answer shortly after he had left the fortress and made his
way across the rooftops to the safe-house, already looking forward to
resting and perhaps some verbal jousting with Maria. Maybe even a little
conversation with her. All he’d been able to glean from her so far was
that she was English, that she had been de Sable’s steward (exactly what
that meant, Altaïr hadn’t asked) and that she had become involved in the
Crusades after an incident at home in England. That had intrigued him.
He hoped to find out soon what had happened to her.
Suddenly he saw smoke, a thick pillar darkening the sky.
And it was coming from the safe-house.