the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

the heat of the flames, oblivious to anything else in the room, even –
especially – his killer.
Good. Moloch looked strong, easily more powerful than Altaïr, who
had no desire to engage him in combat. Not only did he have the
muscular advantage but it was said that he wielded a weapon like a
meteor hammer, with a deadly weight attached to a chain. It was said
that he used it with unfailing accuracy, and was ruthless with it.
So, no. Altaïr had no desire to engage him in combat. This was to be a
stealth kill. Quick, clean and silent.
Noiselessly, Altaïr made his way along the beams, then dropped
silently into the centre of the room behind Moloch. He was slightly
further away than he would have liked and he held his breath, tensing. If
Moloch had heard him …
But no. The brute was still engrossed with the brazier. Altaïr took a
few steps forward. Silently he engaged the blade and raised it. Orange
light danced on the steel. The Bull now just a heartbeat away from
death. Altaïr dipped slightly, his leg muscles bunching, then launched
himself, blade about to strike.
He was in mid-air when Moloch spun, far more quickly than his size
should have allowed. At the same time he grinned and Altaïr realized
that he had known he was there all along; that he had merely let Altaïr
come close. Then the Assassin was in the embrace of those huge arms,
raising him off the ground, feeling a hand go to his throat and squeeze.
For a moment or so he was held that way, Moloch lifting him onehanded
into the air as though he were a trophy to be displayed on the
castle steps, and he choked as he struggled. His feet kicked at thin air
and his hands scrabbled at Moloch’s gauntlet, desperately trying to