the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

‘Let her play,’ smiled Bouchart. ‘She has served her purpose.’
Yet again Altaïr found the way between himself and Bouchart
blocked. He would dearly have liked to finish this now, even with the
guard present: he thought he could overwhelm the man first, then take
Bouchart. But it was not to be. Instead he was forced to watch,
frustrated, as Bouchart and the guard moved off, leaving the area
deserted. He came from out of his hiding place and went to the partition,
finding a locked gate. Dextrous fingers worked at the mechanism. Then
he passed through, and strode towards the door of the Oracle’s cell. If
anything, her screaming was louder and more unsettling now, and Altaïr
swallowed. He was frightened of no man. But this was no man. This was
something different altogether. He found himself having to steady his
nerves as he worked on the second lock. As the door swung open, with
the high-pitched complaint of rusting hinges, his heart was hammering.
Her cell was vast, the size of a banqueting hall – a large banqueting
hall over which hung the pall of death and decay, with rippling mist and
what looked like patches of foliage among the pillars, as though the
outside was intruding, one day to claim it in full.
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he looked for her but
saw nothing, just heard her infernal screeching. It made the hairs on his
arms stand on end and he suppressed a shiver as he trod further into her
… cell?
This was more like her lair.
Suddenly there was silence. His senses pricked. He swapped his sword
from hand to hand, eyes scanning the dark, dimly lit room.
‘Pagan blood,’ came a voice – a jagged singsong voice straight from a
nightmare. He wheeled in the direction of the sound, but then it came