the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

immediately pacified, frozen to the spot. Altaïr saw the Templar spy
recoil with shock. Briefly he felt all-powerful, and in that moment he
recognized not only the seductive allure of the Apple and the godlike
strength it bestowed, but the terrible danger it posed – in the hands of
those who would use it for ill, of course, but also with him. Even he was
not immune to its temptation. He used it now, but he pledged to himself
that he would never use it again, not for these purposes anyway.
Then he was addressing the crowd.
‘Armand Bouchart is the man responsible for your misery,’ he called.
‘He hired this man to poison the Resistance against itself. Go from this
place and rally your men. Cyprus will be yours once again.’
For a moment or so he wondered whether or not it had worked.
When he lowered the Apple, would the angry crowd simply resume their
lynching? But lower it he did, and the crowd did not move upon him.
His words had swayed them. His words had persuaded them. Without
further ceremony, they turned and moved out of the courtyard, leaving
as quickly as they had arrived, but subdued, penitent even.
Once more the courtyard was empty and, for a few heartbeats, Altaïr
looked at the Apple in his hand, watched it fade, feeling in awe of it,
frightened by it, attracted to it. Then he tucked it safely away as the spy
said, ‘Quite a toy you have there. Mind if I borrow it?’
Altaïr knew one thing: that the Templar would have to take the Apple
from his dead body. He drew his blade ready for combat as the Templar
smiled, anticipating the fight ahead, about to climb down from the
ramparts when …
He stopped.
And the smile slid from his face like dripping oil.