the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Altaïr defended, let him come, soaked up his attacks, every now and
then offering a short attack of his own, opening wounds. A gash here, a
nick there. Blood began to leak from beneath Bouchart’s chainmail,
which hung heavy on him.
As Altaïr fought, he thought of Maria and of those who had died on
the orders of the Templar, but he stopped those memories turning into
the desire for vengeance. Instead he let them give him resolve. The smile
had fallen from Bouchart’s face and, as Altaïr remained silent, the
Templar Grand Master was grunting with the exertion – that and
frustration. His sword swings were less co-ordinated and failed to meet
their target. Sweat and blood poured from him. His teeth were bared.
And Altaïr opened more wounds, cutting him on the forehead so that
blood was gushing into his eyes and he was wiping his gauntlet across
his face to clear it away. Now Bouchart could barely lift the sword and
was bent over, his legs rubbery and his shoulders heaving as he fought
for breath, squinting through a mask of blood to find the Assassin, seeing
only shadows and shapes. He was a defeated man now. Which meant he
was a dead man.
Altaïr didn’t toy with him. He waited until the danger was over. Until
he was sure that Bouchart’s weakness was not feigned.
Then he ran him through.
Bouchart dropped to the ground and Altaïr knelt beside him. The
Templar looked at him and Altaïr saw respect in his eyes.
‘Ah. You are a … a credit to your Creed,’ he gasped.
‘And you have strayed from yours.’
‘Not strayed … expanded. The world is more complicated than most
dare admit. And if you, Assassin … if you knew more than how to