the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

49
From a distance all looked well with Masyaf. None of them – not Altaïr,
Maria or Darim – had any idea of what was to come.
Altaïr and Maria rode a little ahead, side by side, as was their
preference, happy to be with one another and pleased to be within sight
of home, each undulating with the slow, steady rhythm of their horses.
Both rode high and proud in the saddle despite the long, arduous
journey. They might have been advancing in years – both were in their
mid-sixties – but it would not do to be seen slouching. Nevertheless they
came slowly: their mounts were chosen for their strength and stamina,
not speed, and tethered to each was an ass, laden with supplies.
Behind them came Darim, who had inherited the bright, dancing eyes
of his mother, his father’s colouring and bone structure, and the
impulsiveness of both. He would have liked to gallop ahead and climb
the slopes of the village to the citadel to announce his parents’ return,
but instead trotted meekly behind, respecting his father’s wishes for a
modest homecoming. Every now and then he swatted the flies from his
face with his crop and thought that a gallop would have been the most
effective way to rid himself of them. He wondered if they were being
watched from the spires of the fortress, from its defensive tower.
Passing the stables, they went through the wooden gates and into the
market, finding it unchanged. They came into the village, where children