the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

He crept forward until he could see the guard. He was sitting in the
tunnel with his back against a side wall of the cell block, head lolled in
sleep. He was some way from the cells, and didn’t even have them in his
eyeline, so exactly what he thought he was guarding was hard to say.
Altaïr found himself simultaneously outraged and relieved at the man’s
sloppiness. He moved stealthily past him – and it swiftly became clear
why he was sitting so far away.
It was the stink. Of the three cells, only the middle one was fastened
and Altaïr went to it. He was not sure what he was expecting to see on
the other side of the bars, but he was certain of what he could smell, and
held a hand over his nose.
Malik was curled up in the rushes that had been spread on the stone –
and did nothing to soak up the urine. He was clothed in rags, looking
like a beggar. He was emaciated and, through his tattered shirt, Altaïr
could see the lines of his ribs. His cheekbones were sharp outcrops on his
face; his hair was long, his beard overgrown.
He had been in the cell for far longer than a month. That much was
certain.
As he gazed at Malik, Altaïr’s fists clenched. He had planned to speak
to him to determine the truth, but the truth was there on his jutting ribs
and tattered clothes. How long had he been imprisoned? Long enough to
send a message to Altaïr and Maria. How long had Sef been dead? Altaïr
preferred not to think about it. All he knew was that Malik wasn’t
spending another moment there.
When the guard opened his eyes it was to see Altaïr standing over
him. Then, for him, the lights went out. When he next awoke he would
find himself locked inside the piss-stinking cell, fruitlessly shouting for