the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

He swerved and rolled. A volley of arrows slammed into the ground
he’d just left, all but one missing him. One of the archers had checked
his aim and the arrow grazed Altaïr’s cheek. Blood sluiced down his face
as he hit the ladder, scampering up it and reaching the first level, where
a surprised bowman was dithering over whether to draw his sword.
Altaïr dragged him from his perch, and he somersaulted to the ground
below. He’d live.
Now Altaïr scrabbled up the second ladder. He was in pain. He was
bleeding heavily. He reached the top of the tower from which he had
jumped a lifetime ago, disgraced then as he was now. He hobbled to the
platform and, as men scrambled to the top of the tower behind him, he
spread out his arms.
And dropped.