the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

something he must give to us, he says, in a ceremony he would like to
conduct with other Assassins present. It is something that must be kept
safe, he says, and out of the hands of the enemy: the Mongols or the
Templars. This is what his tales have been leading to, I realize, and I
have my suspicions as to what this precious thing might be. We shall see.
In the meantime, Maffeo is impatient to hear the rest of my tale, now
so close to its conclusion. He pulled a face when I informed him that I
planned to shift the narrative forward in time, from the moment that
Altaïr leaped from the ramparts of the citadel, a shamed and broken
man, to a period some twenty years hence and not to Masyaf, but to a
spot in the desert two days’ ride away …
… to an endless plain at dusk, seemingly empty apart from a man on a
horse leading another horse, the second nag laden with jugs and
blankets.
From a distance the rider looked like a tradesman with his wares, and
up close that was exactly what he was, sweating under his turban: a very
tired and portly tradesman named Mukhlis.
So, when Mukhlis saw the waterhole in the distance he knew he had
to lie down and rest. He’d hoped to reach home without stopping but he
had no choice: he was exhausted. So many times during the journey the
rhythm of the horse had lulled him and he had felt his chin tucking into
his chest, his eyes fluttering and closing. It had been getting more and
more difficult to resist sleep. Each time the motion of travel rocked him
towards sleep, a fresh battle was fought between heart and head. His
throat was parched. His robe hung heavy about him. Every bone and
muscle in his body hummed with fatigue. The thought of wetting his lips