the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

overlooking the grounds. All wanted to witness Altaïr’s return, to see his
confrontation with Abbas.
He climbed the steps to the platform, then moved into the entrance
hall. Ahead of him, Abbas stood on the steps, his face dark and drawn,
desperation and defeat all over him, like a fever.
‘It is over, Abbas,’ called Altaïr. ‘Order those who are still loyal to you
to surrender.’
Abbas scoffed, ‘Never.’ At that moment the tower opened and the last
of the loyalists came from the side rooms into the hall: a dozen or so
Assassins and manservants. Some had skittering, frightened eyes. Others
were fierce and determined. The battle was not over yet.
‘Tell your men to stand down,’ commanded Altaïr. He half turned to
indicate the courtyard, where the crowds were gathered. ‘You cannot
possibly prevail.’
‘I am defending the citadel, Altaïr,’ said Abbas, ‘to the last man.
Would you not do the same?’
‘I would have defended the Order, Abbas,’ snarled Altaïr. ‘Instead you
have sacrificed everything we stand for. You sacrificed my wife and son
on the altar of your own spite – your blank refusal to accept the truth.’
‘You mean my father? The lies you told about him.’
‘Isn’t that why we’re standing here? Isn’t that the wellspring of your
hatred that has flowed through the years, poisoning us all?’
Abbas was trembling. His knuckles were white on the balustrade of
the balcony. ‘My father left the Order,’ he said. ‘He would never have
killed himself.’
‘He killed himself, Abbas. He killed himself with the dagger that you
have concealed within your robe. He killed himself because he had more