the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

58
12 August 1257
So. We were too late to escape Masyaf before the Mongols arrived.
Indeed, they have arrived. As a result we leave for Constantinople in a
matter of hours and I’m scribbling these words as our possessions are
removed by helpers to be loaded on to the carts. And if Maffeo thinks
that the sharp looks he insists on throwing my way will be enough to
make me lay down my quill and lend a hand then he is mistaken. I know
now that these words will be of vital importance to future Assassins.
They must be written down at once.
It’s a small skirmishing party, or so we’re told. But the main force is
not far away. In the meantime the skirmishing party seems to want to
make a name for itself and has been launching small but fierce attacks,
scaling the walls of the village and fighting on the ramparts before
retreating. I know little of warfare, thank goodness, but it occurs to me
that these short assaults may be a way of gauging our strength, or lack of
it. And I wonder if the Master ever regrets his decision to weaken the
citadel by disbanding the Assassins. Just two short years ago no mere
skirmishing party would have come within ten paces of the castle before
falling to the Assassin archers, or beneath the blades of the defenders.
When he had wrested control of the Order from Abbas, Altaïr’s first
task was to send for his journals: the Master’s work was to be a totemic