the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

his place on it. He did so, taking a deep breath before he walked
carefully to the edge.
And now he stood at the top of Masyaf, able to look down upon the
valley. He felt air rushing around him; his robe fluttered in the wind and
he saw flocks of birds gliding and swooping on warm pockets of air. He
felt giddy with the height yet breathless with the spectacle: the rolling
hills of the countryside, cast in lush green; the shimmering water of the
river; bodies, now specks on the slopes.
And Templars.
The invading army had gathered on the upland in front of a
watchtower, close to the gates of the fortress. At their head was Robert
de Sable, who now stepped forward, looking up to the ramparts where
the Assassins stood, and addressed Al Mualim.
‘Heretic!’ he roared. ‘Return what you have stolen from me.’
The treasure. Altaïr’s mind drifted momentarily to the box on Al
Mualim’s desk. It had seemed to glow …
‘You’ve no claim to it, Robert,’ replied the Master, his voice echoing
across the valley. ‘Take yourself from here before I’m forced to thin your
ranks further.’
‘You play a dangerous game,’ replied de Sable.
‘I assure you this is no game.’
‘So be it,’ came the reply.
Something about the tone of his voice – Altaïr didn’t like it. Sure
enough, de Sable turned to one of his men. ‘Bring forward the hostage.’
From among their ranks they dragged the Assassin. He was bound
and gagged and he writhed against his bonds as he was hauled roughly
to the front of the assembly. His muffled cries rose to where Altaïr stood