the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Then, from behind, Altaïr heard another sound and wheeled to see a
second man. He was suspended from the wall, his wrists and ankles
shackled. His head lolled on his chest and dirty hair hung over his face,
but his lips appeared to be moving as though in prayer.
Altaïr moved towards him. Then, hearing another voice from his feet,
he looked down to see an iron grille set into the flagstones of the
warehouse floor. Peering from it was the frightened face of yet another
slave, his bony fingers reaching through the bars, appealing to Altaïr.
Beyond him in the pit the Assassin saw more dark forms, heard
slithering and more voices. For a moment it was as though the room was
filled with the pleading of those imprisoned.
‘Help me, help me.’
An insistent, beseeching sound that made him want to cover his ears.
Until, suddenly, he heard a louder voice: ‘You should not have come
here, Assassin.’
Talal, surely.
Altaïr swung in the direction of the noise, seeing the shadows shift in
a balcony above him. Bowmen? He tensed, crouching, his sword ready,
offering the smallest target possible.
But if Talal wanted him dead, he’d be dead by now. He’d walked
straight into the slave trader’s trap – the mistake of a fool, of a novice –
but it had not yet been fully sprung.
‘But you are not the kind to listen,’ mocked Talal, ‘lest you
compromise your Brotherhood.’
Altair crept forward, still trying to place Talal. He was above, that
much was certain. But where?
‘Did you think I’d remain ignorant of your presence?’ continued the