the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

‘Now I stand before you,’ he said, spreading his hands, smiling as
though warmly welcoming a guest to his household. ‘What is it you
desire?’
‘Come down here.’ Altair indicated with his sword. ‘Let us settle this
with honour.’
‘Why must it always come to violence?’ replied Talal, sounding
almost disappointed in Altaïr, before adding, ‘It seems I cannot help you,
Assassin, for you do not wish to help yourself. And I cannot allow my
work to be threatened. You leave me no choice: you must die.’
He waved to his men.
Who lifted their swords.
Then attacked.
Altaïr grunted and found himself fending off two at once, pushing
them back, then straight away turning his attention to a third. The
others waited their turn: their strategy, he quickly realized, was to come
at him two at a time.
He could handle that. He grabbed one, pleased to see his eyes widen
in shock above his mask, then threw him backwards into a fifth man, the
pair of them smashing into a scaffold that disintegrated around them.
Altaïr pressed home his advantage and, stabbing with his swordpoint,
heard a scream and a death rattle from the man sprawled on the stone.
His assailants reassembled, glancing at one another as they slowly
circled him. He turned with them, sword held out, smiling, almost
enjoying himself now. Five of them, trained, masked killers, against a
lone Assassin. They had thought him easy prey. He could see it in their
faces. One skirmish later and they weren’t quite so certain.
He chose one. An old trick taught to him by Al Mualim for when