Part Three 3 страница

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. Altaï r’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 – Altaï r 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 Altaï r stood on the platform.

Then, without ceremony, de Sable nodded to a soldier who stood nearby. He yanked the Assassin’s hair so that his throat was exposed and swept his blade across it, opening it, then let the body fall to the grass.

The Assassins, watching, caught their breath.

De Sable moved and stood near the body, resting one foot on the dying man’s back with his arms folded like a triumphant gladiator. There was murmur of disgust among the Assassins as he called up to Al Mualim, ‘Your village lies in ruins and your stores are hardly endless. How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain when the wells run dry and their food is gone? ’ He could hardly keep the gloating note from his voice.

But in reply Al Mualim was calm: ‘My men do not fear death, Robert. They welcome it – and the rewards it brings. ’

‘Good, ’ called de Sable. ‘Then they shall have it all around. ’

He was right, of course. The Templars could lay siege to Masyaf and prevent the Assassins receiving supplies. How long could they last before they were so weakened that de Sable could safely attack? Two weeks? A month? Altaï r could only hope that whatever plan Al Mualim had in mind was enough to break the deadlock.

As if reading his thoughts, Rauf whispered to him, from a platform to his left, ‘Follow me. And do so without hesitation. ’

A third Assassin stood further across. They were hidden from de Sable and his men. Looking down, Altaï r saw strategically placed mounds of hay, enough to break a fall. He was beginning to understand what Rauf had in mind. They were to jump, undetected by the Templars. But why?

His robe flapped at his knees. The sound was comforting, like waves or rain. He looked down and steadied his breathing. He focused. He went to a place within himself.

He heard Al Mualim and de Sable trading words but he was no longer listening, thinking only of the jump, composing himself for it. He closed his eyes. He felt a great calm, a peace within.

‘Now, ’ said Rauf, who leaped, followed by the other Assassin. Next, Altaï r.

He jumped.

Time collapsed as he fell, his arms outstretched. With his body relaxed and arcing gracefully through the air, he knew that he had achieved a kind of perfection – it was as though he was detached from himself. And then he landed perfectly, a haystack breaking his fall. Rauf too. Not so the third Assassin, whose leg snapped on impact. Immediately the man screamed and Rauf moved over to quieten him, not wanting the Templars to hear: for the subterfuge to work, the knights needed to believe that the three men had leaped to their death.

Rauf turned to Altaï r. ‘I’ll stay behind and attend to him. You’ll have to go ahead without us. The ropes there will bring you to the trap. Release it – rain death upon our enemies. ’

Of course. Altaï r understood now. Briefly he wondered how the Assassins had been able to set a trap without him knowing. How many other facets of the Brotherhood remained a secret to him? Nimbly he made his way along the ropes across the chasm, doubling back across the gorge and to the cliff face behind the watchtower. He climbed on instinct. Fast and lithe, feeling the muscles in his arms sing as he scaled the sheer walls higher and higher until he reached the top of the watchtower. There beneath the boards of the upper level he found the trap rigged and ready to be sprung: heavy greased logs, stockpiled and stacked on a tilted platform.

Silently he moved to the edge, looking over to see the assembled ranks of the Templar knights, scores of them with their backs to him. Here also were the ropes holding the trap in place. He drew his sword, and for the first time in days, he smiled.

Later the Assassins were assembled in the courtyard, still savouring their triumph.

The logs had tumbled from the watchtower and into the knights below, most of whom were crushed by the first wave, while others were caught in a second load stacked behind the first. Just moments before, they had been assured of victory. Then their bodies had been pummelled, limbs snapping, the entire force in disarray, Robert de Sable already ordering his men back as the Assassins’ archers pressed home their advantage and rained arrows down upon them.

Now, though, Al Mualim commanded a hush over the gathered Assassins, indicating to Altaï r to join him on the rostrum by the entrance to his tower. His eyes were hard, and as Altaï r took his place, Al Mualim beckoned two guards to take their place at either side of him.

Silence replaced the congratulations. Altaï r, with his back to the Assassins, felt all eyes on him. By now they would know what had happened in Jerusalem; Malik and Abbas would have seen to that. Altaï r’s efforts in battle, then springing the trap – they would count for nothing now. All he could hope was that Al Mualim would show mercy.

‘You did well to drive Robert from here, ’ said the Master, and it was with a measure of pride that he said it. Enough for Altaï r to hope that he might be forgiven; that his actions since Jerusalem had redeemed him. ‘His force is broken, ’ continued Al Mualim. ‘It shall be a long while before he troubles us again. Tell me, do you know why it is you were successful? ’

Altaï r said nothing, heart hammering.

‘You were successful because you listened, ’ pressed Al Mualim. ‘Had you listened in Solomon’s Temple, Altaï r, all of this would have been avoided. ’

His arm described a circle, meant to take in the courtyard and all that lay beyond, where even now the corpses of Assassins, of Templars and villagers were being cleared away.

‘I did as I was asked, ’ said Altaï r, trying to choose his words carefully, but failing.

‘No! ’ snapped the Master. His eyes blazed. ‘You did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed. Your disregard for our ways. ’

The two guards on either side of Altaï r stepped forward and took his arms. His muscles tensed. He braced himself against them but did not struggle.

‘What are you doing? ’ he said warily.

The colour rose in Al Mualim’s cheeks. ‘There are rules. We are nothing if we do not abide by the Assassin’s Creed. Three simple tenets, which you seem to forget. I will remind you. First and foremost: stay your blade …’

It was to be a lecture. Altaï r relaxed, unable to keep the note of resignation from his voice as he finished Al Mualim’s sentence. ‘… from the flesh of an innocent. I know. ’

The crack of Al Mualim’s palm across Altaï r’s face echoed from the stone of the courtyard. Altaï r felt his cheek burn.

‘And stay your tongue unless I give you leave to use it, ’ roared Al Mualim. ‘If you are so familiar with this tenet, why did you kill the old man inside the Temple? He was innocent. He did not need to die. ’

Altaï r said nothing. What could he say? I acted rashly? Killing the old man was an act of arrogance?

‘Your insolence knows no bounds, ’ bellowed Al Mualim. ‘Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I’ll tear it from you with my own hands. ’

He paused, his shoulders rising and falling as he took hold of his anger. ‘The second tenet is that which gives us strength, ’ he continued. ‘Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you so that you become one with the crowd. Do you remember? Because, as I hear it, you chose to expose yourself, drawing attention before you’d struck. ’

Still Altaï r said nothing. He felt the shame squat in his gut.

‘The third and final tenet, ’ added Al Mualim, ‘the worst of all your betrayals: never compromise the Brotherhood. Its meaning should be obvious. Your actions must never bring harm upon us – direct or indirect. Yet your selfish act beneath Jerusalem placed us all in danger. Worse still, you brought the enemy to our home. Every man we’ve lost today was lost because of you. ’

Altaï r had been unable to look at the Master. His head had remained on one side, still smarting from the slap. But as he heard Al Mualim draw his dagger he looked at last.

‘I am sorry. Truly, I am, ’ said Al Mualim. ‘But I cannot abide a traitor. ’

No. Not that. Not a traitor’s death.

His eyes widened as they went to the blade in the Master’s hand – the hand that had guided him since him childhood. ‘I am not a traitor, ’ he managed.

‘Your actions indicate otherwise. And so you leave me no choice. ’ Al Mualim drew back his dagger. ‘Peace be upon you, Altaï r, ’ he said, and plunged it into Altaï r’s stomach.

And it was. For a few precious moments when he was dead, Altaï r was at peace.

Then … then he was coming round, gradually recovering a sense of himself and of where he was.

He was on his feet. How could he be on his feet? Was this death, the afterlife? Was he in Paradise? If so, it looked very much like Al Mualim’s quarters. Not only that, but Al Mualim was present. Standing over him, in fact, watching him with an unreadable gaze.

‘I’m alive? ’ Altaï r’s hands went to where the knife had been driven into his stomach. He expected to find a ragged hole and feel wet blood but there was nothing. No wound, no blood. Even though he’d seen it. Felt it. He’d felt the pain …

Hadn’t he?

‘But I saw you stab me, ’ he managed, ‘felt death’s embrace. ’

Al Mualim was inscrutable in return. ‘You saw what I wanted you to see. And then you slept the sleep of the dead. The womb. That you might awake and be reborn. ’

Altaï r shook a fog away from his mind. ‘To what end? ’

‘Do you remember, Altaï r, what it is the Assassins fight for? ’

Still trying to readjust, he replied, ‘Peace, in all things. ’

‘Yes. In all things. It is not enough to end the violence one man commits upon another. It refers to peace within as well. You cannot have one without the other. ’

‘So it is said. ’

Al Mualim shook his head, cheeks colouring again as his voice rose. ‘So it is. But you, my son, have not found inner peace. It manifests in ugly ways. You are arrogant and over-confident. You lack self-control and wisdom. ’

‘Then what is to become of me? ’

‘I should kill you for the pain you’ve brought upon us. Malik thinks it’s only fair – your life in exchange for that of his brother. ’

Al Mualim paused to allow Altaï r to understand the full significance of the moment. ‘But this would be a waste of my time and your talents. ’

Altaï r allowed himself to relax a little more. He was to be spared. He could redeem himself.

‘You have been stripped of your possessions, ’ continued Al Mualim. ‘Your rank as well. You are a novice – a child – once more. As you were on the day you first joined the Order. I am offering you a chance of redemption. You’ll earn your way back into the Brotherhood. ’

Of course. ‘I assume that you have something planned. ’

‘First you must prove to me you remember how to be an Assassin. A true Assassin, ’ said Al Mualim.

‘So you would have me take a life? ’ asked Altaï r, knowing his forfeit would be far more rigorous.

‘No. Not yet, at least. For now you are to become a student once again. ‘

‘There is no need for this. I am a Master Assassin. ’

‘You were a Master Assassin. Others tracked your targets for you. But no more. From today on, you will track them yourself. ’

‘If that is what you wish. ’

‘It is. ’

‘Then tell me what it is that I must do. ’

‘I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die. They are plague-bringers. War-makers. Their power and influence corrupt the land – and ensure the Crusades continue. You will find them. Kill them. In doing so you’ll sow the seeds of peace, both for the region and for yourself. In this way, you may be redeemed. ’

Altaï r took a long, deep breath. This he could do. This he wanted – needed – to do.

‘Nine lives in exchange for mine, ’ he said carefully.

Al Mualim smiled. ‘A most generous offer, I think. Have you any questions? ’

‘Where shall I begin? ’

‘Ride for Damascus. Seek out the black-market merchant named Tamir. Let him be the first to fall. ’

Al Mualim moved to his cage of carrier pigeons, took one and cupped it gently in his palm. ‘Be sure to visit the city’s Assassin Bureau when you arrive. I’ll dispatch a bird to inform the rafiq of your arrival. Speak with him. You’ll find he has much to offer. ’

He opened his hand and the bird disappeared through the window, as though snuffed out.

‘If you believe it best, ’ said Altaï r.

‘I do. Besides, you cannot begin your mission without his consent. ’

Altair bridled. ‘What nonsense is this? I don’t need his permission. It’s a waste of time. ’

‘It’s the price you pay for the mistakes you’ve made, ’ snapped the Master. ‘You answer not only to me but to all of the Brotherhood now. ’

‘So be it, ’ conceded Altaï r, after a pause long enough to communicate his displeasure.

‘Go, then, ’ said Al Mualim. ‘Prove that you are not yet lost to us. ’

He paused, then reached for something from beneath his desk that he pushed across to Altaï r. ‘Take it, ’ he said.

Gladly, Altaï r reached for his blade, buckling the brace to his wrist and looping the release over his little finger. He tested the mechanism, feeling like an Assassin once more.

Altaï r made his way through the palms and past the stables and traders outside the city walls until he came to the huge, imposing gates of Damascus. He knew the city well. The biggest and holiest in Syria, it had been home to two of his targets the previous year. He cast his gaze up to the surrounding wall and its ramparts. He could hear the life inside. It was as though the stone hummed with it.

First, to make his way in. The success of his mission depended on his ability to move anonymously though the sprawling streets. A challenge from the guards wouldn’t be the best start. He dismounted and tethered his horse, studying the gates, where Saracen guards stood watch. He would have to try another way, and that was more easily considered than achieved, for Damascus was famously secure, its walls – he gazed up once more, feeling small – were too high and too sheer to be scaled from the outside.

Then he saw a group of scholars, and smiled. Salah Al’din had encouraged the learned men to visit Damascus for study – there were many madrasahs throughout the city – and as such they enjoyed special privileges and were allowed to wander unhindered. He moved over and joined them, assuming his most pious stance, and with them drifted easily past the guards, leaving the desert behind as he entered the great city.

Inside, he kept his head down, moving fast but carefully through the streets, reaching a minaret. He cast a swift look around before leaping to a sill, pulling himself up, finding more handholds in the hot stone and climbing higher and higher. He found his old skills coming back to him, though he wasn’t moving as quickly or as surely as he once had. He felt them returning. No – reawakening. And with them the old feeling of exhilaration.

Then he was at the very tip of the minaret and there he squatted. A bird of prey high above the city, looking around himself, seeing the domed mosques and pointed minarets that interrupted an uneven sea of rooftops. He saw marketplaces, courtyards and shrines, as well as the tower that marked the position of the Assassins’ Bureau.

Again, a sense of exaltation passed through him. He’d forgotten how beautiful cities looked from such a height. He’d forgotten how he felt, looking down upon them from their highest points. In those moments he felt released.

Al Mualim had been right. For years now, Altaï r’s targets had been located for him. He would be told where to go and when, his job to kill, nothing more, nothing less. He hadn’t realized it but he had missed the thrill of what it really meant to be an Assassin, which wasn’t bloodshed and death: it was what was to be found inside.

He crabbed forward a little, looking down into the narrow streets. The people were being called to prayer and the crowds were thinning. He scanned the canopies and rooftops, looking for a soft landing, then saw a hay cart. Fixing his eyes on it, taking deep breaths, he stood, feeling the breeze, hearing bells. Then he took a step forward, tumbling gracefully and hitting his target. Not as soft as he had hoped, perhaps, but safer than risking a landing on a fraying canopy, which was liable to tear and deposit him in a heap on the stall below. He listened, waiting until the street was quieter, then scrambled from the cart and began to make his way to the Bureau.

He reached it from the roof, dropping into a shaded vestibule in which tinkled a fountain, plants deadening the sounds from outside. It was if he had stepped into another world. He gathered himself and went inside.

The leader lounged behind a counter. He stood as the Assassin entered. ‘Altaï r. It is good to see you. And in one piece. ’

‘You as well, friend. ’ Altaï r eyed the man, not much liking what he saw. For one thing, he had an insolent, ironic manner. There was no doubt, also, that he had been informed of Altaï r’s recent … difficulties – and, by the look of him, planned to make the most of the temporary power the situation afforded him.

Sure enough, when he next spoke it was with a barely disguised smirk. ‘I am sorry for your troubles. ’

‘Think nothing of it. ’

The leader assumed a look of counterfeit concern. ‘A few of your brothers were here earlier …’

So. That was how he was so well informed, thought Altaï r.

‘If you’d heard the things they said, ’ the leader continued airily, ‘I’m certain you’d have slain them where they stood. ’

‘It’s quite all right, ’ said Altaï r.

The leader grinned. ‘Yes, you’ve never been one for the Creed, have you? ’

‘Is that all? ’ Altaï r found himself longing to slap off the insolent dog’s smile. Either that or use his blade to lengthen it …

‘I’m sorry, ’ said the leader, reddening, ‘sometimes I forget myself. What business brings you to Damascus? ’ He straightened a little, remembering his place at last.

‘A man named Tamir, ’ said Altaï r. ‘Al Mualim takes issue with the work he does and I am meant to end it. Tell me where to find him. ’

‘You will have to track him. ’

Altaï r bridled. ‘But that sort of work is best left for …’ He stopped himself, remembering Al Mualim’s orders. He was to be a novice again. Conduct his own investigations. Find the target. Perform the kill. He nodded, accepting his task.

The leader continued: ‘Search the city. Determine what Tamir’s planning and where he works. Preparation makes the victor. ’

‘All right, but what can you tell me of him? ’ asked Altaï r.

‘He makes his living as a black-market merchant, so the souk district should be your destination. ’

‘I assume you want me to return to you when this is done. ’

‘Come back to me. I’ll give you Al Mualim’s marker. And you’ll give us Tamir’s life. ’

‘As you wish. ’

Glad to be away from the stultifying Bureau, Altaï r made his way to the rooftops. Once again, he inhaled the city as he stopped to gaze into a narrow street below. A light breeze rippled canopies. Women milled around a stall selling polished oil lamps, chattering wildly, and not far away two men stood arguing. Over what, Altaï r couldn’t hear.

He turned his attention to the building opposite, then away over the rooftops. From there he could see the Pasha Mosque and the site of the Formal Gardens in the south but what he needed to locate was the …

He saw it, the huge Souk al-Silaah – where, according to the leader, he could begin to learn about Tamir. The leader knew more than he was revealing, of course, but was under strict instructions not to tell Altaï r. He understood that: the ‘novice’ had to learn the hard way.

He took two steps back, shook the tension from his arms, drew a deep breath, then jumped.

Safely across, he crouched for a moment, listening to the chatter from the lane below. He watched a group of guards as they passed, leading an ass with a cart that sagged beneath the weight of many stacked casks. ‘Make way, ’ the guards were saying, shoving citizens from their path. ‘Make way for we come with supplies bound for the Vizier’s Palace. His Excellency Abu’l Nuqoud is to throw another of his parties. ’ Those citizens who were shoved aside hid scowls of displeasure.

Altaï r watched the soldiers pass below him. He had heard the name, Abu’l Nuqoud: the one they called the Merchant King of Damascus. The casks. Altaï r might have been mistaken, but they looked as though they contained wine.

No matter. Altaï r’s business lay elsewhere. He straightened and set off at a jog, barely pausing for the leap to the next building and then the next, feeling a fresh surge of power and strength with each jump. Back to doing what he knew.

Seen from above, the souk was like ragged hole that had been punched into the city’s rooftops so it was easy to find. The biggest trading centre in Damascus, it lay in the centre of the city’s Poor District in the north-east and was bordered on all sides by buildings of mud and timber – Damascus turned into a swamp when it rained – and was a patchwork of carts, stands and merchants’ tables. Sweet scents rose to Altaï r on his perch high above: perfumes and oils, spices and pastries. Everywhere customers, merchants and traders were chattering or moving quickly through the crowds. The city’s people either stood and talked or hurried from one place to the next. There was no in-between, it seemed – not here, anyway. He watched them for a while, then clambered from the rooftop and, blending into the crowds, listened.

Listening for one word.

‘Tamir. ’

The three merchants were huddled in the shade, talking quietly but with all kinds of wild hand movements. It was they who had said the name, and Altaï r sidled over towards them, turning his back and hearing Al Mualim’s tutelage in his head as he did so: ‘Never make eye contact, always look occupied, stay relaxed. ’

‘He’s called another meeting, ’ heard Altaï r, unable to place which of the men was speaking. Who was the ‘he’ they mentioned? Tamir, presumably. Altaï r listened, making a mental note of the meeting place.

‘What is it this time? Another warning? Another execution? ’

‘No. He has work for us. ’

‘Which means we won’t be paid. ’

‘He’s abandoned the ways of the merchant guild. Does as he pleases now …’

They began discussing a large deal – the biggest ever, said one, in hushed tones – when suddenly they stopped. Not far away an orator with a close-trimmed black beard had taken his place at his stand, and was now staring at the merchants with dark, hooded eyes. Threatening eyes.

Altaï r stole a glance from beneath his cowl. The three men had gone pale. One scuffed at the dirt with his sandal; the other two drifted away, as though suddenly remembering an important task at hand. Their meeting was at an end.

The orator. One of Tamir’s men, perhaps. Evidently the black-marketeer ruled the souk with a firm hand. Altaï r drifted over as the man began to speak, drumming up an audience.

‘None knows Tamir better than I, ’ he announced loudly. ‘Come close. Hear the tale I have to tell. Of a merchant prince without peer …’

Just the tale Altaï r wanted to hear. He drifted closer, able to play the part of an interested observer. The market swirled around him.

‘It was just before Hattin, ’ continued the speaker. ‘The Saracens were low on food, and in desperate need of resupply. But there was no relief in sight. Tamir drove a caravan in those days between Damascus and Jerusalem. But recent business had been poor. It seemed there were none in Jerusalem who wanted what he had: fruits and vegetables from nearby farms. And so Tamir left, riding north and wondering what would become of his supplies. Soon they would surely spoil. That should have been the end of this tale and the poor man’s life … But Fate intended otherwise.

‘As Tamir drove his caravan north, he came across the Saracen leader and his starving men. Most fortunate for them both – each having something the other wanted.

‘So Tamir gave the man his food. And when the battle was finished, the Saracen leader saw to it that the merchant was repaid a thousand times.

‘Some say, were it not for Tamir, Salah Al’din’s men would have turned on him. It could be that we won the battle because of that man …’

He finished his speech and let his audience drift away. On his face was a thin smile as he stepped away from the stand and moved into the market. Off, perhaps, to another stand to make the same speech exalting Tamir. Altaï r followed, keeping a safe distance, once again hearing his tutor’s words in his head: ‘Put obstacles between yourself and your quarry. Never be found by a backwards glance. ’

These skills: Altaï r enjoyed the feeling they brought as they returned to him. He liked being able to shut out the clamour of the day and focus on his quarry. Then, abruptly, he stopped. Ahead of him the orator had bumped into a woman carrying a vase, which had smashed. She began remonstrating with him, her hand out demanding payment, but he curled a cruel lip and drew back his hand to strike her. Altaï r found himself tensing, but she cowered away and he sneered, lowering his hand, walking on, kicking bits of broken pot as he went. Altaï r moved on, past the woman, who now crouched in the sand, weeping and cursing and reaching for the shards of her vase.

Now the orator turned off the street and Altaï r followed. They were in a narrow, almost empty lane, dark mud walls pressing in on them. A shortcut, presumably, to the next stand. Altaï r glanced behind him, then took a few quick steps forward, grasped the speaker by the shoulder, spun him around and jammed the tips of his fingers beneath his ribcage.

Instantly the orator was doubled up, stumbling back and gasping for breath, his mouth working like that of a grounded fish. Altaï r shot a look to make sure there were no witnesses, then stepped forward, pivoted on one foot and kicked the orator in the throat.

He fell back messily, his thawb twisted around his legs. Now his hands went to where Altaï r had kicked him and he rolled in the dust. Smiling, Altaï r moved forward. Easy, he thought. It had been too …

The orator moved with the speed of a cobra. He shot up and kicked out, catching Altaï r square in the chest. Surprised, the Assassin staggered back as the other came forward, mouth set and fists swinging. He had a gleam in his eye, knowing he’d rocked Altaï r, who dodged one flailing punch only to realize it was a feint as the orator caught him across the jaw with his other fist.

Altaï r almost fell, tasting blood and cursing himself. He had underestimated his opponent. A novice mistake. The orator looked frantically around himself as though seeking the best escape route. Altaï r shook the pain from his face and came forward, holding his fists high and catching the orator on the temple before he could move off. For some moments the two traded blows in the alley. The orator was smaller and faster, and caught Altaï r high on the bridge of his nose. The Assassin stumbled, blinking away tears that split his vision. Sensing victory, the orator came forward, throwing wild punches. Altaï r stepped to the side, went low and swept the orator’s feet from beneath him, sending him crashing to the sand, the breath whooshing out of him as he landed on his back. Altaï r spun and dropped, sinking his knee directly into the speaker’s groin. He was gratified to hear an agonized bark in response, then stood, his shoulders rising and falling heavily as he collected himself. The orator writhed soundlessly in the dirt, mouth wide in a silent scream, his hands at his crotch. When he managed a great gasping breath, Altaï r squatted, bringing his face close to him.