Part Three 11 страница

‘But he is not a Templar, ’ said Altaï r, still not wanting to believe. Though he knew in his heart it was true. Al Mualim, who had raised him almost as his own son. Who had trained and tutored him. He had also betrayed him.

‘Did you never wonder how he knew so much? ’ pressed de Sable, as Altaï r felt his world falling away from him. ‘Where to find us, how many we numbered, what we aspired to attain? ’

‘He is the Master of the Assassins …’ protested Altaï r, still not wanting to believe. Yet … it felt as though the mystery was finally solved. It was true. He almost laughed. Everything he knew, it was an illusion.

‘Oui. Master of lies, ’ managed de Sable. ‘You and I just two more pawns in his grand game. And now … with my death, only you remain. Do you think he’ll let you live – knowing what you do? ’

‘I’ve no interest in the Treasure, ’ retorted Altaï r.

‘Ah … but he does. The only difference between your master and I is that he did not want to share. ’

‘No …’

‘Ironic, isn’t it? That I – your greatest enemy – kept you safe from harm. But now you’ve taken my life – and, in the process, ended your own. ’

Altaï r took a deep breath, still trying to comprehend what had happened. He felt a rush of emotions: anger, hurt, loneliness.

Then he reached and brushed de Sable’s eyelids closed. ‘We do not always find the things we seek, ’ he intoned, and stood, prepared to meet death if the Crusaders wished. Perhaps even hoping they would.

‘Well fought, Assassin, ’ came the cry from his right, and he turned to see Richard striding over to the ring, which parted to allow him through. ‘It seems God favours your cause this day. ’

‘God had nothing to do with it. I was the better fighter. ’

‘Ah. You may not believe in him, but it seems he believes in you. Before you go, I have a question. ’

‘Ask it then, ’ said Altaï r. He was very weary all of a sudden. He longed to lie in the shade of a palm: to sleep, to disappear. To die, even.

‘Why? Why travel all this way, risk your life a thousand times, all to kill a single man? ’

‘He threatened my brothers and what we stand for. ’

‘Ah. Vengeance, then? ’

Altaï r looked down at the body of Robert de Sable and realized that, no, vengeance had not been on his mind when he had killed him. He had done what he had done for the Order. He gave voice to his thoughts. ‘No. Not vengeance. Justice. That there might be peace. ’

‘This is what you fight for? ’ said Richard, eyebrows raised. ‘Peace? Do you see the contradiction? ’

He swept an arm around the area, a gesture that took in the battle still raging below them, the bodies scattered about the clearing and, last, the still-warm corpse of Robert de Sable.

‘Some men cannot be reasoned with. ’

‘Like that madman Saladin, ’ sighed Richard.

Altaï r looked at him. He saw a fair and just king. ‘I think he’d like to see an end to this war as much as you would. ’

‘So I’ve heard, but never seen. ’

‘Even if he doesn’t say it, it’s what the people want, ’ Altaï r told him. ‘Saracen and Crusader alike. ’

‘The people know not what they want. It’s why they turn to men like us. ’

‘Then it falls to men like you to do what is right. ’

Richard snorted. ‘Nonsense. We come into the world kicking and screaming. Violent and unstable. It is what we are. We cannot help ourselves. ’

‘No. We are what we choose to be. ’

Richard smiled ruefully. ‘Your kind … Always playing with words. ’

‘I speak the truth, ’ said Altaï r. ‘There’s no trick to be found here. ’

‘We’ll know soon enough. But I fear you cannot have what you desire this day. Even now that heathen Saladin cuts through my men and I must attend to them. But perhaps, having seen how vulnerable he is, he will reconsider his actions. Yes. In time what you seek may be possible. ’

‘You were no more secure than him, ’ said Altaï r. ‘Do not forget that. The men you left behind to rule in your stead did not intend to serve you for longer than they had to. ’

‘Yes. Yes. I am well aware. ’

‘Then I’ll take my leave, ’ said Altaï r. ‘My master and I have much to discuss. It seems that even he is not without fault. ’

Richard nodded. ‘He is only human. As are we all. You as well. ’

‘Safety and peace be upon you, ’ said Altaï r, and he left, his thoughts going to Masyaf. Its beauty seemed tainted by what he had learned about Al Mualim. He needed to ride for home. He needed to put things right.

Masyaf was not as he had left it: that much become clear from the moment he arrived at the stables. The horses pawed and whinnied but there were no stable lads to see to them or to take Altaï r’s mount. He ran through the open main gates and into the courtyard, where he was struck by the silence, the complete absence not just of sound but of atmosphere. Here the sun struggled to shine, giving the village a grey, overcast tint. Birds no longer sang. The fountain no longer tinkled and there was none of the hubbub of everyday life. Stalls were set out but there were no villagers hurrying this way and that, talking excitedly or bartering for goods. There were no animal sounds. Just an eerie … nothing.

He stared up the hill towards the citadel, seeing no one. As ever, he wondered if Al Mualim was in his tower, looking down upon him. Could he see him? Then his eye was caught by a lone figure making his way towards him. A villager.

‘What’s happened here? ’ Altaï r demanded of him. ‘Where is everyone? ’

‘Gone to see the Master, ’ said the citizen. It sounded like a chant. Like a mantra. His eyes were glassy, and a rope of drool hung from his mouth. Altaï r had seen that look before. He had seen it on the faces of those in thrall to Garnier de Naplouse. The crazy men – or so he had thought at the time. They had had that empty, glazed look.

‘Was it the Templars? ’ said Altaï r. ‘Did they attack again? ’

‘They walk the path, ’ replied the villager.

‘What path? What are you talking about? ’

‘Towards the light, ’ intoned the man. His voice had taken on a singsong quality.

‘Speak sense, ’ demanded Altaï r.

‘There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth. ’

‘You’ve lost your mind, ’ spat Altaï r.

‘You, too, will walk the path or you will perish. So the Master commands. ’

Al Mualim, thought Altaï r. So it was true. It was all true. He had been betrayed. Nothing was true. ‘What has he done to you? ’ he said to the villager.

‘Praise be to the Master, for he has led us to the light …’

Altaï r ran on, leaving the man behind, a solitary figure in the deserted marketplace. He ran up the slopes, coming to the upland, and there found a group of Assassins waiting for him, their swords drawn.

He drew his own, knowing he could not use it. Not to kill anyway. These Assassins, though they meant to kill him, had been brainwashed into doing it. Killing them would breach one of the tenets. He was weary of breaking the Creed. He was never going to do it again. But …

With dead eyes they closed in on him.

Were they in a trance like the others? Would their movements be just as sluggish? He dipped his shoulder and charged them, knocking the first one down. Another grabbed at him, but he caught hold of the Assassin’s robe, took a bunch of it in his fist and swung him, knocking down two more of his attackers to make a gap that he was able to run through.

Then, from above, he heard his name being called. Malik was standing on the promontory by the fortress approach. With him were Jabal of Acre and two more Assassins he didn’t recognize. He found himself studying them. Had they, too, been brainwashed? Drugged? Whatever it was that Al Mualim was doing?

But no. Malik was waving his good arm, and though Altaï r had never conceived of a day when he might be pleased to see Malik, here it was.

‘Altaï r. Up here. ’

‘You picked a fine time to arrive, ’ grinned Altaï r.

‘So it seems. ’

‘Guard yourself well, friend, ’ Altaï r told him. ‘Al Mualim has betrayed us. ’ He was prepared for disbelief, even anger from Malik, who trusted and revered Al Mualim and deferred to him in all matters. But Malik merely nodded sadly.

‘Betrayed his Templar allies as well, ’ he said.

‘How do you know? ’

‘After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon’s Temple. Robert had kept a journal. Filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart … But it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altaï r. All along our master has used us. We were not meant to save the Holy Land, but deliver it to him. He must be stopped. ’

‘Be careful, Malik, ’ warned Altaï r. ‘What he’s done to the others he’ll do to us, given the chance. You must stay far from him. ’

‘What would you propose? My blade arm is still strong and my men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us. ’

‘Distract these thralls, then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim. ’

‘I will do as you ask. ’

‘The men we face – their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them …’

‘Yes. Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I’ll do what I can. ’

‘It’s all I ask, ’ said Altaï r.

Malik turned to leave him.

‘Safety and peace, my friend, ’ said Altair.

Malik smiled wryly. ‘Your presence here will deliver us both. ’

Altaï r dashed along the barbican to the main courtyard and now he discovered why there had been no villagers in the marketplace. They were all here, crowded into the courtyard, filling it. The whole village surely. They milled around aimlessly, as though barely able to lift their heads. As Altaï r watched, he saw a man and a woman collide, and the woman fall, landing heavily on her backside. Neither acknowledged it, though. No surprise, no pain, no apologies or angry words. The man staggered a little, then moved off. The woman stayed seated, ignored by the other villagers.

Cautiously, Altaï r moved through them towards the tower, struck by the silence, just the sound of dragging feet and the odd murmur.

‘The will of the Master must be obeyed, ’ he heard.

‘O Al Mualim. Guide us. Command us. ’

‘The world will be cleansed. We will begin anew. ’

The new order, he thought, dictated by the Knights Templar, yes, but one Templar above all. Al Mualim.

He came into the entrance hall of the tower, no guards there to greet him. Just the same sense of thick, empty air. As though an invisible mist hung over the entire complex. Looking up he saw that a wrought-iron gate was open. The gate that led to the courtyard and gardens at the rear of the tower. Wisps of light seemed to hang in the air by the portal, as though beckoning him onwards, and he hesitated, knowing that to go through was to play into Al Mualim’s hands. Though, surely, if the Master wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. He drew his sword and ascended the stairs, realizing that he’d instinctively thought of Al Mualim as ‘the Master’ when he was no longer Altaï r’s master. He had ceased to be his master the moment Altaï r had discovered that Al Mualim was a Templar. He was the enemy now.

He stopped at the doorway to the garden. Took a deep breath. What lay on the other side he had no idea, but there was only one way to find out.

It was dark in the garden. Altaï r could hear the low babble of a stream and the soothing cascade of a waterfall, but otherwise the air was still. He came to a marble terrace, the surface smooth beneath his boots, and he looked around, squinting at the dark, irregular shapes of trees and pavilions dotted about him.

Suddenly he heard a noise from behind him. The gate slammed shut and there was a clank as though a bolt had been thrown by unseen hands.

Altair spun. His eyes went up and he saw Al Mualim standing on the balcony of his library, looking down at him on the terrace. He held something: the Treasure taken from the Temple Mount, the Piece of Eden. It glowed with a power that painted Al Mualim a dusky orange, which intensified as Altaï r watched.

Suddenly the Assassin was gripped by an incredible pain. He screamed – and found that he was being raised from the ground, imprisoned by a shimmering cone of bright light controlled by the outstretched hand of Al Mualim, the Apple pulsing like a muscle flexing and tensing.

‘What’s happening? ’ cried Altaï r, defenceless in the artefact’s grasp, paralysed by it.

‘So the student returns, ’ said Al Mualim, evenly. He spoke with a victor’s assurance.

‘I’ve never been one to run, ’ returned Altaï r, defiant.

Al Mualim chortled. None of this – none of it – seemed to bother him. ‘Never been one to listen, either, ’ he said.

‘I still live because of it. ’ Altaï r struggled against his invisible bonds. The Apple pulsed in response and the light seemed to press in on him, restricting him even more.

‘What will I do with you? ’ Al Mualim smiled.

‘Let me go, ’ snarled Altaï r. He had no throwing knives but, free of these shackles, he could reach the old man in just a few bounds. Al Mualim would have a few last moments to admire his climbing skills before Altaï r slid his blade into his gut.

‘Oh, Altair. I hear the hatred in your voice, ’ said Al Mualim. ‘I feel its heat. Let you go? That would be unwise. ’

‘Why are you doing this? ’ asked Altaï r.

Al Mualim seemed to consider. ‘I believed once. Did you know that? I thought there was a God. A God who loved and looked after us, who sent prophets to guide and comfort us. Who made miracles to remind us of his power. ’

‘What changed? ’

‘I found proof. ’

‘Proof of what? ’

‘That it is all an illusion. ’

And with a wave of his hand he released Altaï r from the imprisoning light. Altaï r expected to drop, then realized he had never been suspended at all. Confused, he looked around himself, sensing a new change in the atmosphere, a building of pressure he felt in his eardrums, like the moments before a storm. Above him on the library balcony, Al Mualim was raising the Apple above his head, intoning something.

‘Come. Destroy the betrayer. Send him from this world. ’

Suddenly figures were appearing around Altaï r, snarling, teeth bared, ready for combat; figures he recognized but found hard to place at first – but then did: they were his nine targets, his nine victims returned from the other life to this one.

He saw Garnier de Naplouse, who stood wearing his blood-stained apron, a sword in his hand, looking at Altair with pitying eyes. He saw Tamir, who held his dagger, his eyes glinting with evil intent, and Talal, his bow over his shoulder, sword in hand. William de Montferrat, who grinned wickedly, drew his weapon and grounded it, biding his time before the attack. Abu’l Nuqoud and Majd Addin were there, Jubair, Sibrand and, last, Robert de Sable.

All of his targets, sent from the world by Altaï r and summoned back to it by Al Mualim so that they might have their revenge.

And they attacked.

Majd Addin he was pleased to dispatch first, for a second time. Abu’l Nuqoud was as fat and comical in his resurrected form as he had been the first time around. He sank to his knees on the point of Altaï r’s sword, but instead of remaining on the ground, he vanished, leaving just a disturbance in the air behind him, a ripple of disrupted space. Talal, de Montferrat, Sibrand and de Sable were the most skilled fighters and, accordingly, they hung back, allowing the weaker among them to go forward first in the hope of tiring Altaï r. The Assassin dashed from the marble terrace and leaped from the ridge, landing on a second square of decorated marble, this one with a waterfall nearby. The targets followed him. Tamir died screaming at one, two slashes of Altaï r’s sword. The Assassin felt nothing. No remorse. Not even gratification at seeing the men die a deserved second death. De Naplouse vanished as the others had, his throat cut. Jubair fell. Talal he grabbed, and the two grappled before Altaï r drove his sword deep into his stomach and he, too, was nothing but an absence. Montferrat was next to go. Sibrand followed him, then de Sable, until once more Altaï r was alone in the garden with Al Mualim.

‘Face me, ’ demanded Altaï r, catching his breath. The sweat poured from him but he knew the battle was far from over. It had only just begun. ‘Or are you afraid? ’

Al Mualim scoffed. ‘I have stood before a thousand men – all of them superior to you. And all of them dead – by my hand. ’

With a litheness and athleticism belying his years, he jumped from the balcony, landing in a crouch not far away from Altaï r. He still held the Apple. He clasped it as though he was proffering it to Altaï r and his face was bathed in its light. ‘I am not afraid, ’ said Al Mualim.

‘Prove it, ’ challenged Altaï r, knowing that Al Mualim would see through his ploy – his ploy to bring the traitor close. But if he did – and he surely did – then he cared nothing. He was right. He was unafraid – unafraid because he had the Apple, which was burning even more brightly. Dazzling. The whole of the area was lit up, then just as quickly darkened again. As Altaï r’s eyes adjusted he saw copies of Al Mualim appear, as though generated from within the body of the Master himself.

He tensed. He wondered if these copies, like those he had just fought, would be inferior, weaker versions of the original.

‘What could I possibly fear? ’ Al Mualim was mocking him now. (Good. Let him mock. Let him be careless. ) ‘Look at the power I command. ’

The copies came to Altaï r, and once again he was fighting. Once again the garden rang to the chimes of crashing steel – and as the copies fell beneath Altaï r’s blade they vanished. Until he was again alone with Al Mualim.

He stood, trying to regain his breath, feeling exhausted now, then once again he was embraced by the power of the Apple, which sparkled and throbbed in Al Mualim’s hand.

‘Have you any final words? ’ said Al Mualim.

‘You lied to me, ’ said Altaï r. ‘You called Robert’s goal foul – when all along it was yours as well. ’

‘I’ve never been much good at sharing, ’ said Al Mualim, almost rueful.

‘You won’t succeed. Others will find the strength to stand against you. ’

At this Al Mualim sighed heavily. ‘And that is why, as long as men maintain free will, there can be no peace. ’

‘I killed the last man who said as much. ’

Al Mualim laughed. ‘Bold words, boy. But just words. ’

‘Then let me go. I’ll put words into action. ’

Altaï r’s mind was racing now as he searched for something to say that would incite Al Mualim to carelessness.

‘Tell me, Master, why did you not make me like the other Assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind? ’

‘Who you are and what you do are entwined too tightly together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other. And those Templars had to die. ’ He sighed. ‘But the truth is, I did try. In my study, when I showed you the Treasure … But you are not like the others. You saw through the illusion. ’

Altaï r’s mind returned to the afternoon when Al Mualim had shown him the Treasure. He had felt its lure then, that was true, but he had resisted temptation. He wondered if he would be able to do so indefinitely. Its insidious powers seemed to work on all who came into contact with it. Even Al Mualim, whom once he had idolized, who had been a father to him, and had been a good man then, fair and just and temperate, concerned only with the well-being of the Order and those who served it – but he had been corrupted. The glow of the Apple cast his face in a ghastly hue. It had done the same to his soul.

‘Illusion? ’ said Altaï r, still thinking of that afternoon.

Al Mualim laughed. ‘That’s all anything’s ever been. This Templar Treasure. This Piece of Eden. This Word of God. Do you understand now? The Red Sea was never parted. Water never turned to wine. It was not the machinations of Eris that spawned the Trojan War, but this …’ He held up the Apple. ‘Illusions – all of them. ’

‘What you plan is no less an illusion, ’ insisted Altaï r. ‘To force men to follow you against their will. ’

‘Is it any less real than the phantoms the Saracens and Crusaders follow now? Those craven gods who retreat from this world that men might slaughter one another in their names? They live among an illusion already. I’m simply giving them another. One that demands less blood. ’

‘At least they choose these phantoms, ’ argued Altaï r.

‘Do they? Aside from the occasional convert or heretic? ’

‘It isn’t right, ’ snapped Altaï r.

‘Ah. Now logic has left you. In its place you embrace emotion. I am disappointed. ’

‘What’s to be done, then? ’

‘You will not follow me and I cannot compel you. ’

‘And you refuse to give up this evil scheme. ’

‘It seems, then, we are at an impasse. ’

‘No. We are at an end, ’ said Altaï r, and perhaps Al Mualim was correct, for he found himself fighting a wave of emotion. Of betrayal and sadness and something he could not quite place at first but then did. Loneliness.

Al Mualim drew his sword. ‘I will miss you, Altaï r. You were my very best student. ’

Altaï r watched the years fall away from Al Mualim as he took up position, readying his sword and forcing Altaï r to do the same. He skipped to the side, testing Altaï r’s guard, and Altaï r realized he had never seen him move so quickly. The Al Mualim he knew paced slowly, walked unhurriedly across the courtyard, made slow, sweeping gestures. This one moved like a swordsman – who thrust forward, slashing with his blade. Then, as Altaï r defended, he adjusted the attack to a jab. Altaï r was forced to his toes, his arm bent as he swept his blade back to deflect Al Mualim’s offensive. The move left him off balance and, with the guard on his left side down, Al Mualim saw his chance and came in with a second quick swipe that met its mark.

Altaï r winced, feeling the wound on his hip leak blood, but dared not look. He couldn’t take his eyes from Al Mualim for one second. Opposite him, Al Mualim smiled. A smile that said he had taught the young pup a lesson. He stepped to his side, then feigned an attack, going first one way then the other, hoping to catch Altaï r off guard.

Fighting pain and fatigue, Altaï r came forward with an offensive of his own – taking Al Mualim by surprise, he was pleased to see. But though he made contact – he thought he made contact – the Master seemed to slide away as though transporting.

‘Blind, Altaï r, ’ chuckled Al Mualim. ‘Blind is all you’ve ever been. All you’ll ever be. ’ Again, he attacked.

Altaï r was too slow to react in time, feeling Al Mualim’s blade slash his arm and crying out with the pain. He couldn’t take much more of this. He was too tired. He was losing blood. It was as though the energy was being slowly drained from him. The Apple, his wounds, his exhaustion: all were combining slowly but surely to cripple him. If he couldn’t turn the battle soon he faced defeat.

But the old man was letting the Apple make him careless. Even as he was gloating Altaï r danced forward and struck again, his swordpoint striking home, drawing blood. Al Mualim shouted in pain, transported then reappeared, snarling and launching his next offensive. Feigning an attack to the left he spun, wielding his sword backhand. Desperately Altaï r fended him off, but was almost sent reeling, and for some moments the two traded blows, the salvo ending when Al Mualim ducked, sliced upward and nicked Altaï r’s cheek, dancing away before the Assassin could respond.

Altaï r launched a counter-attack and Al Mualim transported. But when he reappeared, Altaï r noticed he looked more haggard, and when he attacked it was a little more carelessly. Less disciplined.

Altaï r came forward slicing with his blade, forcing the Master to transport and materialize several feet away. Altaï r saw a new stoop to his shoulders, and his head was heavy. The Apple was sapping Altaï r’s strength but was it doing the same to its user? Did Al Mualim know it? How well did the old man understand the Apple? Its power was so great that Altaï r doubted it was possible ever to truly know it.

So. He had to force Al Mualim to use it and so deplete his own energy. With a yell he leaped forward, slashing at Al Mualim, whose eyes went wide with surprise at the sudden vehemence of Altaï r’s approach. He transported away. Altaï r came at him the moment he reappeared and Al Mualim’s face now wore anger – frustration that the rules of engagement had changed, needing to find the space to adjust.

He materialized further away this time. It was working: he looked even more tired. But he was ready for Altaï r’s undisciplined attack, rewarding the Assassin with another bloody arm. Not serious enough to stop him, though: the younger man pushed forward again, forcing Al Mualim to transport. For the last time.

When he reappeared he staggered slightly, and Altaï r could see that he found his sword heavier to hold. As he raised his head to look at Altaï r, the Assassin saw in his eyes that he knew the Apple had been sapping his strength and that Altaï r had noticed.

And, as Altaï r engaged his blade and leaped, driving it deep into Al Mualim with a roar that was part victory and part grief, perhaps Al Mualim’s final thoughts were of pride in his former pupil.

‘Impossible, ’ he gasped, as Altaï r knelt astride him. ‘The student does not defeat the teacher. ’

Altaï r hung his head, feeling tears prick his cheeks.

‘You have won, then. Go and claim your prize. ’

The Apple had rolled from Al Mualim’s outstretched hand. It sat glowing on the marble. Waiting.

‘You held fire in your hand, old man, ’ said Altaï r. ‘It should have been destroyed. ’

‘Destroy the only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? ’ laughed Al Mualim. ‘Never. ’

‘Then I will, ’ said Altaï r.

‘We’ll see about that, ’ chuckled Al Mualim.

Altaï r was staring at it, finding it difficult to drag his gaze away. Gently he rested Al Mualim’s head on the stone, the old man fading fast now, stood up and walked towards it.

He picked it up.

It was as if it came alive in his hand. As though a huge bolt of energy flowed from it that lit the Apple and travelled up his arm, right into his chest. He felt a great swelling that was uncomfortable at first, then felt life-giving, washing away the pain of battle, filling him with power. The Apple throbbed and seemed to pulse and Altaï r began to see images. Incredible, incomprehensible images. He saw what looked like cities, vast, glittering cities, with towers and fortresses, as though from thousands of years ago. Next he saw machines and tools, strange contraptions. He understood that they belonged in a future not yet written, where some of the devices brought people great joy while others meant only death and destruction. The rate and intensity of the images left him gasping for breath. Then the Apple was enveloped by a corona of light that spread outwards until Altaï r saw that he was looking at a globe, a huge globe, that hung in the still air of the garden, slowly spinning and radiating warm, golden light.

He was entranced by it. Enchanted. It was a map, he saw, with strange symbols – writing he didn’t understand.

Behind him he heard Al Mualim speaking: ‘I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also was a chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much grief and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. ’

Now Malik and his men rushed into the garden. With barely a glance at the body of Al Mualim, they stood hypnotized by the Apple. In the distance Altaï r could hear shouting. Whatever spell had been cast over Masyaf was broken.

He readied himself to dash the Apple against the stone, still unable to take his eyes from the spinning image, finding it hard to make his arm heed the command of his brain.

‘Destroy it! ’ called Al Mualim. ‘Destroy it as you said you would! ’

Altaï r’s hand trembled. His muscles refused to obey the commands of his brain. ‘I … I can’t …’ he said.

‘Yes, you can, Altaï r, ’ gasped Al Mualim. ‘You can. But you won’t. ’ With that, he died.

Altaï r looked up from the body of his mentor to find Malik and his men gazing expectantly at him – waiting for leadership and guidance.

Altaï r was the Master now.

Part Three