Christie Golden - Assassin’s Creed: The Official Movie Novelization

The sky was golden fire, gilding all it touched; the rocky facets of the jutting mountains, the city spread out below them, and the red tile roof of the Moorish fortress, which offered up fire of its own in the open courtyard.

The eagle soared through the whipping wind, winging its way toward its evening resting place before the gold gave way to the cooler lavender hues of an encroaching night. Below, those who labored tending the forge and shaping blades paid neither the eagle, nor the wind, nor the sky any heed.

Their faces were swathed in shadow, hidden by the hoods they all wore as they worked; sharpening fresh blades, pouring molten metal to form new ones, and hammering red steel into gray obedience. No one spoke. The silence was broken only by the scraping and clanging of their task.

Outside the entrance of the great fortress stood a single figure. Tall, well-formed, and sleek with muscle, he was both somber and impatient. While he wore a hood like the others, he was not truly one of them.

Not yet.

It was in his blood; that much was undeniable. His parents had been part of the Brotherhood he was about to pledge his life to protect. When he had been but a child, his parents had taught him how to fight, how to hide, how to leap and climb, all in the guise of play or adventure.

He had been too young, too innocent, to understand the brutal reality behind the lessons he was learning. And then, when he was older, his parents had told him who they were, and what they served. He had not liked the idea that he was not the master of his own fate, and had been reluctant to follow in their footsteps.

It had cost them all.

The great enemy had sniffed them out.

Had observed their behavior, their habits. Like predators, the ancient foe had culled his parents from the herd, from their brothers and sisters, and descended in numbers too great to resist.

And the age-old enemy had slain them.

Not cleanly, with respect, in a fair fight, oh no. Not this enemy. This enemy had bound them with chains to a stake. Had placed bundles of wood at their feet, doused the bundlesand themwith oil, and set them afire while crowds cheered the horrific spectacle.

He had not been there, when they were taken. He had wondered then, and still wondered now, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, if he had been, could he have turned the tide? The members of the Brotherhood, who had come too late, assured him that no, he could not have. Not without training.

The murderers had made no effort to hide their deed, but had rather boasted of capturing infidels. Tall, with a chest broader than a barrel, cold-eyed and colder-hearted, this manOjedahad led the attack. And he had stood beside Father Toms de Torquemada as the monster had condemned, then burned, Aguilars family.

It had been too late to save them. But it was not too late to save himself.

The Brotherhood had turned him away at first, questioning his motives. But Maria had seen in him more than a desire for revenge. She had broken through his raw grief and instinctive, impulsive anger to the man inside, to someone who could see beyond taking revenge on the man who had killed his family.

To the man who knew there was more in this world that mattered than those he had lovedthere was the Creed. Something that would outlive all of them, and could be passed on to generations yet to come.

To the children of Assassinslike he had been.

And so, he had been trained. Some of it was easy, and he blessed his parents for their nurturance of such play. Some of it was harder, and he bore scars as testament to the times when he had been slow or inattentive or simply too weary.

He learned the history of his lineage, and the courage that drove what must seem like mad recklessness to those who stood on the outside, whose pulses did not quicken as those of the Brotherhood did.

Through it all, was Maria.

Quick to laugh, quicker with her blades, she seemed to thrum with intensity with every breath. She pushed him mercilessly when he flagged, praised him when he succeeded, and now, she was inside, helping with the rite that would move him to stand where the spirits of his murdered family would have him be.

He snapped out of his reverie when several of the hooded forms appeared at the door, beckoning him to follow. In silence he obeyed, his heart racing with anticipation, but cultivating calmness as he walked down the stairs into the open area. The sound of chanting reached his ears: Laa shaya waqiun moutlaq bale koulon moumkine.

The other hooded figures stood in a loose circle around a rectangular table in the center. At one end stood someone close to the initiate; Benedicto, the Mentor, with whom he had trained and fought beside. He was a kind man, free with laughter and praise, but the light of the candles on the table and the torches flickering in their sconces revealed a face currently devoid of lighter emotions.