At the top of the ramparts of the Masyaf fortress, even the wind was a force to be reckoned with. It swept up their robes and whipped it around their knees, buffeted their backs with enough force that it seemed as though it might sweep them off their feet. Stronger than the wind, strong enough to have ridden it, Altair raised his arm and pointed at a lone tree sitting atop a raised cliff, far below where they stood, and a good ways into the Kingdom. “There,” he said, “That should be sufficient.”

“And after that, you will return to work?” Malik prompted, exasperated.

“After that, I will sit at that blasted desk for as long as you will have me do so,” Altair recited, grabbing Malik's shoulder to turn him in the direction he had gestured in. “Now look.”

Without the shade of a drawn hood to hide under, Malik raised a hand to shield his eyes before he could squint and follow the line of Altair's finger, doing the numbers in his head. He imagined a compass, its pointed ends dancing around each other as they traced out the distance from one point to another, and leaned back on his heels, appraising. “One or two parasang, I wager.”

“There are dirt paths leading up to it on either side. It can be reached on foot or horseback,” Altair added, nodding to himself as if proud for this foresight.

Malik turned to him, tilted his head, and looked mildly amused. Altair loved this expression, because it was all challenge that he itched to to take. “And?” Malik asked, loftily. “What does that have to do with anything?”


It was folly that had made him agree to this horseplay, and it was pride that kept him in it, but Malik could not help but laugh as they burst through the fortress gates together, startling novices and civilians in their wake. Altair kicked off with a burst of speed and began to grow the distance between them, as Malik had expected him to, and it made it easier for him to hide his smile when no one was looking for it, attention too distracted by the Eagle of Masyaf.

Well, no one save one: Altair threw one glance over his shoulder and grinned back before leaping off one of the ledges on the road leading down to the city and into a pile of hay. Malik was quick on his heels, taking advantage of the path Altair had cleared in the sea of pedestrians, and he let gravity do the work for him, because as fast as he was on foot, Altair fell just as quickly as everyone else.

“What-” Malik landed in a pile of limbs and prickly straw, apparently having squashed Altair down onto his stomach as the other man had been preparing to slip out of the mound. The next few seconds were a flurry of limbs, kicking out at each other and trying to both simultaneously untangle themselves while keeping the other down.

Altair made the mistake of reaching for an arm that wasn't there, the hay narrowing his vision to near-golden-yellow-blindness, and Malik's legs kicked out from under him, a knee knocking the young Grandmaster to his side. Malik rolled on top of him, using Altair's own weight to trap one arm under him, and using his foot to stamp down on the forearm of the other. He leaned forward until the hay gave way for his head, and smirked down at the face his hand was holding in place, fingers to either side of Altair's chin.

“I'm sorry, I did not realize this pile was occupied,” Malik drawled. Altair tried bucking him off, with little success, and Malik could already hear the shift of cloth and straw as the man slowly squeezed out his arm from under him. Malik braced himself for the blow.