Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Four: Deadly and Deadlier

Davenport Homestead, 1769

Naomi

I've been tossing and turning on my bed for a good half hour, but sleep refuses to come. I think it was because I slept well the night before, and the universe decided I shouldn't be doing that too often.

After getting up and out of bed, I lace my boots and strap on my shortsword. I'm particularly fond of this sword, probably because Achilles said it was left there by my father. So I claimed it as my own. It has never left my side since.

In my opinion, sleepless nights call for a good session of knife throwing. So I make my way downstairs as quietly as I can, careful to avoid the floorboards that I know would creak. One would eventually have the floorboards memorized after many nights of sneaking around.

When I pass by the window, I stop to glance at the stables. I've been doing that quite regularly after knowing that the boy took shelter there. Just to make sure he's not dead, I tell myself. I still don't like him.

Instead of the boy's huddled figure, I see the silhouette of two men through the rain, seemingly arguing. They turn abruptly, and I think the boy must've hollered them. Sure enough, there he is, with his shoulders squared and feet planted into the ground, readying himself for a fight. I'm confident that he can handle two pathetic bandits, so I start heading for the training room—but then I hear one of the men whistling loudly, calling for reinforcements.

Without even thinking to grab more weapons, I tear down the staircase and out the front door, plunging into the uneven battle between the boy and ten other bandits. The rain soaks through my clothes almost immediately, but I shrug off the chill. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is warm enough.

As I cut down one of the unsuspecting idiots, I see that the fight might not have been uneven at all, for the boy had already dealt with two of them, and their bodies lie unmoving at his feet. Noticing me, the bandits begin to taunt: "Best get outta 'ere, li'l girl, 'fore we cut ya to pieces!"

If there's anything I hate more than cleaning horse dung, it's being called 'little girl'. I swat away the bandit's musket and pierce him through the heart before he can even say "breeches". Much to my delight, I am rewarded with newfound terror in the others' eyes. As the fight begins, I feel the coldness of battle descend upon me, drowning out all other noises. Amidst parries and slashes, I catch glimpses of the boy and his tomahawk, the deadly weapon hacking mercilessly into the bandits, wielded by a deadlier fighter. Soon, bodies are scattered over the ground, soaking the earth with blood.

Out of nowhere, a large something hit me in the head, just as I was dealing with the last of them—or at least, what I thought was the last. The blow isn't enough to render me unconscious, but dazed, definitely. Before I can recover, someone knocks me to the ground, and a large boot connects with my ribcage. I try not to think about the crunching sound my broken ribs make.

Then I hear the boy grunt in pain, and realize they have him cornered too. Another similar crunch reaches my ears, and I look away from the sight of him being beaten bloody. Instead, I look up and see a brute towering over me, his hair sparse and teeth rotten.

I want to wipe the smirk off his face with a punch. Unfortunately, he has me disarmed and pinned to the ground.

The brute drags me to my feet, delivering another blow to my already injured stomach. "You boys deal with the savage! This one's mine," he growls, eyes darkening as they trail their slimy way down my body. Though I don't have much practice, I manage to spit squarely in his eye. I almost beam with pride.

"You little— "

But I never find out what the brute had meant to say. A glint of metal materializes from his chest, and a patch of scarlet spreads over his torso until he crashes to the ground.