Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Five: The Cost of Pride

Davenport Homestead, 1770

Naomi

The sky is still dim when Ratonhnhaké:ton and I step out under it. This is my favourite time of the day—where the sun strives to erase all traces of night, streaking fiery threads across the deep, purple sky. I eagerly breathe in the fresh air—which unfortunately has a whiff of manure in it, because we're standing near the stables.

Beside me, Ratonhnhaké:ton bends down to tie his bootlaces. The edge of his longsword thumps slightly against the ground; a sound so soft I wouldn't have heard it had I not been paying attention. We are trained in stealth, yes—but beyond that, it is important that we learn how to move quietly whilst heavily armoured.

A tug on my quiver makes me look over my shoulder, and I see that it is now full of brand-new arrows. "I made them last night," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, busying himself with his own weapons.

Guilt surges within me. Last night, I said I would help with the arrows, then completely forgot about them. I can imagine him sitting by the fire all night long, carving each arrow to deadly perfection. "Thanks," I reply sheepishly.

Ratonhnhaké:ton, who very much enjoys the sight of me being sheepish, brightens. "Shall we?" he asks.

I flash him a grin, then take off into the woods without warning. He is on my heels after a split second, weaving his way around every tree and obstacle like a fish in water. We alternate between ground and treetop, our footsteps swift and silent. This is another essential part of our training—the art of maintaining extreme agility whilst encumbered with weaponry.

The sound of rushing wind fills my ears, and I let muscle memory take over my thoughts. This—this is what I love most. I love the texture of the ground beneath my feet, the way my heart seems to beat in tune to my footsteps, and the wind whipping through my hair—all of it. Over my adrenaline rush, I can barely hear Ratonhnhaké:ton moving through the trees. Out of his fairly extensive skillset—which ranges from archery to wrestling to tracking—his stealth has impressed me the most. After training with him for more than six months, Achilles has yet taught him a thing he cannot do.

And that really annoys me.

Though I have little reason to be annoyed. For where he is quiet, I am quick; he is fast, but I am faster. If only just slightly, I admit begrudgingly. With a grunt, I urge myself forward, determined to beat the boy.

I leap onto a tree branch that will take me through a different route to the clearing that we use for training. A shorter route, one we rarely use because the branches are sparse. But not too sparse if I can make the jump. Ignoring Ratonhnhaké:ton's call, I reach for one branch, and then another, my excitement building as I realize I can make leaps that I couldn't before. After a final burst of strength, I land on the clearing with a front roll. A short laugh escapes my mouth, and I turn to look for Ratonhnhaké:ton.

But he is nowhere to be found.

A prickle of fear creeps into my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. I know I'm fast, but I'm not that fast. Raton should've been here.

Then I hear the gunshot.

Before I know it, I'm already crashing through the woods to the source of the sound. Raton, where are you? I long to call for him, to yell his name—but I know that would doom us both. Raton, I'm sorry, this is all my fault—

I force myself to stop.

Breathe, Naomi, breathe.

I cannot go charging in, I would be too loud. I cannot travel through the treetops, either, because they shot Raton from there. So I make myself take cover in the bushes, moving as fast as I can. But the speed is still painfully slow compared to running.