Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Fourteen: Right Is Wrong

Davenport Homestead, June 1774

Naomi

"Ratonhnhaké:ton! RATONHNHAKÉ:TON!"

I was making lunch when Connor's Native friend burst through the manor's front door. Last time he paid a visit, he knocked. Something really bad must've happened.

"Kanen'to:kon?" Connor rushes to his friend. "Why are you here? Has something happened?"

"William Johnson has returned, with all the money required to buy our land. He meets with the elders as we speak," Kanen'to:kon explains, the words tumbling from his mouth in desperation. "I have begged them to resist, but I fear he shall have his way unless you intervene."

"How is this possible?" Connor thunders. "We destroyed the tea." His face twists in fury, but more than that—fear. His worst nightmare, his ultimate terror. He's afraid to lose his homeland a second time.

"The Templars are nothing if not resourceful. You should've heeded my warning." Achilles' rebuke is untimely at best, infuriating at worst. I see it test Connor's patience as he shuts his eyes with a frown, his jaw working furiously. I expect him to burst at Achilles, but he doesn't.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, you have to come," Kanen'to:kon pleads.

"Of course," Connor replies without hesitation. He glances at me. Will you come? I nod, already strapping on my weapons. "Can you tell me where they are meeting?" he asks Kanen'to:kon, who is already marching out of the house.

"Johnson Hall in John's Town."

It's not a short hike, but we move fast. "Let's go."

*

"He says the water is well guarded," Connor tells me after speaking with Kanen'to:kon in the Mohawk language. His friend settles onto the ground, leaving the task of finding Johnson to us. True enough, I can see guards marching on the riverbank and by the cliffs from our vantage point. There must be more that are hidden from the eye.

"We have to swim," I tell him, dipping my head at the river.

"Fortunately, it is warm," Connor mutters back, his voice anything but. He leaps off our cliff to a nearby tree branch, beginning our descent towards the water. I follow, feeling my nerves tingle in anticipation of a fight.

We emerge from the water without being noticed. Two arrows from my bow drop the guards patrolling the riverbank, and we begin the climb up the hill to Johnson Hall. Connor is a storm, pushing forward at a maddening pace. He doesn't bother to be discreet in his haste to save his village. The guards don't get a chance to raise an alarm, though. They are silenced before they even make it a yard.

"Connor," I snap, blocking his path before he charges into the meeting. In his fury, I don't think he sees what I do. The Native elders are standing in a circle, with armed soldiers surrounding them. Hemming them in. Keeping them trapped. It's obvious the discussion is over; this is an execution. "You march in there, and they die."

"We are not here to negotiate or to sell," I hear one Native cry. "We are here to tell you and yours to leave this land!"

"Very well," says a voice that can only belong to Johnson. "Perhaps you'll respond better to the sword."

Connor's whole body tenses in the realization, like a coiled snake ready to spring. "The roof," he snarls, and I nod in agreement.

I'm pulling myself up onto the rooftop when the first gunshot cracks. We race to the edge, running out of time. "Get them out," Connor growls. He doesn't have to tell me. I already know Johnson is his to deal with.

We leap at the same time, but I land beside a soldier with his musket raised, while he lands in front of the Templar. Some soldiers abandon their positions when Johnson falls, a victim to Connor's hidden blade. But others remain, threatening the elders. They don't stand for long, though, because my arrows find them soon.

The fight ended almost as quickly as it began. The elders are strong for their age, some already retaliating with staffs and clubs before I came to their aid. They look around themselves now, counting their dead. One elder lies unmoving amidst several Redcoat bodies, and his friend bends over to close his glassy eyes. When he stands, he fixes a stormy gaze on me, and nods once.

All the men have left by the time I approach Connor, and the quiet feels odd after the chaos from minutes ago. He stands on the edge of a cliff, gazing at the river splayed out before us. His shoulders are stiff and set, tensed despite today's success. "One," I say, without explanation. He understands.

Connor's reply is quiet. "There could have been more." Had we not intervened. It is a small comfort.

"What did Johnson say?" I ask, changing the subject. Earlier, I caught a glimpse of Connor speaking with the man, as he heaved his last breaths. I might have imagined it—the havoc made it impossible to be sure—but I think I saw a certain despair in Johnson, a sadness for all his ambitions that were ended.

"He said he sought to buy the lands to protect the Iroquois."

"Convincing," I scoff, glancing at the elder's dead body.

"And he was convinced. That what he did was the right thing," Connor snaps, but his voice holds no animosity—just a deep frustration at the way things are and the way they continue to be. He closes his eyes against the dead, drawing out a long breath. A muscle feathers at his temple as he chooses his next words. "It is not difficult to kill a man who seeks to harm my people."

I know the rest before he speaks. "But it isn't easy to kill one who sought to protect them. Even with the wrong methods."

He turns his eyes on me, their usual brown now a fiery bronze in the sunlight. He will not say the words—not with one of his own lying dead beside the Templar's body—but I know Johnson's death is no victory to him.

He might even regret it.

"I found this on him," Connor says instead, handing me a letter with a broken seal. He must've already read it. "John Pitcairn intends to destroy Patriot weapons and supplies."

"And the colonists will fall," I finish for him, having already scanned the letter. "The Revolution will end before it can even begin. It's a door open wide for the Templars."

He nods, confirming the worst. "We need to find Pitcairn," he says, his voice a low rumble.

"He needs to die."