Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Sixteen: It Never Is

Lexington, April 19, 1775

Naomi

"Is that Parker?" I ask Connor, dipping my head at the wizened, grey-haired man who paces around his troops nervously.

"I'm afraid so."

"Stand your ground, men!" Parker shouts to his soldiers, not paying us any attention as we approach. "Don't fire unless fired upon!"

I look at the amassed Redcoats on the opposite side of the field, squinting my eyes in search for a familiar wigged figure. Connor tenses beside me when he sees what I see. "Pitcairn," he growls.

"Disperse, you damned rebels!" the Templar yells, his voice thick with a Scottish accent. "Lay down your arms and disperse!"

A round of gunfire erupts—not from our side, unfortunately. The Patriots scramble for cover under the Redcoat attack, many already fleeing their positions. Parker seems rooted to the ground, confounded by the actions of his men. "What the deuce are you doing?! Cravens! Traitors!"

A bullet narrowly misses his head as we bodily drag him to take cover. "They are not coming back," Connor shouts in his ear. "You will have to make do with those who remain."

"Don't you dare lecture me on how to—" The air is silent for a moment, free of enemy gunfire. "Return fire! Return fire!"

"You need to get to Concord and warn the others," Parker continues to us. "Show this to whoever leads there. Should be a man by the name of James Barrett." He hands Connor a piece of parchment, which we don't have the time to read. "Go on now!" he orders.

We make for Concord by foot, sprinting as fast as our legs can carry us. There is not a single horse to be seen, only soldiers scampering around in a disarray, shouting orders to one another. "We'll meet up with the others in Concord!" "The Redcoats are taking prisoners!"

If the scene from before was chaos, the town is a nightmare. Civilians dart to and fro, their wailing drowned by more gunfire. Mothers are screaming for lost children. Men slump on the ground with bullet holes in their heads. The sight claws and rips at my chest, threatening my hold on sanity. Is this the best we can do? Are we not better than this?

And then I see them: three prisoners standing in a row, with the wrong ends of muskets trained on their heads. They're being marched to a nearby transport, to be carried off to whatever hell awaits them. One of them is a child.

"HELP! They've got my Elliot!"

It flips a switch in me. "Connor!" I burst. He turns around for a brief second, already knowing what I need. Go.

The Redcoats don't see me before my hidden blade pierces into one of them. They turn on me in an instant, slicing at me with their deadly blades. Good. That means the prisoners are free to escape.

A child screeches loudly from behind me, and I glance in her direction for a split second. The distraction costs me, and I groan when an officer twists my arm, knocking the sword out of my grip. His sneer doesn't last long before I break his toes with my boot, earning myself a yowl. Using my good arm, I finish him off with a hidden blade.

The child seemed to be rooted to the ground in fear, unable to do anything but clasp her hands over her ears and scream. She is still shrieking when I lift her up. I struggle with only one arm, but I manage. I run, desperate to get this child to the main hall, where everyone seems to be heading.

"Lucy!" A woman cries as she approaches me. "Oh, my baby!" She immediately plucks the child from my hand, who is still crying and flailing, and shoots me a look of fear. Then she runs away without so much as a nod, probably frightened by my weapons.

Her ungratefulness stings, but it does not deter me. Neither does the pain in my shoulder. I spend the next few hours saving as many captives as I can, until my clothes are soaked with sweat and my skin covered in grime.

*

I have no words to describe this horror.

Concord is a graveyard. The air reeks of blood, its smell sharp and metallic. Bodies are strewn over the ground, wearing both red and blue uniforms. Some have bones protruding from their broken limbs, others are burned and disfigured beyond recognition. All of them are covered in blood. It's a cruel irony that these men fight for their different colors, yet death paints them all red.

I don't search for a familiar white-and-blue robe among the dead; I cannot even entertain the possibility. He is a warrior, a survivor—I am sure of it. Yet relief still threatens to overwhelm me when I see him, standing in the shadow of a hill. He is speaking to a man in a colonel's uniform, his eyebrows furrowed in anger.

"I need to find him. Every day we wait, more will suffer."

"Chin up, my friend," replies the man, whom I assume is James Barrett. "Many who should've died today now live because of you."

Connor's voice tightens with emotion. "And what of them?" he asks, gesturing at the dead.

"We do the best we can with what we've got."

"It is not enough."

"Hmm..." Barrett muses sadly before walking away. "It never is."

Connor doesn't look up at me when I stand beside him. A fist clenches and unclenches at his side—a rhythm to soothe his mind, though I doubt anything can. His growl is a deep sound in his throat. "Pitcairn still lives."

As do many more who could've died today. But I don't repeat what Barrett said to him. I know that is not what he wants to hear, even though it's the truth. "For now."

"He's out there plotting who knows what!" Connor fumes. "And Sam Adams wants us to listen to Washington's speech in Philadelphia."

"Patience and restraint," I murmur softly. It pains me to see him like this, blaming himself for all that he cannot do and those he cannot save. Connor is nothing if not resolute. I almost envy him, his unwavering zeal that will stop at nothing to keep his people safe. To forge a better future. He truly believes in what he fights for.

What about me? I ask myself. Who do I fight for? The Patriots? My father and his beliefs? Achilles and Connor? Myself?

I realize that I do not know.

His shoulders slump beside me. I can almost see the weight of the dead being laid on them. "They are more difficult than I thought."

"That makes two of us."