Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Thirty Seven: Till Death Do Us Part

Fort George, 1781

Connor

For a moment, everything is still, and I wonder if this is what death feels like.

But no, I am not dead. Yet. The darkness subsides slowly, revealing my surroundings in bits and pieces. The boom of a far-off explosion. Screams of agony from dying soldiers. A piece of rubble sticking painfully into my back.

Inhaling was a mistake. A rack of coughs immediately possess my body, and my throat feels as if it is coated with dust. The world shifts into focus behind a sheet of red. I must have burst a blood vessel in my eye. But that is nothing compared to the throbbing ache in my head. I reach for it to assess the damage, and my fingers come away sticky with blood.

Groaning, I heave myself to my feet—another mistake. The earth spins and slips from beneath me, and my shoulder collides with more rubble. But the impact seems to jog my memory.

"Naomi!" I shout, my voice swallowed by the din. I might as well have whispered. "Naomi!" Her lean figure is nowhere to be seen. She could be buried under any one of the many piles of rubble. No, I tell myself, biting down hard on my lip. She is a survivor. I must believe she survived.

I cannot afford to think otherwise.

A few shaky steps later finds me stumbling across jagged rocks that were once roads. I can barely stand without leaning against something, let alone find Charles Lee in this mayhem. But still I force my feet forward in the direction I can only hope leads to the West Tower. A few soldiers enter my spotted vision, and though I will myself to take cover, my body does not obey. Maybe this is how I die, I muse darkly. But the guards don't so much as spare me a glance before they carry on, hauling bodies and yelling at each other.

I push myself forward with sheer will, every step a searing effort. Finally, after what seems like years, I reach a courtyard that seems oddly untouched. The quiet that greets me is almost uncanny.

The words grate against my throat as I yell. "Where are you, Charles?!"

"Gone," says a voice behind me. I would recognize that voice anywhere.

Haytham stares me down with a levelled gaze, unscathed. A huge advantage, and he knows it. Still he shows me no quarter, no mercy. The Templar moves like lightning, charging forward to strike me across the jaw before sending a knee into my abdomen. But I barely register the exploding pain. With a force that I didn't know I could muster, I hit his groin and take hold of his arm, twisting it behind his back. A sickening pop tells me that I've dislocated it, but he does not cry out.

"You cannot hope to match me, Connor," he growls, straining against my grasp. "With all your skills, you're but a boy, pretending to be a man," he taunts.

With a snarl of rage, I spin him around in one forceful motion. My hidden blade springs, and I drive it into his wrist, shattering his own bracer. He howls as hot blood pours from the wound.

"Give me Lee!"

"Impossible." Haytham's breathing is laboured, coming in pants. The pain is wearing on him more than I thought it would. Or it could all be an act to trick me. "He...is the promise...of a better future. The sheep need a shepherd."

"He has been dismissed and censured!" I spit through gritted teeth. "He can do nothing for you now."

"A temporary setback. He will be restored." Haytham straightens, collecting himself. His grimace fades, leaving behind a stone-hard gaze. Bleak understanding washes over me when he draws his sword. One of us will die today.