This is an untitled speculative short fiction set in the world of Assassin’s Creed.
Part 4 – A Short Window
Her seafarers scarf pulled over her head into a hood and cowl with the same ease as if she had tied it herself. She marveled at how quickly her clothes dried out of the water, even the gash in her side was barely more than a discoloration. The wound looked clean for what was surely a jagged slash, but she worried to herself how easily it could get infected. Pirates killed for medicine in this century, and died for otherwise simple wounds. This was her new priority unless this would turn into a story about how her ancestor died on a tiny stretch of island.
As the sun set a million stars came out, filling the sky even before the last glint of twilight. Farah sat in the foreign broad-leaf foliage between a thick of unfamiliar trees. She was certainly not near home or anywhere she had traveled before, which she considered fair as she had rarely been further than the University even for vacation. A few others had survived to swim to the same location, each had overlooked her in the failing light where she hid. A few soldiers who had made it to shore were quickly executed. She was thankful she could only hear it from her vantage, the sound of the men dying was graphic enough. She did not have desire to question her calm nerves. She remained hidden without flinch or second thought.
Who was she? Her ancestor, Farah wondered. She could feel the cold but felt warm as if by anger alone. Nearby three desperate survivors made hushed commotion over something they had stolen from the wreckage, she did not understand a word but could hear they were freezing, beginning to argue, had eaten what was too little to share between them. There was a sound like glass, a bottle of liquid, liquor probably. She could see it as clearly as if she stood there, but by sound alone. She had yet to lay eyes on them at all, minus the seconds she saw them as they crawled up the sandy approach earlier. Unless they had found weapons with whatever crate they salvaged, only one was armed.
She closed her eyes for a half second and remembered that as she swam, she kept her eyes open. Was that not supposed to sting? She had no memory of her eyes hurting; only that the vigor of swimming made her feel more alive than ever in her life. Now she remembered what else she saw without considering it, that weapons had fallen well before the rest of the wreckage. No wooden swords suspended, only battered metal, now all lost to the deep with all but one small ship now adrift on a shallow at the tip of the island. The damage to the ship was otherwise minor, more fortunate that the cannon studded galleon that had nearly killed them all. It was a vessel with name and designation marking.
A galleon that belonged to The Trading Company.
The galleon was not a cargo vessel, but a fast attack ship with one purpose: pirate killer. It would have been an armed escort for a ship that was not among those sinking. Was this what she had been sent to find? She looked to the stars and her mind went completely blank.
An otherwise random childhood memory surfaced. How old had she been, maybe nine? What was her name, the woman who taught me the names of the stars? If only she could see this. Farah was a thousand miles away as the milky way shone above her brighter than any moonlight she had ever known. She looked ahead, across the water towards a thin strip of dark land at the horizon. Above it shone the North Star. Right where it should be, Farah smiled. Moments passed and Farah’s mind became as still as the water. “What was her name?” Farah repeated to herself, but this time accidentally aloud. The men who had at some point became quiet made a sound.
A sound followed by the dead silence of ones who had just realized they were not alone and no longer safe.
Fool! She scolded herself. The empty loop in her belt taunted her, her face twisting into a scowl. No weapon to speak of, three against one. This wasn’t a story about how she died from infection or starvation, but in a too swift fight? Not today. They stalked directly past where she hid.
Farah could barely contain a gasp of disbelief, and nearly did not as the sound was already formed on her lips. They turned their heads sharply to listen, but towards trees in the opposite direction. She fought simultaneously an inappropriately timed laugh and the roar of her beating heart. Then she felt something she did not expect. Pity.
These men were barely alive. They looked as if seconds ago they would have killed each other for the bottle of liquor or for the want of food, and hours before had just survived a naval battle and drowning. Still they outnumbered her, and the deadly calm of her nerves was testament to how dangerous desperate men are. Then without warning everything went black.
She was standing in a room, wires taught behind her to the machine she was tethered to. Why did she know this room? Computers? Naomi was rushing to her, arms raised to catch her as they both fell. Farah’s pulse raced as it had over the heart monitor that was screaming behind her. She looked to her hands; in her grip she could almost feel the wooden handle of a cutlass. Her cutlass.
One thought on “Speculative Assassin’s Creed Short Story, part 4”