The Golden City, page 1
part #1 of Assassin's Creed Series
Assassin’s Creed
The Golden City
The man who’d been watching them from above was crossing the roof, heading in Hytham’s direction. He decided to let the man get a little closer, in the hope he might be able to take him unawares with a clean and silent kill.
Crouching low, Hytham breathed in deep and slow. He would find every shadow, make his body small, his steps silent. To fade away and be no more present than the gentle hiss of the wind – that was his gift, hard-won and practiced for years until he could hide in plain sight.
The man shifted slightly as a tile wobbled beneath his boot, and Hytham seized the advantage. He leapt into the air, exploding over the peak of the roof, wind whistling in his ears. His target must have sensed the movement at the last minute, for he spun, but he was too late.
More Assassin’s Creed® from Aconyte
Assassin’s Creed: The Magus Conspiracy by Kate Heartfield
Assassin’s Creed: The Ming Storm by Yan Leisheng
Assassin’s Creed: The Desert Threat by Yan Leisheng
Assassin’s Creed Valhalla: Geirmund’s Saga by Matthew J Kirby
Assassin’s Creed Valhalla: Sword of the White Horse by Elsa Sjunneson
First published by Aconyte Books in 2023
ISBN 978 1 83908 221 4
Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 222 1
© 2023 Ubisoft Entertainment. All Rights Reserved. Assassin’s Creed, Ubisoft and the Ubisoft logo are registered or unregistered trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the US and/or other countries.
The Aconyte name and logo and the Asmodee Entertainment name and logo are registered or unregistered trademarks of Asmodee Entertainment Limited.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover art by Alejandro Colucci
Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA
ACONYTE BOOKS
An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd
Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre
North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK
aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks
To Tim, for introducing me to Altaïr and Ezio and always knowing the right video game to give me at the right time. My gamer heart is yours forever.
Chapter One
The olive grove was gray and cool in the pre-dawn light, an uncaring host for the two Assassins who’d come to find each other on its shadowed paths.
Mist threaded the uneven ground at waist height, a thick white river that Hytham shredded as he walked. The silence was heavy but not complete. Faintly, there came the sounds of birds waking and the soft hiss of wind barely rustling the branches along the rows of trees. In the distance, the city’s massive inner wall curved away from him, octagonal guard towers rising to mute the emerging sun and delay the heat of the oncoming day by a few more precious minutes. The air carried the faint tang of smoke from morning fires and breakfast being prepared, but the grove was empty, so Hytham enjoyed a brief moment of peace that wasn’t destined to last.
He wondered if there existed a more secure place in the world than where he stood at this moment, in the quiet fields of New Rome. Nestled on a triangular peninsula, with the natural protection of the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, and the Sea of Marmara, Constantinople was also fortified by a moat and three separate, intimidating walls built on rising embankments, studded with guard towers large enough to house an impressive display of artillery when needed. Many an army had tried to breach the city’s walls over the centuries, despite these extensive deterrents, for the promise of the bounty that lay within. None of these had managed to conquer the great city.
A figure materialized from a cluster of trees and strode toward Hytham, a darker shadow against the gray, moving with the soft tread of a predator. Basim Ibn Ishaq walked with unhurried steps, and Hytham took this opportunity to study the man, though he could see few details of Basim’s features beneath his peaked hood. His robes were white as the mist, the traditional, distinctive garb worn by the Hidden Ones. The only spot of color visible at this distance was the red sash that marked him as a Master Assassin.
Something about the way Basim walked struck Hytham as strange in that moment, dreamlike, though he couldn’t put his finger on what unsettled him until the man came closer. Only then did it dawn on Hytham – Basim walked like a man aged far beyond his years. Not the stooped, unsteady gait of infirmity, but the way a man walked when he has trod the same stretch of earth for decades or longer. Basim moved through the world as if he’d done all of this before.
As if he were a ghost, insubstantial as the mist.
The Master Assassin glanced up then, meeting Hytham’s gaze, and the moment was dispelled. He was simply a man again, out for a morning stroll to become acquainted with the place they’d been assigned to work in together for the next several months. What a strange flight of fancy to have. Hytham blinked. He must be more tired than he thought.
“‘Come spar with me,’ your message said.” Hytham kept his stance relaxed, but it was as much a deception as his cheerful tone. He was on guard. Basim’s version of friendly sparring often drew blood and was never dull. “Maybe now you regret leaving behind your comfortable bed.”
A light came into Basim’s eyes at the joke. The accommodations they’d been given were anything but luxurious, not that they’d expected any different. They were here to work, not relax.
“You were staring at the defense wall with an affectionate look,” Basim replied, his voice smooth and measured. “I hated to disturb you. Tell me. What were you thinking about?”
“Security,” Hytham said, sweeping a hand out to encompass the limestone and brick cutting across the horizon above the treetops. “I would not want to lead the force set to attack this city. A fool’s mission, I think.”
“A death sentence,” Basim agreed. He’d stopped several paces away from Hytham, standing easily, relaxed, which put Hytham even more on edge. “To be a soldier looking up at these walls when the mysterious Greek fire of Constantinople rains down upon their heads – it must be to them like the vengeance of God, or the end of the world.”
Hytham suppressed a shudder. He’d heard stories, of course, about the strange alchemical substance that had helped defend the city from attack by sea. Explosive projectiles of fire and death launched in the night, the recipe a closely guarded secret by the emperor and his successors. Many people would kill to have the means to make the powerful weapon.
Their own brotherhood among them.
“But there are other ways to control a city than taking it by force,” Hytham said, casually feeling the ground around him with the toe of his boot. It was disconcerting, not being able to see the terrain for the mist, but he thought it would burn off soon with the rising of the sun.
“Exactly.” Basim flashed a quick smile, and there was something equally playful and dangerous in his eyes, like a fox in reach of a hen. “So, this security you speak of is a carefully crafted illusion, is it not? We’re never truly safe.”
And with that, he fell into a crouch, disappearing completely into the mist.
Like a ghost.
Hytham cursed under his breath, his heart beating hard as the thrill of the impending fight kicked in, but he forced himself not to react to the surprise of Basim’s move. He stood still, listening for the sounds of footfalls, an indrawn breath, anything that might give a clue as to where Basim approached to strike. The mist-softened ground dampened sound, giving the Master Assassin the advantage, but Hytham had learned from his own mentor Rayhan the skills of listening and patience. He trusted the land to tell him what he needed to know about his opponent.
To his relief, he was rewarded. A tiny shift of pebbles disturbed by a foot – that was Hytham’s only warning, but it was enough. Basim emerged from the mist behind and slightly to Hytham’s right, an impossibly fast shadow, his Hidden Blade springing free from the sheath at his forearm. It was a maneuver designed to end the fight before it began, an elegant and lethal attack.
Hytham had observed the move many times, had performed it himself on countless unsuspecting targets. Still, seeing it from Basim froze him for the barest instant, either in fear or in admiration, he couldn’t have said. Then he snapped back to himself and reacted.
Mirroring Basim’s opening move, he let his body drop into the mist, rolling to the side into the underbrush. Basim landed next to him, boots inches from his face, blade whipping down. Hytham’s hand shot out, deflecting the oncoming strike with his own Hidden Blade. The shriek of metal meeting metal was loud in the morning stillness. Somewhere above Hytham, a cluster of ravens burst from a tree in an agitated flap of wings and plaintive cries. Hytham surged up, mist hanging off him like a torn shroud, using his momentum, forearm against forearm,
The light had changed, just in those brief seconds Hytham had been down on his back. Gold spilled over the wall and across the grove, burning away the mist in slow rolling heat and casting dappled shadows over everything.
“One less hiding place,” he remarked to Basim, pleased that his breath wasn’t yet labored. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his neck, and he grinned, unable to help it. The pure joy of being alive and testing himself against an opponent he respected coursed in his blood like a small taste of immortality. He might have been made of Greek fire himself in that moment.
Basim gave a nod of acknowledgment and shoved himself off the tree into Hytham’s space, faster than he’d disappeared in the mist, so quick that Hytham was briefly disoriented, but his arm went up instinctively to deflect the Hidden Blade again, a gesture so rooted in survival he no longer had to think about it. He shoved, twisting around Basim, putting the tree between them, and they broke apart, movements like a dance just interrupted.
The partners reassessed each other. But instead of launching another attack, Basim took a second to gather himself before drawing the elegant, curved scimitar he carried.
Dawn light flashed off the blade’s edge, aching to draw the eye under its hypnotic spell, but Hytham couldn’t afford to let his focus waver. He drew his own sword, and then it was a very different kind of dance. Thrust and parry, and again he marveled at the way his opponent moved. They were closely matched in strength, by Hytham’s estimation, so between them it became a contest of speed and maneuvering as each player tried to move his opponent where he wanted him on the field like a piece on a chessboard.
At the moment, Basim was driving him toward a small cluster of trees bordering a worn footpath. The ravens had regrouped there to search out food, mistakenly thinking they’d be undisturbed. Hytham felt the land sloping gently downhill, forcing his attention briefly away from Basim’s blade to attending to his balance, making sure he wouldn’t fall – ah. He felt it then, the patch of mud pulling at his heavy boots, slowing his reflexes, making his feet slide. No chance to keep pace with the fight if he couldn’t find reliable footing. Basim knew this, had driven him here on purpose.
Hytham met his eyes, saw the bright spark of triumph. But the fight wasn’t over yet. Basim may have the grace and speed Hytham lacked, but Hytham compensated with sheer physicality when called for.
He lunged, digging stubbornly into the mud, blade aimed at Basim’s flank. The other man parried, and Hytham ducked low at the same time. It left his neck exposed to Basim’s blade, but Hytham snagged the other man by his calf and pulled, knocking him off balance.
“Into the mud with me,” Hytham said, and this time his breathing was labored, the sweat dripping into eyes half closed by the brightening light.
Basim laughed – an ominous sign, and not the reaction Hytham had been hoping for.
But the move worked. Basim went down, catching himself on his hands – he kept hold of his sword somehow – and kicked out with the leg Hytham had snared. It clipped his jaw, and Hytham saw stars. Cursing, Hytham rolled away, collecting more mud for his efforts, but he gained his feet and aimed his sword in a downward arc. Basim caught it with the scimitar, the impact jarring Hytham’s arm. A wide smile stretched Basim’s face.
“Good,” he murmured, leaping back to his feet. His chest rose and fell visibly with the exertion. He rolled his shoulders and raised his blade again. “Would you like to hear a story about the great walls of Constantinople, since you find them so fascinating?”
“Because we have nothing else to occupy our attention?” Hytham feinted, but Basim didn’t flinch. They tapped blades and paced back from each other, circling, moving on to ground that wasn’t choked with mud. This was another interesting thing about Basim. He could go from sparring to lecturing as quickly as the light had swept away the mist.
Basim pointed to the walls with his curved blade, then brought it quickly back into a defensive position. “Impressive as they are, they aren’t impervious to the tremors of the earth,” he said. “The story goes that the ground shook, in centuries past, and the walls crumbled in the wake of the disaster, raising vast clouds of dust that blocked the sun.”
“You wouldn’t know it to look at them now,” Hytham said, but he did not look. Never take your eyes off the wolf, even when it seems to be at rest.
“It was in the time of Theodosius II,” Basim said, and indeed he appeared very much a wolf on the prowl as he wove in and out of the trees. “Though I’m certain the emperor wished it had happened in any other time. Perhaps he thought God punished him, opening his city to attack by the gathering Huns and their leader Attila. Or perhaps he saw it as a test of his leadership, put before him by the Almighty.”
Despite Hytham’s training, something about Basim’s voice, rich and smooth as honey poured over warm bread, made it easy to fall into his story, to let his stance relax and tense muscles slacken. Hytham thought Basim belonged around a fire spinning tales when he spoke like this. With an effort, Hytham refocused and tightened his grip on his blade, but Basim had stopped moving now with the sun at his back. He seemed content simply to talk.
“Under threat of invasion, the emperor ordered the praetorian prefect, Constantine Flavius, to repair the walls with haste,” Basim said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine being given such an order? Repair in haste something that took near a decade to build.”
“So, it was more a test for Constantine Flavius,” Hytham said, “rather than the emperor. Myself, I would prefer to face the Greek fire.”
“As would I, but the prefect was a canny man, by all accounts,” Basim said. He was circling again, letting the tip of his sword drag a light track through the underbrush, which here barely grew past the cuff of his boot. “He had the workers he needed at his disposal, but they weren’t moving as fast as the Hun army and were not half so well motivated.”
“Not motivated by the desire to save their own lives?” Hytham said in disbelief.
Basim shrugged. “To them, the enemy was far away, and they had been secure behind their walls for so long, perhaps they believed it would always be so. In any event, the work was proceeding too slowly for Constantine’s liking – and the emperor’s – so the prefect hit upon a scheme to make the work into a competition.” He glanced in the direction of the palace, though it was too far off to see from where they stood. “The chariot races in the great Hippodrome are nothing like the grand spectacle they were in those days, with the teams of red, white, green, and blue competing so fiercely for their faction that there was often more bloodshed outside the great circus than within. Constantine, as I said, was a canny man, and knew he could use that bloodthirsty spirit to his advantage. Each team and their supporters were put in charge of repairing a certain section of the wall.”
Hytham raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. The team who finished first was handsomely rewarded?”
“And increased their prominence within the city,” Basim confirmed. “The work of years was finished in months, as the story goes, and the city was saved. When the enemy heard the news of the grand achievement, the Huns turned back from their march upon the city, and Constantinople stayed at peace.”
Hytham tried to picture it, but in the end, he shook his head. “I don’t believe this story. Surely, the people were motivated more by a desire to save themselves and their homeland, than by a competition for bragging rights in the grand circus.”
“Ah, well,” Basim shrugged again, “whether the story really happened or not, I believe there is truth in Constantine Flavius’s knowledge of human nature and what truly motivates people.”
“Is that the point of this sparring match, then?” Hytham asked, tapping his blade against Basim’s to show he wasn’t quite ready to call a halt to the battle yet. “Proper motivation?”
“Perhaps,” Basim said, and fell smoothly back into his fighting stance. This time Hytham struck first, refusing to start on the defensive again. His muscles were burning, blood pumping – he was ready. Ready to show Basim what skills he possessed, and ready for wherever this mission together in Constantinople would take them.
