Assassins Creed 3: Death in Davenport

The wind lashed against his stern face, causing his white garb to billow; flapping the tassels that ran along the edges of his clothing. He stood, braced at the top of the tallest tree, in the vast expanses of the Davenport Homestead. Connor’s intention had been to hunt Deer, he had tracked this particular one for hours, following it by its waste and spotting its tracks in the local plantlife. The Deer now sat below him, grazing in the long grass, completely oblivious to the predator lurking in the canopy. 

Connor jumped down with the grace of a Panther, hurtling through the air towards his quarry, pinning it to the floor with his knee and snapping its neck cleanly. “Thank you for sharing your life, we respect this sacrifice”, he said in the tradition of his people. It had always their way to respect the hunt, they believed all souls were connected somehow and life should never been taken lightly, or for sport.

His dirk dug into the skin of the animal easily; nothing would be wasted: Its meat would be eaten by the settlers at the homestead, the hide would be used to keep warm in the impending winter, and the bones would make some fine tools. Every bit of the life he extinguished would be used to prolong others. It was the way of life.

Once all the produce from the animal had been collected, Connor made his way skyward, clambering into the safety of the canopy. He made his way back towards the Homestead through the calmness of the treetops, swinging from branch to branch, weaving through the gaps in the trees like a Cat and finally coming to a stop; as he reached the river.

Instead of the usual sight of his people labouring, he was instead greeted with a harrowing silence. Connor’s eyes scanned the environment, his senses were better than most; partly down to his training as an assassin and a small fraction down to his many years hunting for his tribesmen. He stood completely still, for what seemed like an age, studying his surroundings.

He noticed smoke billowing from some of the buildings, and the logging tools were strewn around as if there had been a struggle. In his peripheral vision he saw something pass under the bridge heading downriver. And then he saw it again, coming out of the other side, taken by the powerful current of the river. The body of a young boy, battered, bruised and surrounded by a cloud of red. Death seemed to follow the assassin wherever he went and visions of his village burning flashed through his mind, along with visions of the spirits that started him on his path.

He stayed in the canopy, sensing an ambush attempt. He had waited for days before on a hunt and could do the same very easily with the provisions he had acquired from the Deer. Yet it seemed an hour would suffice, as the waiting game was ended by the sound of an impatient, poorly trained English voice.  “How long must we wait? I have poached Deer in this very forest,  and it took me two whole days to get even a sniff of prey!” “We wait as long as it takes!” said a second, privileged voice. “Now hold your tongue, before you lose it”.

At least two; doubtless more, Connor realised. He decided it best to wait until he could isolate one before striking. In the meanwhile he could gain more knowledge of the odds he faced. He made his way through the canopy, skulking silently between the branches; the perfect predator. He soon ended up perched across from where his enemies were, crouched in the long grass planning an ambush. He counted ten Redcoats, all armed for battle.

Hours passed as Connor waited patiently in the treetop, twisting the rope-dart around his hand, coiled like a Python preparing to strike. “In your haste to save the world, take care you don’t destroy it”, those were the words of his mentor, Achilles Davenport, and they rattled around his head as he awaited his prey. Achilles had given him the rope-dart, he said it had come from a far off land to the East. It was a length of rope a few yards long,  the rope strong enough to hold the weight of a man and attached to the end, a spike sharp enough to penetrate skin.

As day turned to night, moonlight shot through the branches and Connor’s eyes quickly adjusted to the blackness. The moonlight bounced off the soldiers bayonets as they squatted in the long grass. He could sense them growing more impatient with every minute that passed. “I need to go to the little boys room”, said one of the soldiers. This is my chance, Connor thought to himself as he coiled to rope-dart, preparing to strike. 

The soldier walked away from the group, straight to the tree adjacent to where he sat in wait. Connor waited for him to finish emptying his bladder; no man should die covered in his own piss, he considered. The steam from his urine was still rising in front of him as the rope-dart coiled around his neck like a Python.

Connor pulled tight, his back arching with effort as his powerful legs braced him between the branches. The Redcoats body slid through the brush, dragged along on his back as he tried in vain to loosen the grip of this unforeseen assailant. As he reached the base of the tree where the assassin was perched, the weapon became so taught that it pulled him to his feet, until finally his body slumped as his feet left the floor.

“William?” shouted one of the soldiers, “Keep your voice down, you cur”, replied his superior. “If you want to see his maggot cock, go fetch him. But keep your damned voice down you imbecile”. With that, the second soldier started towards Connor. “William?”...”William?” He whispered incessantly, as his inexperienced feet crunched and stumbled through the grass. 

Connor flicked the rope-dart forward with the force of a striking Cobra. The rope whistled through the air with the speed of a bullet; piercing the soldiers throat upon contact. All the Redcoat could do was gurgle as blood filled his voice box; the gurgling was cut short though, as Connor pulled tightly on the rope and the barbs on the back of the dart extinguished the man’s life. Still holding the rope in his right hand, Connor jumped backwards to the floor, using the counterweight of the soldier to land safely. The soldier was left hanging from the tree, his limp body swinging in the heavy wind and serving as a macabre warning to his comrades.

“We’re under attack!” Screamed the officer desperately. The Redcoats all sprung into formation: five at the back armed with rifles, the officer in the middle and two swordsmen at his front. It was structured chaos. Connor could smell the fear, along with the tobacco smoke and gunpowder. The ranks had huge gaps where they had splintered; partly down to the unforeseen killer lurking in the woods and partly because of the fear for other dangerous predators lurking in the dark.

Connor pushed his weight against a nearby tree, digging his boots into the tightly packed grass that had been trampled by the soldiers during their approach to the homestead. The peak of his hood peered round the tree, watching the soldiers approach their dead friend hanging from the nearby tree. The Officer was the immediate threat, and without his lead their ranks would fall into even more chaos. “What the hell happened here?” said one of the riflemen, “Likely savages, keep up your guard”, replied the officer, causing Connor’s blood to boil with anger.

The assassin pursed his lips and made a whistling noise, in the hope of drawing one of the riflemen towards his position. Just as expected, one of the riflemen broke away from the main group straight towards the source of the noise, where Connor stood waiting. As soon as he was close enough, the white-clad killer dragged him by the collar of his red uniform and slammed him forcefully into the tree, simultaneously digging his dirk deep into the soldiers heart. His eyes glazed over instantly as the red from the soldier seeped into the white of Connor’s garb.

Immediately after delivering the killing blow, Connor broke into a sprint, panther-like towards a nearby rock. He used the rock as a springboard, pushing off with his right boot into a leap fueled by agility and power, landing straight on top of the swordsman to the left and burying his hidden blade deep into his neck. “Assassin!”, barked the officer, a look of shock on his pale face. “Riflemen, fire!”, he shouted. With that, the assassin grabbed the second swordsman, using him as a fleshy shield against the incoming volley of hot metal.

The four rounds landed into the soldiers flesh and his body shuddered and spasmed with the force of the blow. To Connor it felt like being hit by a Bear, but his tolerance to force exceeded that of a normal man. He flung the lifeless corpse aside; breaking into a sprint towards the riflemen, before they got chance to reload their cumbersome weapons. 

As soon as he reached the soldiers, he buried his tomahawk into the skull of the first man he reached; ripping it out forcefully and smashing it back in for good measure. One of the riflemen thrusted his bayonet at Connor’s back. The assassin caught it in the curves of his tomahawk by reaching over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the other soldiers. He spun around to his left in a balletic frenzy, gracefully plunging the bayonet of his attacker into the chest of his friend. 

The riflemans face was contorted with shock, as he tried pointlessly, to pull his weapon free from his dead friend’s chest. Connor slid his dirk into his spine, immediately paralyzing him and sending the soldier towards the dirt. It seemed that taking out the leader mattered not with this rabble, Connor thought to himself. The two remaining rifleman stumbled and jousted their bayonets in desperation. 

Connor pulled the pistol from the inside of his garb, and dispatched the one to his left with a single shot to the head; his limp body crashing into the long grass with a thud. The last rifleman recoiled in shock. Connor used this window to pick up a discarded bayonet and break into a sprint, towards the remaining rifleman. The bayonet went straight through the soldier, the force lifting him off his feet, as he was tackled to the ground with bone-crunching force.

“You bastard!”, screamed the officer, his voice full of venom. The white-clad assassin walked towards him with casual grace; tomahawk in one hand, dirk in the other. The officer carried a short-sword, thin and elegant; useless at slashing and hacking, perfect for thrusting. Sidesteps will win this, Connor thought.

Just as expected, the officer made a fatal lunge towards the assassin’s heart. The blow was easily deflected with a quick sideways swipe of the tomahawk and a lightning-fast left strafe. Connor kicked his attacker in the stomach with his powerful, climbing conditioned leg. The officer lurched forward, keeled over in pain, the wind knocked from him. The white garbed ghost swung his tomahawk down, burying it deep into his shoulder, almost severing his arm in the process.

The officer laid on the floor, his face covered in blood, but his eyes still had the light of life in them; for now. “Where are my people?” asked Connor calmly. “S-some dead, a-and the others t-t-taken”, sputtered the soldier. “Where?”, demanded Connor, this time twisting his weapon into his shoulder. “ Aaaaargh!”, he screamed. “F-fort Mifflin” were his last, whispered words. “May you find the peace in death, that you could not in life”, the assassin said solemnly.The Mud Fort, Connor thought to himself. It is on the Deleware River, I must prepare the Aquila.

To be continued...

Kirk Mckeand is a freelance writer. He can be reached on Twitter.