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View Full Version : Asassin's Creed: Empire of the Eagle (fan fiction)



Reaper2707
04-08-2013, 06:31 AM
I decided to make a short story for Assassin's Creed based off of the massacre of the 9th legion of Rome. I am in no way affiliated with Ubisoft or the Assassin's Creed Development team and this story was created just for fun. I'm not sure if I'll continue the story after this point, guess it depends on the feedback. Feel free to post comments between my posts (If I decided to continue it) just don't try to continue it yourself unless I give you permission. Hope you enjoy!



The fiery sun hung in suspended animation overhead, it’s violently radiant glow illuminating the dense Britannic forest below. Amongst the thick trees, gold platted warriors of new marched in thunderous unison across the fields of old. With every step they took the shadow of their empires greed was grabbing at the land. Most of these soldiers hated the place that Rome had sent them too. To most of them, it was nothing but a rock that had no value what so ever and in reality it was, at least for the Roman Empire. History would tell you that the hunger the Romans had to conquer Brittan was born out of their hunger for control over more and more land. What the history books would neglect to tell you was that there was a darker reason behind their motivations. A reason that has been hidden and kept in the dark before man even began to record its own existence let alone the secret battle being waged.

“This place is such a **** hole.” Terentius groaned as he marched in formation, his gold plated shin guards covered in the grime and mud of the forest floor

“Be careful who you say that to, might find your head on a stake.” Acanthus warned from behind.

“As long as my legs don’t need to move anymore, I might welcome that.” mused in a near whisper, turning his head so he could look into his friend’s eyes, both of the solders faces had dark circles under the eyes and their expressions showed their weariness.

However, the tired features that were carved into their stone hard faces only scratched the surface of the fatigue. Deep down in their bones both of them, along with every other man in the 5,000 strong 9th Legion, felt like they were on the brink of crumbling under the weight of their own armor. They had been on the march for three days without more than twenty, broken hours, of sleep. Even worse, after heavy losses from battle and disease the commander, Spurius Madius Calia, refused to rotate the soldiers back to Rome and fill their places with fresh troops. And what was his excuse for it? “Because we are looking for an artifact more important to Rome than any mere soldiers life, even my own!” That’s what he would keep saying.

“I’m tired of this swamp.” Terentius growled, looking back at the commander through the light fog that had started to rise from the forest floor. “He rides on that horse and leaves the rest of us to pound dirt.” He was rarely a man to complain about his duty, but this new commander rubbed him the wrong way. He had little concern for the troops under his command; he should be riding in the front like a true leader! Instead, he rode in the midst of them like a coward, it was disgraceful.

“Will you shut up before you get us both lashed!?” Acanthus snapped

“I will do no such thing! It is not worthy of a commander! He should not even be holding the eagle!” Terentius attacked, his burning eyes fixed on the commander on his snow white horse. The Eagle of the legion was resting on its place on a metallic staff that the commander wielded in his right hand. The magnificent gold coating of the foot tall bird of prey shimmered in the afternoon sun. Every small flake of gold represented a victory, conquest or a milestone of the Empire. When they all came together to form the eagle, they became an embodiment of all the glory that is Rome. The eagle was honor, strength, integrity all the traits that made a Roman a Roman and its safety was more important than a man’s life. For losing the eagle would be to lose, not only your own honor, but the honor of your comrades. It was a symbol not worthy to rest in the hands of a commander such as Spurius.

“Keep quiet! Just look ahead and make sure not to trip over your own feet, the fog is getting denser now.” Acanthus urged “If you keep it up, you will be dead before we even see the Druids.”

Terentius grumbled under his breath, throwing his head back around so that he was facing the same direction he was grudgingly marching in. It felt like the mud beneath his feet was alive, with every step he took his feet sank deep into the Earth like it was trying to swallow his foot whole. The mist was also beginning to rise and thicken, making it near impossible to see ahead. Much more of this and he might just decided to kill Spurius when no one could see him do it and then maybe Lucius would take command.

Fighting for this floating rock was not in his job description, he was sick of it. The locals were nuts and they fought like rapid animals, he had seen them tear the hearts out of victims while it was beating. The Romans committed atrocities, but these tribes were pure barbaric in every sense of the word, at least in Terentius’s eyes. Someone in this damn legion must agree with him, if not Acanthus, than maybe this chap in front of him. Terentius did not recognize the man from the back, so maybe he would be a new face with a much welcomed opinion that coincided with Terentius’s constant bellyaching.

“You there, comrade.” Terentius spoke, taping the man in the back with the dull end of his spear “What do you think of all this?” The man didn’t even bother to look back at Terentius, he just keep marching forward like he had been nothing more than a brush of wind on his shoulder.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Terentius asked

Acanthus began chuckling from behind “He is a smart man; he would rather be observing the flogger from behind than observing his scourge from the front.”

“Be silent, Acanthus!” Terentius snapped, before returning his attention to the man in front of him “ignoring me would be a mistake that you would not soon forget leach.”

“Leave the man in peace; he is just as tired and hungry as the rest of us.” Acanthus insisted

“Bah!” Terentius exclaimed in frustration as he turned to meet Acanthus’s eyes “If that is so, then it is so. But he should have the respect to at least acknowledge my presence!”

As the last words drifted from Terentius’s mouth, through dense fog that now lay in front of his face, the world was eerily quiet. Terentius took notice of it, the sounds of the swamp that had earlier filled the crevices of the trees had suddenly seized. By the time he figured out that something was amiss, it was too late. Terentius’s death had come darting through the mist, its pointed tip smashing into the nap of his neck. The soldier fell motionless to the man eating mud, the thin shaft of the arrow that took his life protruding from his skin, his body slowly sinking into the soft ground.

Acanthus crouched down as ferocious battle cries broke the silence and the whole forest seemed to coward in fear of the approaching Druid tribes. Arrows began flying from behind the veil of fog, and tailing right behind were the devilishly painted faces of tribal warriors wielding axes and daggers. The men at the spearhead of the formation found themselves slain by arrows and blades within seconds, screams of pain and agony surfacing from their bloodied bodies. The soldier who was once silent now spun on his heel, his spear raised for attack.

Quickly, Acanthusn drove his spear into the chest of the man, the metallic spike piercing through his armor and planting itself firmly into his right lung. The force of the strike not only punctured his lung, but sent the young man tumbling over his own feet and landing in the mood. He was still alive for now; gasping out bloody coughs as he struggled to take in oxygen…he would not last long. Acanthus needed to move quickly, there was no hiding anymore. He spun around on a dime and was met with a second Roman who had bore witness to the killing. Without hesitation, the Roman lunged forward, his sword sweeping upward to slash Acanthus diagonally with the blade. As graceful as a bird in flight, Acanthus dodged the blade and then danced around the solider. As he came up to the side of the Roman, who was just recovering from his failed attack, Acanthus tilted his wrist unsheathing the blade hidden in his right gauntlet. Using all of his body weight, Acanthus swiped his hand across the man’s neck, the blade tearing through the skin and soft tissue before severing his jugular. The resulting spew of blood from his neck sprayed across Acanthus’s armor, until the man dropped his sword and collapsed to his knees while he tried to plug his mortal wound with his hand. Acanthus kicked the man to the ground before spinning around, trying to spot his target, Spurius.

The fog was obscuring almost everything more than a few meters ahead, and the only thing he could see were a few melee’s between the armored Romans and the Druids. The plan’s he had devised with the native tribes of the North was going well so far, all he needed to do now was kill Spurius and get the artifact in his possession. The assassin quickly untied his Centurion helmet and tossed it to the blood stained ground along with his shield. He drew his sword before sprinting into the unknown beyond the white veil, avoiding any unnecessary fighting as he strained to spot Spurius amongst the battle. Every way he looked he saw Romans and Druids butchering each other, but nowhere to be found was his target. Damn it, he had a horse, could he have escaped? No, the Druids were supposed to in circle the legion…but he could have broken through the lines.

Acanthus greeted his teeth, his eyes darting across the foliage of forest as he sprinted though the fog and chaos. He ran, his heart thumping as worry began to overtake him, thoughts of failure haunted him this entire mission and he was now in fear that those worries might gave become a reality. Suddenly, a large dark figure darted towards him at an unfathomable speed. Acanthus had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit by what looked to be a boulder flying through the air. A series of hard thuds ensued as the object hit the ground and tumbled across the swamp floor. Acanthus turned his head to see what it was that had nearly collided with him. The fog made it hard to make out the silhouette at first, and Acanthus had to squint to recognize the bulky figure of a human. The figure looked to be unarmored so it was defiantly not a Roman. Acanthus grinned as he sprung to his feet and turned to face the direction that the warrior had been catapulted from.

Without a second to breath, Acanthus tightened his grip on the sword and charged through the fog that was now beginning to settle. On the other side, found exactly what he was looking for. Still sitting on top of his white horse, holding a spear in one hand and the eagle in the other, was Spurius. The assassin observed as a Druid sprung up at Spurius with a dagger raised. The Roman made did not even flinch his spear, rather, he sat still as the eagle’s wings suddenly sparkled. A faint yellow glow encircled the eagle statue, and then the warrior suddenly froze in midair. Acanthus stopped in shock as he looked at the tribal warrior who hovered above the ground in suspension, just like the sun that had been beating down all day. Spurius’s lips curled into a grin of power then, with no more than a tilt of the staff that held the eagle, cannonballed the warrior through the air.

So this was the power that the artifact bestowed upon its user. How the Templar’s were able to obtain such a powerful object was none of Acanthus’s concern at the moment. What was his concern was to take it from them; the power of a god should not be in the hands of men like the Templar’s. Especially if that power is one like Acanthus just observed in action, who knows what they could do with such power. Acanthus, took a deep breath…he had only one shot at this. He waited until a group of warriors shifted their attack towards Spurius and his two guards, and then he made his move.

While Spurius was distracted by the warriors who madly rushed him, Acanthus sprinted towards him from the right flank. The only thing between him and his target were two Roman soldiers, who did not see the assassin until he was right on top of them. The first one his path raised his massive rectangular shield, misconceived that it would protect him from an attack. His misconception was proven as Acanthus brought his sword down across the soldiers exposed ankle. The Roman shrieked in pain and fell to one knee, his foot nearly lobbed off. Acanthus was able to easily maneuver around him, thrusting his sword into a new home right above the man’s collar bone. The second Roman was much more prepared for the assassin, attempting to use his shield to bludgeon Acanthus as he charged forward.
Acanthus thought quickly, and willingly threw himself at the shield. He leaped forward just as he was about to collide with the shield, and by using a stud on the lower part of the shield to step and launch off of, was able to vault himself over the Roman. The vault was not a clean one, and the assassin tumbled over the Roman and his shield more than vaulted over. Acanthus met the ground with a hard crash that sent him into a small roll before he was able to place a hand on the ground and force himself up. As he stumbled to his feet, he grabbed a dagger sheathed inside his Roman leg gauntlet, spun 180 degrees. The dagger left his hand in the middle of his turn, flying through the air for a split second before the Roman caught it with his throat.

Now, his target had no guards to protect him. Acanthus spun into another 180, extending the hidden blades on both of his wrists, confident that he was about to complete his task. His confidence was spontaneously evaporated from his body when he felt a sharp, digging pain in his stomach after completing his turn. There was such a sheer amount of pressure against his abdomen that he keeled partially over. His eyes did not follow in suit; instead they continued to gaze at the long wooden handle that was sticking out of him. Slowly his gaze shifted up the wood to the hand that held it, and from there his eyes rolled up the arm to the neck and face of Spurius. The man had brought his left arm across his body and thrust the spear into Acanthus. In reality there was no need to thrust at all; Acanthus had made a critical error. The assassin had been to slow in his attacks and too quick in his movements. All the Roman Commander needed to do was hold the spear out in front of the incoming assassin and wait for him to run into it.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Spurius said as he calmly gazed down at his would be assassin “I am truly disappointed in you, I imagined an assassin would be so much harder to kill.” The Roman’s words slithered through in the air.

Acanthus struggled to get free of the spears grasp, but the blow had taken his energy and the blade had stuck in deep, and it rendered the assassin to nothing more than meaningless gasps. “The Circulum never ceases to amaze me, you see what we are trying to accomplish yet you fight to stop it.”

Acanthus scowled at the Roman, blood draining down his lips from his eternal wounds “your…people are tyrants….an-and greedy.”

“Greedy? You want to stop humanity from reaching a utopian existence so that you can keep playing behind the scenes…and you call us greedy?” Spurius began twisting the spear in Acanthus’s gut; shooting an unimaginable pain through his entire body. The assassin couldn’t help but fall to his knees and scream a blood curdling shriek at the world.

“You are delusional.” Acanthus hissed

Spurius nodded his head and bit his lower lip, his eyes gazing coldly at the assassin who kneel dying at the end of his spear “No assassin, you are the delusional one. The gods smile upon me and all of my comrades, they curse you… Now…slit your throat.”

The eagle and the staff it rested on began to glow a mystical yellow, and suddenly Acanthus felt the need to bring his hand up close to his neck. He couldn’t command his body anymore, he could barely even clear his mind long enough to think. His hand slowly began to rise from its resting place on the ground, his wrist moving so the hidden blade could deploy. He kept trying to tell his arm to lower, but no matter how hard he tried his thoughts kept telling him to do it…he needed to do it, it was for his own good. No! He had to stop, he had to keep himself from doing this…but it would only be a second…no!

He had to find the will power; he couldn’t just let this happen…he had to stop this. The blade was inching closer to his throat, the blade now pointing towards the Commander as it made its arching path up to Acanthus’s neck. Yes! Just stay there Acanthus tried speaking to his arm in his mind as he glanced over at his right hand now, you move! he screamed inside his own head as he struggled to move his hand upward. The look on Spurius’s face was obvious to depict the shock the Roman was feeling; he had not expected the assassin to be able to resist his control.

“I said kill yourself, now!” Spurius’s growled as he tilted the staff closer to the assassin.

Acanthus struggled to keep his arm where it was, his head throbbing from the pain of resisting. Slowly his right arm came closer to his lift until, in one painful burst of energy, he forced his right hand down onto his left wrist, hitting a release button on his gauntlet. The hidden blade shot forward out of its cradle as the force of the crossbow like cords inside propelled it out like a bullet. The blade struck deep into a gap between Spurius’s armor plates, sticking into his side and slicing straight through his kidney. With an agonizing scream, Spurius fell backwards off the horse, smashing into the soft muddy ground below. His steed cried out and charged away into the distance, leaving nothing between the assassin and his prey, which lay on the ground trying to remove the blade from his body.

Acanthus slowly got to his feet, the spear still sticking from his stomach like a new appendage. He grunted in pain as he rose his right arm high into the air, then brought it hard down onto the spear. The pain was almost unbearable, the spear jerking upwards inside him as the handle snapped off into a sharp shard. Scooping the broken piece off the ground, Acanthus fought through his pain and stumbled quickly to Spurius who had given up on the blade and began reaching for the staff.

Acanthus had not spent months pretending to be one of these swine just to let Spurius escape while he bleeds out on a spear. The assassin kicked the staff away from the Roman’s grip, and then fell to his knees beside him. He let his body go limp, letting the broken handle of the spear fall sharp end first right below Spurius's collar bone, his full body weight pushing it into his chest. The Roman's eyes gazed up at Acanthus, slowly being emptied of the nectar of life that fills the eyes of every man. As the jagged spike slowly pierced through his body, severing his air pipe, Spurius tried desperately to choke out one final curse at the assassin.

Acanthus ignored his attempt at insults, simply placing his hand over the man’s eyes as his life drained away “May the Gods forgive your sins.” Acanthus spoke softly, as the man slowly drifted off into the never ending slumber.

The assassin slowly moved his hand from the Roman’s eyes, looking into them just for a split second. They were empty; the mystic force that was within every living creature had left the body, rendering it to nothing but an empty vehicle. A vessel that had lost its host and was now nothing but a blight to remind people of the evil the man had committed.

Acanthus lowered the man’s head to the ground, taking a quick glance around his surroundings. His vision was beginning to blur, but he could tell the battle was going heavily against the Romans. He turned his towards the staff that lay all but forgotten in the mud. The eagle was partially in the deep mud, its mystic glow dissipated along with the soul of its previous master. He needed to get the artifact, if he allowed it to fall into the wrong hands again killing Spurius would mean nothing.

Acanthus looked sheepishly at the staff, struggling to stand on his jell-o legs. He could barely keep himself up as he placed one leg in front of the other, his movements’ jerky and hindered. He was moving out of pure faith now, his oath to the order the only thing keeping his body from collapsing. When the staff was at his feet, he could no longer keep his body aloft, and tumbled sideways crashing hard onto his right arm. Acanthus starred at the eagle that now lay directly in front of his face, the gold skin of the statue glowing in the falling afternoon sun. He was so close…he couldn’t give up now…not now.

“Please…please let me have the strength.” Acanthus groaned, his vision growing dim as he tried to reach out for the eagle, “don’t let this be the end.” He whispered as he suddenly felt the urge to close his eyes and faded into a peaceful sleep…