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Assassin's Creed: Forsaken (Assassin's Creed #5) by Oliver Bowden. 'I am an expert swordsman. And I am skilled in the business of death. I take no pleasure in . Assassin's Creed Brotherhood Pdf is available here. You can easily download Assassin's Creed Brotherhood Pdf by oliver bowden Discover ideas about Assassin's Creed Books. April Oliver Bowden Assassins Creed 5 Books Collection Set Brotherhood Forsaken New. Assassin's .

Renaissance[ edit ] The first novel of this collection, Renaissance, was published on November 20, Ezio begins to train himself as an assassin and becomes drawn into a war between the Assassin's Brotherhood and the Templar Order. The two secret organizations have been combating each other for centuries to secure an ancient technology, called the "Apple of Eden", a relic which can control human minds. Both groups also seek a vault in Italy, which contains the knowledge and technology of an ancient, technologically superior civilization. Brotherhood[ edit ] Brotherhood—the second novel in the series, was released in

And of course it attacks without warning. So every evening they checked me for signs of measles or the pox then reported on my good health to Mother, who came to kiss me good night. I was one of the lucky ones, you see, who had a mother to kiss me good night, and a father who did, too; who loved me and my half sister, Jenny, who told me about rich and poor, who instilled in me my good for- tune and urged me always to think of others; and who employed tutors and nursemaids to look after and educate me, so that I should grow up to be a man of good values and of worth to the world.

One of the lucky ones. Not like the children who have to work in fields and in factories and up chimneys. I wondered sometimes, though, did they have friends, those other children? If they did, then, while of course I knew better than to envy them their lives when mine was so much more comfortable, I envied them that one thing: Me, I had none, with no brothers or sisters close to my age either, and, as for making them, well, I was shy.

Besides, there was another problem: It happened one afternoon. On one side of us lived a family who had four girls, two around my age.

This particular afternoon Old Mr. Fayling left the room and I waited until his footsteps had receded before getting up from my sums, going to the window and gazing out at the grounds of the mansion next door. Dawson was the family name. Dawson was an MP, so my father said, barely hiding his scowl. They had a high-walled garden, and, despite the trees, bushes, and foliage in full bloom, parts of it were visible from my schoolroom window, so I could see the Dawson girls outside.

My sums were left unattended on the table for a moment as I watched them play, until suddenly, almost as if she could sense she was being watched, one of the younger ones, a year or so my junior, looked up, saw me at the window, and our eyes locked. I gulped, then very hesitantly raised a hand to wave. To my surprise she beamed back. Which evaporated the moment their nursemaid appeared from beneath the cover of the trees, glanced up crossly at my window with a look that left me in no doubt what she thought of me—an ogler or worse—then ushered all four girls out of sight.

Remember how my nurses steered me away from the ragged un- fortunates? Other nursemaids kept their children away from me like that.

I never really wondered why. I emerged from behind the screen wear- ing my new shiny-buckled shoes, a waistcoat and a jacket, and Edith called one of the maids, who said I looked the spitting image of my father, which of course was the idea. Standing there, I felt grown-up and learned, even as I felt the hotness in my cheeks again.

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I found myself wondering if the Dawson girls would have considered me rather fine in my new suit, quite the gentle- man. I fancied I saw one of them steal a glance up at me once, but if she saw me, there were no smiles or waves that time, just a shadow of that same look worn by the nursemaid, as though disapproval of me was being handed down, like arcane knowledge.

So we had the Dawsons on one side; those elusive, pigtailed, skipping Dawsons, while on the other side were the Barretts. They were a family of eight children, boys and girls, although again I rarely saw them; as with the Dawsons, my encounters were re- stricted to the sight of them getting into car- riages, or seeing them at a distance in the fields.

Then, one day shortly before my eighth birthday, I was in the garden, strolling along the perimeter and dragging a stick along the crumbling red brick of the high garden wall. Is it true what they say about your father? Next, I almost jumped out of my skin when I saw through a hole in the door an unblinking eye that was watch- ing me. Again came the question. He had a friendly- looking eyeball, at least.

It just does somehow. Is your father what they say he is? I can see your eyes, you know. What do people say about Father? See you around, I hope? What rumour? What were people saying about us, our small family?

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At the same time I remembered that I had better get a move on. It was nearly mid- day—and time for my weapons training. Around me the grown-ups hold tense conversations. Their faces are drawn and the ladies weep. Fires are kept lit, of course, but the house is empty apart from the few of us and what possessions we saved from the burnt-out mansion, and it feels permanently cold.

Out- side, snow has started to fall, while indoors is a sorrow that chills the very bones. Edith today. For years—as long as I could remember—she had assisted Edith. She was as bereaved as I was. Edith had been alone in the world, so it was the surviving Kenways and staff who gathered for a funeral feast below stairs, for ham and ale and cake. When that was over, the men from the funer- al company, who were already quite drunk, loaded her body into the hearse for taking to the chapel.

Behind it we took our seats in mourning carriages. We only needed two of them. When it was over I retired to my room, to continue with my story. So one morning when Jenny and I were both alone in the drawing room together, I decided to ask her about it. I was nearly eight and she was twenty-one, and we had as much in common as I did with the man who delivered the coal. She has black hair that shines, and her eyes are dark and. Although not to me. And scowling.

That smoky stare her admirers said she had? I called it scowling. And Jenny, being more than a decade older than I, knew more about him than I did. To annoy her perhaps. So I asked her: Who said it and what did they say?

He said our family was strange and that Father was a. She smiled when she had the upper hand, when she could exert a little power over someone—es- pecially if that someone was me. After all, you are his male heir. No child has weapons training, Haytham, not in Bloomsbury anyway, and maybe not in all of London.

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Nobody but you. Maybe I had. Maybe I secretly knew all along. I said nothing. Who is in store? I might have felt sorry for her.

Knowing what I now knew, though, weapons training the following day had an extra frisson. Suddenly it felt as though I were tasting forbidden fruit, and the fact that my father was my tutor only made it more succulent. If Jenny was right, and there was some calling I was being groomed to answer, like other boys are trained for the priest- hood, or as blacksmiths, butchers or car- penters, then good.

That suited me fine. There was nobody in the world I looked up to more than Father. The thought that he was passing on his knowledge to me was at once comforting and thrilling. And, of course, it involved swords. What more could a boy want? And it was there that my sword skills began to improve. And in it my father, his bright eyes, sharp but kindly, and always smiling, always en- couraging me: To me, they are—or were—the sights and sounds of weapons training: Yes, wood.

Wooden training swords we used, much to my chagrin. Before that I might have taken her ridicule to heart, maybe felt a little silly and self-conscious about my birthday breakfast. But not that day. Thinking back, I wonder if my eighth birthday marked the day I began to change from boy to man. I had eyes only for Mother and Father, who had eyes only for me. And so it proved. Street, where the hot chocolate is made from solid blocks of cocoa imported from Spain. Later that day I stood with Edith and Betty fussing around me, dressing me in my smartest suit.

Then the four of us were step- ping into a carriage at the kerb outside, where I sneaked a look up at the windows of our neighbours and wondered if the faces of the Dawson girls were pressed to the glass, or Tom and his brothers. I hoped so. I hoped they could see me now. Even so, during that short walk between the carriage and the sanctuary of the chocol- ate house, I looked to my left and right and saw a little of London: And then we were inside, greeted by the thick scent of smoke, ale, perfume and of course chocolate, as well as a hubbub of pi- ano and raised voices.

People, all of whom were shouting, leaned over gaming tables. Men drank from huge tankards of ale; wo- men, too.

I saw some with hot chocolate and cake. Everybody, it seemed, was in a state of high excitement. I looked at Father, who had stopped short, and sensed his discomfort. Until with a grateful wave, Father acknowledged him and began to lead us across the room, squeezing between tables, stepping over dogs and even one or two children, who scrabbled at the feet of revellers, presumably hoping for whatever might fall off the gaming tables: We reached the gentleman with the cane.

Unlike Father, whose hair was unkempt and barely tied back with a bow, he wore a white powdered wig, the back of it secured in a black silk bag, and a frock coat in a deep, rich red colour. With a nod, he greeted Father then turned his attention to me and made an exaggerated bow.

Remind me please of your age, sir? Twelve, perhaps? The gentleman was Reginald Birch, one of his senior property managers, and Mr. Birch said he was delighted to make my ac- quaintance then greeted my mother with a long bow, kissing the back of her hand. His attention went to Jenny next, and he took her hand, bent his head and pressed his lips to it. I knew enough to realize that what he was doing was courtship, and I glanced quickly over to Father, expecting him to step in.

I could have stayed there all night, having my fill of hot chocolate and cake, copious amounts of which were delivered to the table. Both Father and Mr. Birch seemed to enjoy the ale.

So in the end it was Mother who insisted we leave—before I was sick, or they were—and we stepped out into the night, which if anything had become even busier in the intervening hours. For a moment or so I found myself disori- entated by the noise and the stench of the street. Instinctively, Father moved closer to- wards us all, as if to try and ward off the clamour. Birch used his cane to block her path. I felt myself being jostled, saw two urchins trying to reach us with their palms out.

The thief shrieked in pain and surprise and backed straight into Mr. I caught my breath. Birch, without turning. The thief snivelled. The tendons on Mr. He stood with his arms around Mother, who had buried her face in his chest and was whimpering softly. Jenny stood close by at one side, me at another. A respectful, frightened distance. We both know this man de- serves to pay, if not with his life, then per- haps with a finger or two.

Any association between us will end if you do not do as I say this very moment. Until, at last, Mr. When he stood, he aimed a kick at the thief, who needed no fur- ther encouragement to scramble to his hands and knees and take off into Chesterfield Street, grateful to escape with his life.

Our carriage driver had recovered his wits and now stood by the door, urging us to hurry to the safety of our carriage. Father and Mr. Birch stood facing one another, their eyes locked. As Mother hur- ried me past, I saw Mr. On behalf of all of us, thank you for your quick thinking. Birch, who glared at him, refusing to accept the offer of accord. Then, just as I was bundled into the car- riage, I saw Mr. The two shook hands and my father awarded Mr.

Birch with the short nod that I knew so well. It meant that everything had been settled. It meant that no more need be said about it. I told Mother and Father how much I had enjoyed my evening, thanked them pro- fusely and assured them that the commotion in the street afterwards had done nothing to spoil my evening, while privately thinking that it had been a highlight.

He is not like some, who wear etiquette and protocol as a badge only when it suits them. He is a man of honour. He seemed to want me closer to the light and his eyes to stare at my face. The lamplight played across his features and his dark hair shone. His eyes were always kindly but they could also be intense, as they were now. I noticed one of his scars, which seemed to shine more brightly in the light.

But what of Mr. His response? What did you make of it, Haytham? Birch seemed about to administer severe punishment to the scoundrel, Haytham. Did you think it was deserved? And in the heat of the moment I suppose I had thought the thief deserved a harsh re- sponse. There had been an instant, brief as it was, when some primal anger wished him harm for the attack on my mother.

Now, though, in the soft glow of the lamp, with Father looking kindly upon me, I felt differently. But what did you think?

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Father smiled and nodded, and then ab- ruptly turned to the bookshelves, where with a flick of his wrist he operated a switch, caus- ing a portion of books to slide across to re- veal a secret compartment.

My heart skipped a beat as he took something from it: I knelt and placed the box on the floor, opened it to reveal a leather belt that I plucked quickly away, knowing that beneath would be a sword, and not a wooden play sword but a shimmering steel sword with an ornate handle. I took it from the box and held it in my hands. It was a short sword and, though, shamefully, I felt a twinge of disappointment about that, I knew at once that it was a beautiful short sword, and it was my short sword.

Is that clear? It was the King James Bible. Digweed, attended the service for the captain, whose name I never knew, but nobody from our household was at the funer- al for the second man. Birch became a regular visitor to the house and, when not Mother and Father were thrilled about that of course. Jenny less so. Just as she seemed to wither under the weight of her future, I flourished with the an- ticipation of my own. At times it was as if the two of us shared a knowledge that was secret from the rest of the world.

But what does it say in here, Haytham? I realize now what he was doing. Old Mr. Fayling was teaching me facts and absolutes; Father was asking me to question them.

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This knowledge I was being given by Old Mr. Fayling—where did it originate? Who wiel- ded the quill, and why should I trust that man?

He had a way of look- ing at the world that nobody else had, so it seemed; a way of looking at the world that challenged the very idea of truth. Of course, I questioned Old Mr. Later, Father took me into his study and, after closing the door, grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

Hide in plain sight. And I found myself looking at the people around me, trying to look inside them as though I might be able somehow to divine how they looked at the world, the Old Mr. Fayling way, or the Father way. Writing this now, of course, I can see I was getting too big for my boots; I was feeling grown-up beyond my years, which would be as unattractive now, at ten, as it would have been at eight, then nine. Prob- ably I was unbearably supercilious.

Probably I felt like the little man of the household. When I turned nine, Father presented me with a bow and arrow for my birthday and, practising with it in the grounds, I hoped that the Dawson girls or the Barrett children might be watching me from the windows.

Father was forthcoming on all sub- jects except his own past. And, apart from that, of course, I wanted a friend. Not a parent or nursemaid or tutor or mentor—I had plenty of those. Just a friend.

And I hoped it would be Tom. It never will be now, of course. They bury him tomorrow. Digweed came to see me this morning. He knocked, waited for my reply then had to duck his head to enter, because Mr.

Digweed, as well as being balding, with slightly bulging eyes and veiny eyelids, is tall and slim, and the doorways in our emergency residence are much lower than they were at home. The way he had to stoop as he moved around the place, it added to his air of discomfiture, the sense of his being a fish out of water here. What made his pain even more acute was guilt—his guilt that on They respectfully re- quest that no contact is made at all.

It was in the plate room that the family valuables were stored: He kept the key to the plate room with him at all times, on a loop around his belt, and I had only ever seen him entrust it to Mr. Digweed, and then only for short periods. I liked to play in the corridor nearby be- cause it was so rarely visited, which meant I was never bothered by nursemaids, who would invariably tell me to get off the dirty floor before I wore a hole in my trousers; or by other well-meaning staff, who would en- gage me in polite conversation and oblige me to answer questions about my education or non-existent friends; or perhaps even by Mother or Father, who would tell me to get off the dirty floor before I wore a hole in my trousers and then force me to answer ques- tions about my education or non-existent friends.

Jenny, who would sneer at whatever game I was playing and, if it was toy soldiers, make a malicious effort to kick over each and every tin man of them. Except on this occasion, when a new face emerged in the form of Mr.

Birch, who let himself into the passage just as I was about to arrange my troops. I had a lantern with me, placed on the stone floor, and the candle fire flickered and popped in the draught as the passage door opened. Yes, I enjoyed my sums. Yes, I enjoyed writing. Yes, I one day hoped to be as clever as my father.

Yes, I one day hoped to follow him into the family business. But with a wave of his hand Mr. Birch bade me back to my game and even set aside his cane and hitched up his trousers in order to crouch beside me. He gave a dry laugh.

How else will they know the best course of action? How else will they be instilled with a sense of discipline and purpose? He reached to re- move one of the tiny tin men from the pack, buffed him up on his sleeve and placed him to one side. Digweed enter. In the flickering lamplight I saw him and Mr. Birch share a look. Birch tautly. Digweed, bow- ing and retreating, the door closing behind him. Birch, his at- tention returning to the game. What do you think, Master Haytham? Birch, reaching between his feet to move another of the tin soldiers from the pack then placing him next to the nominal commander.

There was a long pause, during which I watched Mr. Birch loudly. I see he has taught you guile and cunning—among other things, no doubt. And has your father ever indicated to you the purpose of your training? Not even a tantalizing clue? A creed. How very exciting. You mean you have access to it, too? Birch grinned. A hidden cavity within the bookcase? He laughed. A gesture I quite liked. Per- haps because it was something my father did, too.

He was in a fury—his anger was plain to see in the colour of his cheeks and blazing eyes—but the sight of me in the hallway brought him up short, even though he re- mained agitated. My father had ap- peared at the door of his office and glared after Mr. There was more to think about. Just a day or so later came the attack. The attack, I mean. I was awake, perhaps be- cause I was excited about the next day, but also because I was in the habit of getting up after Edith had left the room to sit on my windowsill and gaze out of my bedroom win- dow.

Or, if not watching out for an- imals, then just watching the night, looking at the moon, the watery grey colour it gave the grass and trees.

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At first I thought what I was seeing in the distance were fireflies. All I knew was that they gathered in clouds and emitted a dull glow. I was seeing a signal. My breath caught in my throat.

It seems strange now, but not for a second did I assume the signal was meant for anyone but me. I shrugged on a coat. All I could think of was what an awfully splendid adven- ture I was about to have. And of course I realize now, looking back, that in the mansion next door Tom must have been another one who liked to sit on his windowsill and watch the nocturnal life in the grounds of his house.

And, like me, he must have seen the signal. And perhaps Tom even had the same thought as I did: And in response did the same as I did: Both were easy to avoid as I crept down the steps to below stairs and slid into the silent, moonlit kitchen, which I had nev- er seen so dark and empty and still.

And cold.

Series: Assassin's Creed Novels

Close by the door was a candle, which I lit and, with my hand cupped over its flame, held to light the way as I let myself out into the stable yard. One of the horses whinnied and stamped, and for some reason the noise made my mind up, sending me tiptoeing past the ken- nels to a side wall and through a large arched gate leading into the orchard.

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I made my way through the bare, spindly apple trees, then was out in the open, painfully aware of the mansion to my right, where I imagined faces at every window: Edith, Betty, Mother and Father all staring out and seeing me out of my room and running amok in the grounds. But if I was expecting a shout from the house, then none came. I was still shivering, but as my excitement grew I wondered if Tom would have brought food for a midnight feast: Oh, and a hot toddy would be most welcome, too.

A dog began barking. The noise stopped me in my tracks, and I crouched beneath the bare, low- hanging branches of a willow, until it ceased as suddenly as it had started. We now think there were five of them alto- gether who crept up on us with knives and swords. Five men making their way to the mansion, and me in the grounds, oblivious to it all. But how was I to know?

I was a silly boy whose head buzzed with adventure and derring-do, not to mention the thought of ham and cake, and I continued along the perimeter wall, until I came to the gate.

Which was open. What had I expected? I suppose, for the gate to be shut and for Tom to be on the oth- er side of it. Perhaps one of us would have climbed the wall. Perhaps we planned to trade gossip with the door between us. There was no sound. Al Mualim instructs him not to tell his fellow Assassin Abbas of his father's suicide. In their absence, Abbas proclaimed himself "Master of the Assassins" and took over Masyaf, ruling with tyranny.

He discovers that despite being told that his son Sef had traveled to Alamut, his son was actually murdered by Malik. Malik has been imprisoned but claims innocence. They hope to take back Masyaf with as little bloodshed as possible.

They are joined by a few young men who are aligned against Abbas and are training in the traditional ways of the Assassins, which have been ignored during Abbas' reign. They, along with the people of Masyaf, storm the castle fighting through Abbas' men but only killing if absolutely necessary. The Secret Crusade was released in June Revelations[ edit ] Revelations once again follows Ezio Auditore as he leaves his life behind in search of the truth about the Assassin Order and "those who came before".

The resulting journey leads him to Constantinople where a growing army of Byzantine Templars threatens the region. Ezio goes through many obstacles then decides to give up his life as an Assassin to save Desmond. Forsaken[ edit ] Set in , Forsaken is Haytham Kenway's Edward Kenway's son personal journal and tracks his life, from his early childhood in England, through his rise up the Templar ranks.

Unlike Revelations, it is written in the first person and follows Haytham Kenway only. Forsaken was released on 4 December