Batman 5 - Batman Begins Read online

  Ducard took from his pocket a dried flower, the shriveled blue poppy Bruce had long ago carried to the monastery. Ducard put it in a stone mortar and used a stone pestle to grind it to dust. “But a criminal isn’t complicated,” he said. “And what you really fear is inside yourself. You fear your own power. Your own anger. The drive to do great or terrible things . . . You must journey inward.”

  Ducard poured the dust into a small brazier, struck a long wooden match, and set it aflame. A thin column of smoke rose, twisted, curled. Ducard motioned Bruce closer. “Drink in your fears. Face them. You are ready.”

  Bruce understood without further instruction. He inhaled the smoke and shook his head. Time roiled and shifted inside his skull and he saw:

  . . . himself falling into the well . . .

  . . . screeching bats exploding from the crevice and tearing at him . . .

  . . . Father staring down at a red splotch on the snowy white shirt that spread outward from a small, black hole . . .

  . . . bloody pearls spilling past Bruce’s face and clattering lightly on the pavement . . .

  Bruce shook his head violently and blinked his eyes. So real, the visions are so real . . .

  Ducard tugged a ninja mask over his head. He pulled a second mask from under his jacket and handed it to Bruce.

  “To conquer fear you must become fear,” he said as Bruce put on the mask. “You must bask in the fear of other men . . . and men fear most what they cannot see.”

  Ducard raised a hand and a dozen ninjas congealed from the shadows: not the trainees Bruce had come to know by sight, if not by name—no, although these warriors were completely covered by their uniforms and masks, Bruce somehow knew they were fully trained, and he had no doubt that they were ruthless.

  “It is not enough to be a man,” Ducard said. “You have to become an idea . . . a terrible thought . . . a wraith—”

  Suddenly Ducard drew his sword and slashed at Bruce’s throat—a strike that would have decapitated Bruce if it had connected.

  It did not: Bruce had spun out of its path.

  The ninjas closed on Bruce, surrounding him. Then they parted to reveal a long, wide, flat wooden box: a coffin for a giant? Bruce gazed at it, still disoriented from the smoke he had inhaled.

  From the darkness, Ducard spoke: “Embrace your worst fear . . .”

  Cautiously, Bruce approached the box, lifted the lid, and peered inside. For a moment, he heard the flapping of leathery wings—

  And the scene that was still echoing in his memory became real: screeching bats tearing at him . . .

  Bruce dove away from the box, rolled, staring at the bats, blinking and flinching . . .

  “Become one with the darkness,” Ducard said from some great distance.

  The ninjas attacked.

  Bruce should have been terrified. These men were killers and all had survived the ordeals that had been visited on Bruce and they outnumbered him at least twelve to one. They were armed, and his only weapon was his body. They were alert and he was still groggy from the smoke.

  He should have been terrified, and immediately killed, and if he had taken even a second to think about his situation, he would have been. But he did not. No, he merely did as, without knowing it, he had been learning to do all these years. He became fully in the moment and let a wisdom deeper and vastly quicker than thought guide his movements.

  A ninja jabbed. Bruce pivoted and kicked the man’s arm, and as the sword flew from the man’s grasp Bruce sent a palm strike to the man’s chin and caught the sword as it fell.

  A blade ripped Bruce’s sleeve and the skin beneath it. Bruce retaliated by swiping his blade against his attacker’s arm and leaping over and behind the box.

  In the rafters, bats flapped and screeched.

  On the floor, Bruce whirled and leaped, pivoted, thrust, parried, moving as silently as fog among the black-clad assassins.

  Ducard leaped forward into the center of the ninjas. He kicked the face of a ninja with a torn sleeve. The man fell to his knees and Ducard put his sword to the man’s throat.

  “Your sleeve, Wayne,” he said. “Bad mistake. You cannot leave any sign.”

  From behind Ducard, Bruce said, “I haven’t.”

  The edge of his sword was against Ducard’s throat.

  Ducard glanced at the ninjas. Five of them had slashed sleeves. He gestured and the ninjas fell back, lowering their weapons.

  From across the chamber there came the sound of clapping. Rā’s al Ghūl sat on his throne, watching and slapping his long palms together.

  “Impressive,” Rā’s said in English. It was the first time Bruce had heard him in months.

  Bruce pulled off his mask and bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  The ninjas sat. Ducard escorted Bruce to the platform on which Rā’s sat and stood beside him. Rā’s rose, his robes rustling, and led Bruce and Ducard to a smoking brazier with a branding iron sticking from the glowing coals. Then Rā’s began to speak in Urdu.

  Ducard translated: “We have purged your fear. You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows.”

  Rā’s again struck his palms together, not in applause but command. Two ninjas dragged the portly, frightened prisoner from a doorway and shoved him down next to the brazier. Bruce recognized him immediately: the farmer, the murderer who had been caged.

  Rā’s pointed a thin, straight finger at the prisoner and spoke. Ducard translated: “First you must demonstrate your commitment to justice.”

  Ducard handed Bruce a sword. Bruce looked at the prisoner, whose eyes were pleading pools of terror.

  “No,” Bruce said, addressing Rā’s. “I am not an executioner.”

  Ducard said, “Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share.”

  “That’s why it’s so important. It separates me from them.”

  “You want to fight criminals. This man is a murderer.”

  “This man should be tried.”

  “By whom?” Ducard demanded. “Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society’s laws. You know this better than most.”

  Rā’s al Ghūl stepped forward and in thickly accented English said, “You cannot lead men unless you are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil.”

  “Where would I be leading these men?” Bruce asked him.

  “Gotham City. As Gotham City’s favorite son you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality.”

  “How?”

  “Gotham City’s time has come. Like Constantinople or Rome before it—grounds for suffering and injustice—it is beyond saving and must be allowed to die . . . This is the most important function of the League of Shadows. It is one we have performed for centuries. Gotham City must be destroyed.”

  Bruce turned to Ducard. “You can’t believe this.”

  “Rā’s al Ghūl has rescued us from the darkest corners of our own hearts,” Ducard replied. “What he asks in return is the courage to do what is necessary.”

  Bruce said, “I’ll go back to Gotham. And I’ll fight men like this. But I won’t be an executioner.”

  Ducard’s reply was whispered, almost a plea: “Wayne, for your own sake . . . there is no turning back . . .”

  Bruce raised his sword. The prisoner raised his gaze to Bruce and his lips moved soundlessly.

  Bruce struck downward, his blade missing the prisoner’s neck by inches and hitting the white-hot branding iron, flipping it off the brazier. It arced high into the air and spun into the door of the room where explosives were stored. The door instantly smoldered and tiny tongues of flame appeared where the iron had struck.

  “What are you doing?” Ducard shouted.

  “What’s necessary,” Bruce said and hit Ducard’s head with the flat of his sword.

  Rā’s al Ghūl had a Chinese sword in his hands almost instantly. He thrust at Bruce and Bruce deflected the blade with his own. Bruce returned the attack, driving Rā�
�s backward and off the platform.

  An explosion shook the hall and flaming debris spouted from the explosives room.

  Rā’s ignored the fire and noise and renewed his assault. Bruce’s eyes stung and he coughed; he could barely see Rā’s through the smoke. He was aware of men running past him, scrambling toward the doors. But he dared not join them: the moment he turned his back, he knew, Rā’s would kill him.

  For an instant, fear intruded into Bruce’s consciousness: This is Rā’s al Ghūl! This is the master! I cannot possibly defeat him!

  But even as this thought flitted across his mind, Bruce knew it was wrong. The man before him was formidable, true, but only highly skilled, not superhuman. Bruce had fought tougher opponents, Ducard among them. Perhaps Rā’s had erected a reputation and was hiding behind it. Perhaps it was more illusion than reality.

  Then Bruce stopped thinking and again became one with the moment.

  He blinked and saw Rā’s again charging at him. A second explosion shook the hall and suddenly a slab of roof, fully ablaze, fell onto Rā’s, burying him.

  I didn’t want him to die . . .

  The back of the monastery was a holocaust. Bruce ran for the front, jumping over chunks of wood and broken furniture that littered the floor.

  Ducard lay directly in his path, between him and the exit. In the flicker of the flames, Bruce could see that Ducard’s head was bloody and his hair was partially burned away.

  Bruce knelt and shouted Ducard’s name: no response, Bruce got his shoulder under Ducard’s and hoisted the unconscious man into a fireman’s carry. But he could go no farther; a sheet of flame was now between him and safety.

  He looked around, trying to see through the dense smoke. The steps to the mezzanine were still intact. Bruce, with Ducard over his shoulders, ran up them. He went onto the balcony. A third explosion rocked the boards beneath his feet and some of them tore free of their moorings. In a second or two, the balcony would collapse.

  There was fire directly below, gushing from the explosives room. If they fell into it, they would be incinerated.

  Bruce kicked aside the balcony railing, took two steps back, ran forward, and leaped. His trajectory carried him and Ducard over the flames and down a steep slope covered with ice. They landed with a jolt and Ducard slipped from Bruce’s grasp. Both men slid toward a cliff, a four-hundred-foot drop to the glacier below. Bruce’s groping hand found a rock and closed around it. His momentum halted. But Ducard’s did not; his rotating body was gaining speed.

  Bruce released his hold on the rock, pivoted on his stomach, straightened, and hands clasped in front of him, he dove headfirst down the slope. Only inches from the edge of the cliff, Bruce caught Ducard’s upper arm. Both of them continued to slide. Bruce raised his gauntlet-clad forearm and smashed the bronze scallops into the ice. He and Ducard stopped, with Ducard’s legs dangling over the cliff.

  Bruce allowed himself a minute to calm his breathing before digging the scallops on his other arm into the ice, a bit farther up the slope.

  This will take a while . . .

  Some time later, he dragged Ducard over the lip of the slope and onto flat ground, slushy from melted ice. Nothing much was left of the monastery, just the stone foundation and a few gaunt, blackened timbers, bits of flame dancing along them, silhouetted against the afternoon sky. Despite the ice, there had been neither rain nor snowfall for weeks. The monastery had been dry as kindling. The snow around the ruin was trampled, some tracks leading to the trail down the mountain, others to the path to the glacier. Bruce wondered if the ninjas had a planned escape route or if they had merely run from the inferno.

  Bruce saw no one. He considered going into the remains of the monastery to see if he could find Rā’s al Ghūl. But Rā’s was surely dead and Ducard might soon be if he did not get help.

  He shook Ducard: no response. He hoisted Ducard onto his shoulders and went to the trail leading to the hamlet. Now trembling with exhaustion, Bruce descended it. He arrived as the sun was reddening the eastern peaks. As usual, the tiny settlement seemed to be deserted. He pounded the door of the first hut he came to and it immediately opened. Inside stood the old man Bruce had spoken to on his initial trek up the mountain. Bruce entered and, heeding the old man’s gesture, lay Ducard down on some straw mats. The old man wiped blood from Ducard’s temple, put his ear to Ducard’s chest, felt Ducard’s pulse. He nodded. For a moment, Bruce and the old man stood on either side of Ducard, looking at each other. Then Bruce shrugged and went to the door.

  “I will tell him you saved his life,” the old man said in English.

  “Tell him . . . I have an ailing ancestor who needs me.” Bruce flattened his palms in front of his chest and bowed his head.

  The old man pointed to a stain on Bruce’s jacket. “It is blood. Do you wish to clean it?”

  “Not necessary.”

  Bruce left the hut. He looked up at where he had come from and saw wisps of smoke rising against the evening sky, and then down, at the trail to the village and prison. Which way? No choice, really. He started toward the trail. The door to another of the huts opened and the little boy he had seen during his first visit ran out, carrying a bundle wrapped in sackcloth. He handed it to Bruce and, without saying anything or waiting to be thanked, vanished into the hut and closed the door. Bruce unwrapped the bundle enough to see what was inside: a clay bowl full of rice with a chunk of brown bread and two crude chopsticks on top. Lunch. Bruce bowed to the boy’s hut and moved down the trail.

  The air was chilly, but not cold, as it had been on the mountaintop, and the next morning, bright sun gradually warmed Bruce. When it was directly overhead, he perched on a boulder, opened the bundle, and ate the rice and bread.

  The sun was low when he finally reached the trail-head and continued past it on the road the army truck had taken a year earlier to the town—or small city?—near the prison. His plan, such as it was, was to beg for food and money until he had enough for a telephone call to the United States—to Gotham City and Wayne Manor and Alfred. It might take days, but it would probably be faster than finding a berth on a ship bound for America.

  But he got lucky. As he was hunkering down at a roadside near the marketplace, now almost deserted as darkness inched over the area, he met an old shipmate, a bosun’s mate, who was accompanied by a slender woman whose eyes were downcast and whose whole demeanor was one of extreme shyness.

  “Hello, my old shipmate,” the bosun yelled in breath laden with rum. “Remember me—Hector. I beat you up plenty.”

  “I still bear the scars,” Bruce answered, grinning and shaking Hector’s hand.

  “Guess what? I am husband now. How you like that?”

  “Congratulations.”

  Hector said that he and the woman had just gotten married, that very afternoon, mere hours ago, and were celebrating and did his dear old shipmate want for anything, anything at all in this blessed world? In the end, after more hand-shaking and much back-pounding, the bosun’s mate gave Bruce the money he needed and, with promises that they would get together soon, put his arm around his new wife’s shoulders and stumbled toward a nearby inn.

  Bruce located a merchant who offered long-distance telephone service and persuaded him to remain open long enough for Bruce to make his call.

  There was no answer. Perhaps Alfred was having one of his weekly nights away from the big house. Bruce left a message on the answering machine and, thanking the merchant for his kindness, left to seek a place to sleep.

  He finally settled for a culvert. He put a thin layer of dried grass on the rounded bottom and lay on it. He was cold and uncomfortable and seven years ago that would have been a problem. But now, he simply accepted the cold and the discomfort, instead of fighting them, and slept for the five hours he needed.

  The next morning, just after sunrise, he walked around, seeking food. He was not discomfortingly hungry, not yet, but he had eaten only the boy’s rice and bread in the last day and his body would
need fuel soon. He saw a mendicant monk, barefoot and wearing an orange robe, going from house to house and holding out a bowl into which householders put a morsel of food. Bruce approached the monk, who seemed to immediately guess what Bruce might want, and gave him half of what was in the bowl.

  At about eight, Bruce returned to where he had made the call to Alfred. The merchant was waiting for him. Alfred had already returned the call and made the necessary arrangements, which the merchant read to Bruce from a sheet of lined paper. Again, Bruce thanked the merchant and began to follow Alfred’s instructions.

  Two days later Bruce was in Kathmandu, standing at the end of an unpaved landing strip. There was a corrugated steel shed at the other end, with a pole flying a windsock, and nothing else. A dot appeared in the eastern sky, black against a huge, billowing cloud, and grew larger and resolved itself into an airplane, which landed and taxied to a stop. It was a Wayne Enterprises jet, gleaming and in perfect condition.

  Bruce ran toward it. The exit hatch opened and a small set of steps thudded to the dirt. Alfred, immaculate in a pressed suit, descended and, when Bruce stopped in front of him, said, “Master Bruce. It’s been some time.”

  Bruce smiled. “Yes. Yes it has.”

  It had been seven years since he had last looked at Alfred Pennyworth, and in some fundamental ways Bruce was not the same man who had left America as a stowaway on a tramp freighter. But he felt recognition and a familiar, immense affection for the elegant, courtly gentleman who stood before him.

  Alfred looked at Bruce, scanning him from hairline to feet. Bruce knew what he was seeing—a long-haired, bearded, sooty man wearing black rags. “You look rather fashionable,” Alfred said. “Apart from the dried blood.”

  Bruce followed Alfred into the aircraft. The hatch closed and the engines revved and within seconds they were airborne. The interior of the plane was well appointed, with leather seats, a padded bulkhead, and first-class food service. Alfred gave Bruce a glass of orange juice, which tasted as though it was fresh-pressed, and settled into a seat across from him.