Free Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil Page B

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