Beyond the Shadows
Twenty-five
Bane emerged from his self-induced hypnotic state through a slow, controlled release. As he did so, his senses took over, sharpened by his long meditation and thus acutely attuned to everything in his surroundings. First, the scent of incense and candles, then the whispering voice of the dying wind against the windows in the Great Hall, then the weight of his clothes and the feel of the wood floor beneath where he sat. His eyes opened to find that the cloak of evening had stolen all light from the outside world, thus plunging all within to shadow. Temujin stood before him, dressed in the black attire of a ninja, waiting, silent, his expression unreadable. With his mind and body calm and supple, Bane climbed to his feet.
Temujin stepped closer, his narrow gaze locked with Bane's. For a moment nothing was said. All that had transpired over the past months fell away, all the hard work, the pain, the failures and triumphs. It was as if none of it had happened. And instead of seeing his master before him, Bane saw only his proud friend.
Never blinking, the Mongol reached up to rest his hands upon Bane's broad shoulders. Quietly he said, "You are ready, my young bull."
The assurance that rang in Temujin's words bolstered Bane's confidence even more, and he nearly allowed himself a smile beneath his mask.
Temujin stepped back and surprised him by saying, "Now, before we leave, you are to remove everything except your pants, your support belt, and—of course—your mask."
Bane almost questioned the instruction, having expected that he, too, would exchange his usual garb for something similar to Temujin's. Pushing aside his disappointed curiosity, Bane obeyed his mentor. Once Bane had finished, Temujin gave his pupil a final nod of approval then led him from the room.
Bane expected that they would go perhaps to the dojo, but instead Temujin led him beyond the dojo to an adjoining building. This was of a similar design to that of the dormitory, with a central atrium surrounded by stairs and mezzanine-like catwalks. But this building's lowest level lacked flooring; instead the barren earth of the mountain itself provided a base. From that base arose a number of tall, thick wooden posts, surrounded by the rectangular mezzanine. Bane was very familiar with this simple apparatus, for he had trained upon it many times. The posts—cut flat across their tops—challenged those who stood upon them, subject all the while to two instructors wielding stout quarterstaves from the mezzanine, endeavoring to knock the student from his precarious, uneven perch. Balance, strength, and endurance were required to remain atop the posts. Yet surely, Bane thought, something he had conquered in the past would not be his final test.
Lanterns hanging high in the atrium provided weak light. Silence shrouded the seemingly deserted building, and the chill rising from the unforgiving ground below clutched at Bane's bare skin, caused him to shiver. The keloid running the length of his damaged spine seemed to tighten as if a cold finger scraped across it. As he looked upward to find the sparse light, the entire atmosphere invoked unsettling memories of the prison shaft. An almost tangible menace hovered in the air, but from what did it emanate?
Temujin, his footfalls making no sound upon the wooden mezzanine, led Bane over a crosswalk. Beyond, beneath the overhang of the floor above, hidden by shadows, stood Henri Ducard, also in the black dress of a ninja. Beside him stood a glowing brazier, another reminder of Bane's past life—his only source of heat while in prison. Temujin halted briefly before Ducard, gave a slight bow, then stepped aside so Bane could take his place. As Bane squared his shoulders to the man, it pleased him to realize that he had grown taller than Talia's father.
Bane sensed Talia's presence just before he noticed the slight blur of pale color beyond the brazier, buried in the darkness. Talia's attire was almost as puzzling as his lack thereof. She wore faded gray pants beneath a lighter gray tunic that draped, unbelted and shabby, nearly to her knees. Upon her head she wore a garment reminiscent of the shemagh she had worn in prison. The last time he had seen her dressed thusly had been the day she had climbed from the pit, the day he had been attacked and mutilated. The memory and the unsettling sight distracted him, as did the concerned look upon Talia's face, as if she were about to warn him of danger. If anything, on such an occasion as this, he had expected her expression to be hopeful and encouraging. The decided lack of such emotions nearly caused Bane to speak, though Temujin had already cautioned him against saying little if anything.
Remembering himself and why he was here, Bane forced his attention back to Ducard. The man seemed unaffected by the distraction his daughter offered. In fact, Bane got the distinct impression that Ducard was pleased that he had noticed Talia.
Ducard began, "You have prepared yourself, mentally and physically, for this day. Are you ready to forsake yourself and pledge your allegiance to Rā's al Ghūl? To justice?"
"I am."
From the edge of the raised brazier, Ducard retrieved a small wooden mortar that contained an unfamiliar-looking compound. In his opposite hand, he displayed a dried blue poppy, Bhutan's national flower.
"Meconopsis grandis," Ducard said, though Bane already knew the flower's genus. "Difficult to cultivate, just as it is difficult to cultivate a true warrior. Yet here we succeed where others fail."
Depositing the flower into the bowl, Ducard crushed it to dust with a pestle. When he poured the remains along with the compound into the brazier, a pungent smoke arose.
"Breathe," Ducard crooned.
Without hesitation, Bane leaned over the brazier, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep draught of the smoke.
"Breathe in your fears. Face them."
The effect was instant, making Bane shudder, capturing his senses like a fly in a spider's web. When he opened his eyes, the world around him had become distorted, wavering. Feeling a slight touch of panic, he looked for Ducard. The man still stood before him, but his image was fuzzy, and his eyes glowed under the spell cast by the compound.
"To conquer fear," Ducard said, his voice magnified by the hallucinogen, "you must become fear. You must bask in the fear of other men. And men fear most what they cannot see." With that, Ducard drew a mask over his own face, so that only his eyes could be seen.
The faint clash of chains sounded behind Bane. He started to turn around but felt Temujin's staying hand upon his shoulder. He flinched as the cold chains draped over his bare flesh, weighing upon his shoulders, his forearms. Once they were secured, Temujin turned him.
"You will mount the posts," the Mongol spoke in his ear. "I cannot help you."
With the shadowy world shimmering around him, as if in a dream, he responded, "Then what?"
"No questions."
Before obeying, Bane looked a final time at Talia. Her shemagh now masked all but her eyes. He sensed her struggle, her desire to speak, but no doubt her muteness had been secured by her father.
Bane moved carefully, reaching a hand out to find the mezzanine railing. The atmosphere seemed heavy around him, as if he were in a crowd, yet the air remained thick with silence and isolation. Why had Ducard spoken of fear? Simply to explain the hallucinogen's effect on his senses? Or should he fear whatever test awaited him?
As Bane climbed onto the railing, the chains shifted, challenging his balance which the hallucinogen already threatened to destroy. He stepped out upon two of the thick, uneven posts then closed his eyes, calmed his breathing.
Ducard's voice seemed to echo in the atrium, amplified by the drug's influence, "What do you most fear?"
"Bane," Talia said plaintively, causing him to open his eyes and search for her beneath the overhang, beyond the brazier. But he could no longer find her. His heart began to pound, though he knew she was safe. Where had she gone? Why would she speak to him at such at time?
He shut his eyes again to find relief but instead sharp flashes attacked him. The prison. Melisande's screams as the inmates violated her, killed her. Talia's infant cries when Ramzi had stolen her from his arms in the stepwell. The smothering darkness of his punishment in the solitary pit. The warm spurt of the Vulture's blood. The roar of the men who had surrounded him during Talia's climb. The overpowering agony from their kicks and blows.
With a gasp, Bane opened his eyes, heard them, saw them, all around him now, on either side of the apparatus on which he stood. Eyes glowing blue and white. Bodies wraith-like, their black attire blurring them into the encroaching shadows. Bane wanted to look up, up to where the light lived, but he knew such a shift could jeopardize his stance. Then the first blow struck him, pulled another gasp from him as the quarterstaff drove the chains into his flesh. The second blow, this time from the opposite direction, challenged his balance. The third knocked his feet out from under him. He fell forward, his chest striking the top of an adjacent post, driving the air from his lungs. Before he could fall off, he managed to clutch the post next to him. A quarterstaff slammed down upon his fingers. Bane bit back an outcry, struggled to regain his perch.
There were six of them, three on each side, quarterstaves flashing, striking like great cobras from the gloom. The drug's influence upon Bane's sight and the uniformity and completeness of the assailants' clothing cloaked the men's identities, morphed them from his brethren to the inmates who had beaten and torn him asunder. Their battering attempted to keep him pinned, just as the prisoners had driven him beneath them to the cold stone where there was no air, no hope. Bane heard his own respiration, as he had that terrifying day, but now it was different, different because of the mask. He closed his eyes, clung to that sound, found for the first time solace and strength in it; he was not in the pit; he was not that defeated prisoner. He was a warrior.
The chains weighed him down against the post, attempting to immobilize him like the prisoners' crush. But he gathered himself, absorbed the raining blows, breathed in deeply the mask's balm, harnessed it. With a low growl, he regained his feet, the quarterstaves offering no mercy, no reprieve. The sharp crack of the wood against the chains wrapped about his torso echoed in his ears, jarred him from head to toe. His legs defied the painful strikes against them, his toes clinging to the edges of the posts.
He began to move instinctively, arms lifting, swinging in all directions, expertly blocking blow after blow, keeping them away from the chains. His feet adopted an inner rhythm, a strange dance, moving from post to post, ever shifting, able to thus avoid many of his assailants' swings. Two of his attackers leapt atop the railing, one on either side, putting themselves on the same level as their victim, closer, their weapons jabbing, trying to dislodge him. But still the dance continued. Soon two more mounted the railing, straddling the mezzanine so one leg was anchored on the handrail behind them, allowing them leverage to thrust even closer to Bane. But one was too slow, and Bane yanked the quarterstaff from his hand. He did not retain the weapon, however. Instead he let it fall to the ground beneath him so that his hands were free to disarm the next assailant who miscalculated.
Emboldened by this, Bane concentrated on one man at a time, determined to disarm his tormentors. He kept his feet moving, his arms, more by instinct than anything else. The drug still endeavored to weaken him, but he fought his way through its entanglement. With a flashing grasp, he ripped another quarterstaff from an opponent, let out a grunt of triumph as it fell away into the grayness below.
Sweat poured off him as he fought onward. He barely noticed the chains now. Instead of a hindrance, he thought of them as armor, protecting, not punishing. Soon the third quarterstaff was in his grip, but the man who wielded it would not surrender it. They tugged first one way then the other until Bane succeeded in unbalancing the man who fell forward with a small, surprised protest, glanced off one of the posts and tumbled to the earthen floor beneath the mezzanine.
Three remained, all anchored upon the railing like determined eagles. Fatigue began to scratch through Bane's adrenaline, but he reminded himself that his enemies would be just as tired as he. Now he concentrated on disarming two at a time, resolved to end this quickly. The repetitive strikes against every region of his body made each new blow that much more painful. His breathing had become labored, but the same was true of the three attackers.
Ducking one swing, Bane caught the man's quarterstaff on the follow-through, while at the same time capturing that of the single man opposite. A precarious moment of struggle as he used every ounce of strength in his muscular arms to wrest the weapons away before the third assailant could take advantage of his vulnerable stance and knock his feet from beneath him. First one, then the second, each man uttering a frustrated snarl as the quarterstaves clattered below.
The final assailant, as if sharing in the others' exasperation, increased his efforts, the quarterstaff a blur in his hands, battering Bane with fresh aggression. Time and again Bane snatched at the weapon, only to come up empty-handed. Exhaustion tried to topple him, his lungs burning, his legs starting to cramp. The drug had begun to wear off, his vision adjusting, becoming more trustworthy, accustomed to dimness, thanks to years in the pit. It was then that he realized it was Damien Chase who faced him. And with that knowledge Bane shifted his weight, stepped onto the posts farthest to Chase's right. Chase was right-handed, so his left-hand swings would not have the same power as those swinging from the right. By the American's fourth swing, Bane succeeded in capturing the quarterstaff. With a final twisting wrench, he tore the weapon from Chase's grasp, nearly pulling the man over the railing and on top of him.
Silence, broken only by his ragged gasps through the mask. Undaunted atop the posts, Bane straightened, eyes locked with Chase. There was anger in the man's surprised gaze but also begrudging respect as he dropped from the railing back to the catwalk. He was joined by the man who had fallen below the apparatus. They and the third man on this side stepped back in unison, came to attention, as did the three men on the opposite side of the mezzanine.
"Well done," came the voice of Rā's al Ghūl. He emerged from beneath the overhang, Ducard and Talia with him. The three stepped onto the crosswalk at one end of the apparatus and faced Bane. Talia had pushed her head cover back. Pride and admiration shone from her like the lanterns above, a smile struggling through her conjured decorum, her fingers kneading the railing before her, as if to keep herself from climbing out to him. All traces of her anxiety had been erased, and Bane realized now that she had merely been playing a part, one meant to draw upon his fears.
Temujin stepped to the side railing, his face also now uncovered and—like Talia—unable to conceal his delight. He offered his hand to assist Bane, but after an appreciative nod, Bane stepped from the posts to the railing then to the catwalk without aid. His legs trembled from exhaustion, but as Temujin removed the chains, he stood as straight and assured as his aching back would allow.
Rā's al Ghūl beckoned him closer. "You have earned your place among these men. Now you are truly ready to become one of us."
With a wave of his hand, he invited Bane to follow them back to the brazier. Talia and Temujin hurried to light two lanterns hanging nearby. This illuminated the small area beneath the overhang where Rā's al Ghūl stood across the brazier from Bane, Ducard to Bane's right, hands behind his back. Bane tried to decipher Ducard's reaction to his accomplishment, but the man's face was unreadable and thus disappointing to Bane.
Rā's al Ghūl removed a small iron from the brazier. The glowing coals burnished the man's heavy rings as he lifted the implement. Bane had thought the iron merely a stoker, but now he saw that it was actually a brand, small and round, displaying an obscure, angular crescent-shaped design. Bane could feel the heat emanating from the metal, but he did not balk at the idea of it being seared into his flesh. He stood straight and respectful, waited.
"All those within our ranks bear this mark as a symbol of fraternity and dedication," Rā's al Ghūl continued. "It is affixed only by the one who leads us, only by Rā's al Ghūl himself."
To Bane's great surprise, the iron was handed to Henri Ducard. For once, Bane was glad the mask hid most of his expression, yet surely his eyes reflected his shock.
Ducard tempered his complacent smile as he faced Bane. "Such knowledge of my true identity is shared only with those who have proven themselves worthy—both in trust and in physical ability." His gaze reached beyond Bane to the warriors who still stood in their silent ranks. "The men gathered here are all veterans among us and thus are fully aware of my identity. Your fellow students, however, like you before now, are to remain ignorant until they have proven themselves as you have. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You will accept this seal upon your person and thus be marked as a member of the League of Shadows. Where it is affixed is your choice, one of the few choices you will be granted from here forward."
Bane made his decision without hesitation: "I wish to wear it where all may see." With that, he knelt and bowed his head. And as the hot metal pressed against his skull, he did not flinch.