Chapter Three: Mountain

Malcolm stared at the impending peak, absorbed by an unshakeable void of vertigo. The mountain was huge. After about five hundred feet, it seemed as though even the clouds had given up, leaving a milky white trail around the apex. Quite how he had ended up from Shanghai to Tibet was uncertain, but he recalled Al-Owal offering him an opportunity to change his life. As far as Malcolm was concerned, the fact that he still clung to his bitter life was enough of a reason to follow the assassin at his word. One thing was still bugging him more than any other, though.

"Who are the League of Assassins?"

Al-Owal stopped, turning his head and offering Malcolm a canine-smile. "Exactly." The assassin had not exactly been forthright about anything, save for his apparent mercy toward Malcolm, but this level of ambiguity was starting to tick him off. "Look up ahead."

Malcolm did, and immediately wished he hadn't, remembering how he had experienced the Shanghai aeroplane flight through the guise of a bird, and now imagining said bird on fire.

"Ning Gail Tor," Al-Owal spelled, his tongue clicking to the rhythm of perfect pronunciation. "It means The Devil's Door."

Malcolm wiped away vigorously at the beads of sweat that had begun to cluster upon his forehead. "Am I supposed to be reassured?"

"No," Al-Owal retorted bluntly. "You're supposed to be afraid. Terrified. Feel that fear pushing down on you. Fear can make you stronger, but if your spirit is not strong, it can also break you. You will find out for yourself the kind of man that you are."

Malcolm blinked hard, not quite believing what the assassin had said. "You're not coming with me?"

Al-Owal snorted. "Of course not. I cannot take you to Nanda Parbat. Neither can you simply find it."

"Then how am I supposed to-"

"If you have been chosen, Mr. Merlyn," Al-Owal interrupted, clenching his teeth and bracing himself against the relentless chills of the wind. "Then Nanda Parbat will find you. Here."

The assassin tossed Malcolm a small, rounded knife. Malcolm took it in the palms of his hands, sensing an incompatibility between his reflexes and the weapon. It simply felt unbalanced, and Malcolm did not find any attachment to it, despite it being his only weapon.

As if sensing his thoughts, Al-Owal spoke. "If you are indeed chosen, then you shouldn't need it at all. Your mind is your greatest weapon. Embrace it whilst it is still sharpened."

Malcolm looked out across the barren landscape that struck out ahead of him. When he looked back for Al-Owal, he was not surprised to see that the assassin had disappeared into thin air. Over the past few days of travelling, Malcolm had become accustomed to the vanishing act. He had come to accept that all Owal's company really provided was snideness and egomania; he was far more equipped by his own merits.

Breathing deeply both from exhaustion and apprehension, Malcolm took his first step towards the mountain.

Malcolm gritted his teeth together tightly as another blast of cold air ruptured his flesh. He was practically blinded by the onslaught of the snow, covered head-to-toe as he was in the white grit.

It was at that point when Malcolm started to look back upon his decision to climb the mountain with regret. Three hours into his crucible, and he was nowhere closer to anything even slightly resembling civilisation.

Malcolm passed a snow-capped tree to his left. Eerily, it reminded him of a tree he had passed some minutes prior. And one before that. To say that he was disoriented was to understate the extent of his plight. The 'Devil's Door' was proving to be quite the immovable object.

Against the backdrop of the pounding sleet, Malcolm's ears pricked up at the sound of a high-pitched whine that seemed to come at him from all directions. Another followed seconds later, and Malcolm realised that what he was hearing was the conversation between a pack of hungry wolves.

A pack of wolves that were far too close for comfort.

Malcolm hurried on through the snow, biting down on his swollen lip with trepidation. In his haste, his foot caught on a loose patch of ice, and he tumbled onto the ground, tasting the all-too-familiar flavour of blood in his mouth. Before he could even recover his stature, he felt hot breath on the back of his neck, and turned over to be warmly greeted by the piercing yellow eyes of a shaggy black wolf. The animal bared its teeth, assessing Malcolm. He didn't dare to move for fear of failing its test - an exam where the price for failure was death.

Two more wolves arrived through the blizzard to join their compatriot. The first drew back its muzzle, its long pick tongue lashing out from within and tasting the air. The second took a determined step toward Malcolm, its eyes rested firmly upon his chest.

Malcolm took out the knife that Al-Owal had given him. At the sight of the blade, the wolf snarled, and leaped towards him. He barely had the chance to throw himself aside before the gigantic wolf skidded past him, turning quickly on its heels to counteract the evasive manoeuvre of its prey. Meanwhile, wolves one and three had appeared behind him, forming a deathly triangle. The wolves' intelligence seemed to surpass animalistic virtue, and this display only went farther to secure Malcolm's insecurity.

The wolf that Malcolm had dodged leapt up at him, its jaws poised to clamp around his throat. Malcolm swung the knife wildly, cutting the beast across its eyes, and breaking the skin. It was dead by the time it bundled into him, knocking the wind out of him and weighing him down.
As the first wolf apprehensively circled Malcolm, he strained the knife towards it, plunging it through the creatures' jaw. To his horror, although his aim had proven true, his strength had been his downfall, for he could not budge the knife.
Leaving it stuck fast in blood and bone, Malcolm heaved the other wolf's body from his torso, letting the air rush back into his lungs again. His relief was short-lived however, as the third and final wolf crashed into him, its teeth sinking into his ribs.

Malcolm twisted his mouth horribly as the agony coursed through him. The most pain he had ever experienced in his life prior to now was when he stubbed his toe whilst hoeing the Merlyn garden; better days for sure. This pain was so real, so visceral - it felt like it belonged in another world to his own. Malcolm's vision clouded murky red as the wolf tightened its grip, and he threatened to tide over into unconsciousness.

With one final rush of adrenaline, Malcolm put his hand upon the wolf's snout, searching for a critical point. Finding none apparent, Malcolm settled for a vicious jab of his thumb into its eye. Instantly, the wolf shuddered, its mouth still relentlessly bonded to his flesh. Malcolm intensified the pressure, feeling his thumb slip through into the deep crevasse of its socket, and finding himself - to his disconcertion - rather enamoured by the brutality of his action. Finally, blood ruptured from the feral beast, and its struggles ceased.

Seconds from blacking out, Malcolm prised the creatures jaws from his ribs. Enthralled by the pain, he threw his head to the sky, screaming his torment to the mountain. His head lulled, and he fell upon his side, blackened blood seeping into the white snow like a demented yin-yang. Only in the last few seconds of his consciousness did he feel the hands on his damaged skin. Either his salvation was here, or he was about to die that much quicker. The better of the two was unclear, but sometimes, ambiguity is for the best.

As he dropped out of this world, and into whatever was to come next, he only had one thought. In its own way, the mountain had answered him.

To Be Continued...

Chapter Four will contain the debut of an important DC universe character. Guess who it is :)