Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil Page A

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