Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil

fatigues came to the tailgate of the truck and barked at Bruce in a language he did not understand. In the next instant it became clear as he was thrown from the truck. As he picked himself up he watched it speed away.
    Bruce shivered; it was snowing and incredibly windy and cold. He pulled the jacket’s collar tighter around his neck and scanned his environment. There was a glacier far off in the distance, and Bruce set off in its direction. He walked for a very long time, and eventually he found himself in the foothills of the Himalayas, at the edge of a field of exquisite blue poppies. He stooped and picked one, studied it, and put it in his breast pocket. He trudged to the foot of the nearest slope and began the hike upward.
    The sun was almost directly above, and the snow and wind had increased in pitch by the time he topped a steep, twisting trail and saw a cluster of huts a few hundred yards away. He hurried toward them; he had been climbing for hours in thin, frigid air. He needed food, rest, warmth. He saw two men and a woman near one of the huts and waved to them. They scurried into the hut. He ran toward them, yelling. All the doors were closed. He pounded on one with his fist. No answer.
    Maybe the flower is some sort of signal . . .
    He took the poppy from his pocket and held it high over his head.
    “No one will help you.”
    Bruce turned: a young child, a boy around eight years old, had spoken in English and was pointing to the flower.
    “I need food,” Bruce said.
    An old man came around the corner of the closest hut, stood beside the child, and said, also in English, “Then turn back.”
    Bruce waited for the old man to say more. When he did not, Bruce continued up the mountain.
    At about midafternoon, by Bruce’s estimate, clouds had completely covered the sun and the mountainside was colder and windier. The upward slope had grown steeper and snow hit him constantly. Bruce was panting as he climbed to the top of an icy ridge. The rest of the mountain was covered in clouds, snow, and mist. Bruce clamped his teeth together to stop their chattering, but he could not control the shivers that racked his body. Wind howled down the slope, driving gusts of snow into Bruce’s face and eyes. He blinked, wiped his face on his sleeve, and struggled on.
    At the next level clearing, Bruce flopped down into the snow. The sky was almost dark and the wind felt like a razor slicing his face but he did nothing to shield himself. He was completely exhausted. He could go no farther.
    This is where it ends . . .
    Something was visible through the snow, the silhouette of . . . what? A building? Bruce rolled to his hands and knees and tried to stand. He could not; his legs refused to stay straight.
    Bruce crawled across a stone patio, making furrows in the snow behind him, and up a small flight of wide steps to a tall wooden door. He struck the wood with his fist feebly. He struck again, harder, and again, harder still. There was a creaking and a grinding sound, and the door scraped open.
    Bruce pulled himself inside and, leaning against a wall, got to his feet. He was in a huge, vaulted hall lit by torches set into iron brackets on the stone floor, forming pools of flickering firelight that melted into surrounding shadows. There were thick, supporting pillars every few yards.
    The door creaked and scraped and thudded shut.
    Bruce squinted, adjusting his sight to the semidarkness. At the far end of the hall, at least half a city block away, there was a raised platform. On it sat a robed figure, a man whose features, in the dim glow of the torches, seemed vaguely Asian, but only vaguely.
    Despite the subzero temperature outside, the long chamber was warm and humid. Bruce felt his body recovering from its ordeal as it warmed. He unbuttoned his jacket and shuffled forward.
    “Rā’s al Ghūl?” he called.
    A dozen men emerged from the shadows behind the torches. Their clothing was a mix of ethnic dress and modern combat garb.