The Dark Knight Legend Read online

  THE DARK KNIGHT LEGEND

  JUNIOR NOVEL

  FROM THE FILMS

  BATMAN BEGINS AND THE DARK KNIGHT

  ADAPTED BY STACIA DEUTSCH

  SCREENPLAYS BY

  JONATHAN NOLAN, CHRISTOPHER NOLAN,

  AND DAVID S. GOYER

  STORIES BY

  CHRISTOPHER NOLAN

  AND DAVID S. GOYER

  BATMAN CREATED BY BOB KANE

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  Photo Insert

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Bruce and his friend Rachel were playing hide-and-seek. Rachel knew her way around the large, rambling Wayne estate because her mother was its housekeeper. But Bruce still had places where Rachel wouldn’t find him.

  Beyond the greenhouse, there was an old stone well that hadn’t been used in years. A few feet below the lip of the well was a platform of strong boards—just enough room for him to disappear.

  Bruce didn’t want to make a sound as he hopped into the well.

  Crack!

  Bruce shrieked as he plunged into the darkness and landed hard at the bottom of the pit.

  His leg throbbed. Far above, he could hear Rachel screaming for him and he wished she’d hurry.

  A frenzy of muffled screeching and movement filled Bruce with fear. The creatures that crowded the cavern had angry eyes and teeth like needles and they descended on him in an explosion of black. . . .

  When Bruce awoke, it was night. Only Alfred, the family’s butler, was in his room. “Took quite a fall, didn’t we?” Alfred asked in his light cockney accent. “And why do we fall, Master Bruce?”

  Bruce winced. He knew the answer but was unwilling to reply.

  Alfred gave a patient smile, and answered the question himself. “So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up.”

  His leg aching, Bruce closed his eyes and nodded.

  When his broken bone had healed, Bruce and his parents took the train into the city. The family stopped for a moment under the vaulted glass ceiling of Wayne Station. Everything in Gotham City—even the great Wayne Tower that rose above them in the center of it all—seemed to bear Bruce’s last name. Bruce was proud of his family and what they had done for Gotham.

  He did not love the opera his family was attending in honor of his mother’s birthday, however. The music was interesting, and Bruce liked the witches gathered around the smoky cauldron. But the bats bursting from a hole on the stage were an unwelcome surprise.

  Bruce knew they were fake, but it didn’t matter. He felt light-headed. He could feel the claws. . . .

  Grabbing his father’s arm, Bruce begged, “Can we go?”

  His father guided the family out of the theater through a side exit.

  “Bruce, what’s wrong?” his mother asked as they entered the alley.

  “I just needed a bit of air, Martha,” his father quickly cut in. “A bit of opera goes a long way. Right, Bruce?”

  Bruce was grateful for his father’s excuse. He wanted to be strong, but it was just so difficult. His father gave Bruce a wink, and together they walked toward the main street.

  A man suddenly appeared from the shadows. “Wallet! Jewelry!” He waved a gun.

  Bruce froze; his knees locked.

  “That’s fine, just take it easy.” The elder Wayne calmly handed Bruce his coat, then pulled out his wallet and handed it to the man.

  The thief’s hands were shaking, his eyes wild. “I said jewelry!” He reached forward for Bruce’s mother’s birthday gift, a beautiful strand of pearls.

  Her husband stepped in front of her quickly. “Hey, just a—”

  Bang!

  Bruce flinched as his father slumped to the ground.

  “Thomas!” Bruce’s mother screamed, trying to hold her husband up. “Thomas!”

  “Give me that necklace!” the man shouted.

  Bang!

  His mother lurched, and then fell. The thief grabbed at her necklace, but pearls clattered onto the pavement.

  Bruce stared at the killer’s face. He memorized every wrinkle and hard edge. The man paused briefly, and then ran away to the street.

  Bruce sank to his knees beside his parents.

  The next few days were a blur. A detective named James Gordon promised to capture the killer. Richard Earle, Thomas Wayne’s second-in-command at Wayne Enterprises, assured Bruce that the business would be waiting for him when he grew up. For an eight-year-old, that seemed very far away, and not at all real.

  Bruce couldn’t stop thinking about that night at the opera. “It was my fault,” he told Alfred. “I made them leave the theater. If I hadn’t gotten scared . . .”

  Alfred comforted Bruce. “No,” he said. “Nothing you did—nothing anyone ever did—can excuse that man. It’s his fault, and his alone. Do you understand?”

  Bruce sobbed. “I miss them, Alfred. I miss them so much!”

  “So do I, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied. “So do I.”

  ONE

  After his parents’ deaths, Bruce went away for school, and he didn’t come back to Gotham until twelve years later. He had grown into a bitter, angry young man.

  “You will be in the master bedroom, of course,” Alfred said as Bruce settled in for the night at Wayne Manor. “It is, after all, your house.”

  Bruce did not like the idea of staying in his parents’ room. “This isn’t my house, Alfred. It’s a mausoleum. A reminder of everything I lost. When I have my way, I’ll pull the thing down brick by brick.”

  Alfred turned to face him. It was the first time Bruce had ever seen him angry. “This house, Master Wayne, has sheltered six generations of the Wayne family. It has stood by patiently while you’ve cavorted in and out of a dozen private schools and colleges. As have I. The Wayne family legacy is not so easily shrugged off.”

  Bruce replied softly, “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”

  “Master Wayne,” Alfred replied, “your father was a great man, but I have every confidence that you will exceed his greatness.”

  Bruce sighed. “Haven’t given up on me yet?” he asked.

  Alfred’s answer was instant and unwavering. “Never.”

  At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, Alfred went down to welcome Rachel Dawes.

  Now assistant district attorney, Rachel was going to drive Bruce to the release hearing for his parents’ killer, a small-time criminal named Joe Chill. Bruce had been planning for this day for years.

  Bruce wrapped his jacket tightly around him and ran down to meet Rachel. “You look well,” he said, stepping outside.

  Pulling his gaze away from her face, Bruce asked, “Why is your boss letting Chill out of jail? My parents’ killer . . .”

  “In prison he shared a cell with Carmine Falcone, the mob boss,” Rachel tried to explain. “He learned things, and he’ll testify against Falcone in exchange for early parole.”

  A
deal. Bruce could not believe that the man who had taken away his childhood was going to be set free because of some terrible deal.

  He seethed with so much rage during the hearing, he had to leave the courtroom. Afterward, heading home, Bruce felt numb. “My parents deserved justice.”

  Rachel swerved off the highway, taking Bruce into a neighborhood he barely recognized. Years ago it had been a nice part of town. Now the streets were potholed, the buildings boarded up. Hollow-eyed senior citizens sat on the stoops, as shady young men worked deals on street corners.

  “You care about justice?” Rachel asked him. “Look beyond your own pain, Bruce. This city is rotting. Chill is not the cause; he’s the effect. Corruption is killing Gotham. Falcone carries on flooding our city with crime and drugs—creating new Joe Chills. Falcone may not have killed your parents, Bruce, but he’s destroying everything they stood for.”

  From there Rachel took Bruce straight to the Gotham Harbor docks. She parked near an unmarked door. Music blared from a basement club as a bouncer eyed them threateningly.

  “They all know where to find Falcone,” Rachel said. “But no one will touch him, because he keeps the bad people rich and the good people scared. What chance does Gotham have when the good people do nothing?”

  Bruce got out of the car, and Rachel drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk.

  Bruce went into the nightclub and waited to confront Gotham’s mob boss.

  “The little rich kid,” Falcone said, eyeing Bruce with amusement. The bouncer knocked Bruce to the ground. Falcone stood over him. “You don’t belong down here, kid. We don’t play fair. You miss your mommy and daddy? Come down here again—I’ll send you to them.”

  Falcone’s goon threw Bruce outside. He struggled to his feet and staggered along the docks.

  Bruce looked around. Workers were loading cargo onto a freighter about to depart. Quickly taking a wad of money from his wallet, Bruce handed it all to a homeless man. “Sell me your jacket.”

  The shocked man removed his raggedy coat. Then Bruce handed the man the dress coat he had been wearing, with all his money. He then dropped his empty wallet—and his tie—into the homeless man’s fire.

  He no longer wanted to be Bruce Wayne. He needed to become someone else. There were things Bruce needed to learn.

  He slipped into the tattered jacket and headed toward the freighter. . . .

  TWO

  Bruce traveled the world for years searching for answers. It somehow seemed right that he ended up in a miserable prison half a world away from Gotham City.

  The guard led Bruce to his cell and threw him onto the floor before slamming the door shut.

  “These men have mistaken you for a criminal, Mr. Wayne,” a voice said in the darkness. Bruce spun around to see who was speaking.

  The man was well dressed. “My name is Henri Ducard, but I speak for Rā’s al Ghūl. Have you heard the name?”

  Bruce replied, “I’ve heard the legends—master warrior, international mercenary, feared by all the underworld. Some even swear he’s immortal.”

  “You have not escaped his notice,” Ducard said. “Rā’s al Ghūl and his League of Shadows offer a path to those who are capable of upholding our code.”

  “Code?” Bruce asked. “Aren’t you criminals?”

  “A criminal is simply a man who someone else thinks should be put in jail.” Ducard gestured outward, toward the prison guards. “Our code respects only the natural order of things. We’re not bound by their hypocrisy. Are you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ducard walked to the cell door and knocked sharply. Instantly a guard pulled it open. “Tomorrow you will be released,” Ducard said, pausing in the doorway. “A blue, double-bloomed poppy grows on the eastern slope of this mountain. If you can carry the flower to the top, you may find what you are looking for.”

  “And what am I looking for?” Bruce asked.

  Ducard replied, “Purpose.”

  On the slope, exactly where Ducard had said, a field of blue poppies stretched to the horizon. Bruce picked one, looked up toward the mountain’s icy peak and began walking. With each mile Bruce felt farther from—not closer to—the top.

  When he finally entered the monastery at the peak, Bruce found a robed figure seated atop a platform. “Rā’s al Ghūl?” Bruce rasped.

  Ninja warriors stepped from the shadows, bows and swords primed. Shaking, Bruce held out the poppy.

  Rā’s al Ghūl began to speak in his native language, as Ducard stepped into the light and translated: “We will help you conquer your fear. In exchange you will renounce the cities of man. You will live in solitude. You will be a member of the League of Shadows.” Ducard took the flower and inserted it into Bruce’s lapel. “Are you ready to begin?”

  Before Bruce could answer, Ducard kicked him to the floor. Bruce fought back, but he was no match for his opponent. He had a fighter’s determination, but not the skill.

  Days later, Ducard led his student to the edge of a frozen lake, where he handed Bruce a sword and a long silver glove with sharp hooks—a protective gauntlet.

  They circled each other, the wind blowing harshly in Bruce’s ear.

  Ducard struck first, but Bruce parried with his gauntlet, leaping away.

  Below him the ice cracked.

  “Mind your surroundings,” Ducard warned. “Always.”

  Bruce lunged—but Ducard blocked with his gauntlet, catching Bruce’s thrust in his hooks. “Your parents’ deaths were not your fault,” he said, wrenching the sword from Bruce’s grip and flinging it away. “They were your father’s. He failed to act.”

  This comment enraged Bruce. He leaped at Ducard’s throat—but Ducard ducked away, grabbing Bruce by his tunic. “The man had a gun!” Bruce growled.

  “The will to take control is everything,” Ducard said. “Your father trusted his city, its logic. He thought he understood the attacker and could simply give him what he wanted.”

  No, thought Bruce. It wasn’t my father’s fault. He pushed away from Ducard.

  “Your father did not understand the forces of decay,” Ducard continued. “Cities like Gotham are in their death throes—chaotic, grotesque, beyond saving.”

  “Beyond saving?” Bruce asked. “You believe that?”

  Ducard gazed out over the stark whiteness of the landscape. “It is not right that one must come so far to see the world as it is meant to be—pure, serene, solitary. These are the qualities we hold dear. But the important thing is whether you believe it. Can Gotham be saved, or is she an ailing ancestor whose time has run out?” With a sudden motion, Ducard struck with his sword.

  Bruce grabbed the sword and swung a low, swift blow at Ducard’s feet.

  Ducard jumped, but not quickly enough, slipping to the ice. Bruce stood over him, touching the tip of his sword to Ducard’s throat. “Yield,” he said.

  “You haven’t beaten me. You’ve sacrificed sure footing for a killing stroke.” Calmly Ducard tapped his sword near Bruce’s feet.

  Crack!

  Bruce fell through the surface, into the black water beneath.

  Having endured years of training, Bruce was finally to be inducted into the League of Shadows. The ceremony was to take place in the monastery’s throne room. He wore a black ninja uniform, as did his teacher.

  In a mortar on the altar, Ducard ground the dried poppy flower that Bruce had picked on his trek up the mountain. He poured the dust carefully into a small burner and lit it. “Drink in your fears,” Ducard said as the smoke rose in silvery wisps. “Face them.”

  Bruce inhaled the foul smoke. He began to have flashbacks—the bats, his parents’ deaths, Chill, Falcone. Bruce was afraid.

  “To conquer fear, you must become fear,” said Ducard. “You must bask in the fear of other men . . . and men fear most what they cannot see.”

  Ducard put on a mask and motioned for Bruce to d
o the same. Around them men stepped out of the darkness—dozens of them, identically masked and cloaked. “It is not enough to be a man,” Ducard called out. “You must become an idea. A terrible thought. A wraith.”

  Ducard swung his sword at Bruce’s head. With quick reflexes Bruce leaped safely away.

  “Face your fear . . .” Ducard’s voice was distant, ghostly. Bruce approached a nearby chest and carefully lifted the lid.

  Whoosh.

  Hundreds of bats burst upward, shrieking, clawing at Bruce’s face. He hid himself among the ninjas.

  In the shadow of the bats, Ducard attacked again. “Become one with the darkness, Bruce Wayne,” he said, placing his sword against a cloaked throat. “You cannot leave any sign.”

  A voice behind him replied, “I haven’t.”

  Ducard whirled around in surprise. The ninja at the tip of his blade was not Bruce Wayne. Bruce had fooled him. Ducard was pleased.

  In the center of the room, near a burning candle, Rā’s al Ghūl appeared. “We have purged your fear. You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows.”

  “By blowing out this candle,” Ducard continued, “you renounce your mortal life. You renounce forever the cities of man. You dedicate your life to solitude.”

  Bruce leaned forward obediently, and then eyed the sea of silent disciples. “Where will I be leading these men?”

  “To Gotham,” Ducard replied. “You yourself are a victim of Gotham’s decay. That is why you came here, and that is why you must go back. You will assume the mantle of your birthright. As Gotham’s favored son, you will be ideally placed.”