The Edge of a Blade
Chapter 7
By Draco664
Bruce smashed his fist down on the specially reinforced workbench in the Batcave, sending a resounding thump echoing around the enormous cavern.
"A difficulty, Master Bruce?"
"An impossibility, Alfred," Bruce snapped back.
The butler's demeanour didn't change in the slightest. "You have quite often remarked in the past at how very little is actually impossible."
Bruce's shoulders slumped. "Not physically, Alfred. I swore an oath to my parents that I would fight crime when I saw it. But I also swore never to kill. And I will never kill. But-"
"I see."
"Do you?" Bruce asked.
"Indeed," Alfred replied. "Normally, incarceration is sufficient to prevent those who are a danger to the public wreaking their havoc. Time will eventually take away everyone's strength. Men such as the Joker will eventually die natural deaths, and cease to be a burden on society." Alfred placed a tray with a hot meal in front of his employer. "An Immortal criminal, on the other hand, will not succumb to time's grasp. Putting such a person in prison merely transfers the danger of his presence from one generation to the next."
Bruce nodded slowly. "Yes, but now, I'm put in a position where I need to work with a man who has no qualms in killing. If I don't stop this Damien, then he will try. If I fail, one of them will die."
Alfred set out the silver cutlery on each side of the steaming plates. "Perhaps. You've stood back and let others kill before. Just recently in Babylon Towers, you allowed Commissioner Gordon to shoot and kill a man crazed with the Clench."
"Standing by and allowing Jim to put a dying man out of his misery is a far cry from assisting a man intent on murdering my suspect," Bruce snapped back.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, the only difference is that the man was already dying. The Clench victim would have shot both of you given the chance."
"That man was crazed, he was out of his mind."
"Again, with all due respect, one could make the argument that believing that cutting off other person's heads gives you their powers also puts one out of his mind."
Bruce rubbed his eyes, then massaged his temples. With a sigh, he dropped into his chair, and softly chuckled. "Remind me never to argue with you."
Alfred gave him a small smile. "One would already have thought that you would have learned not to by now," Alfred said serenely, pushing the full tray in front of Bruce. "Now, eat. You need to keep your strength up."
"I also need to keep an eye on Mr. Macleod for the next few days. I can't afford to have him evade me."
Alfred frowned briefly, but then smiled. "Leave that to me." He pressed a button on the massive panel in front of the primary screen, and seconds later Oracle appeared. "Yes, Alfred?"
"Would you be so kind as to supply me with Mr. Macleod's- I'm sorry, Mr. Nash's business details?"
The elegant, early-twentieth century phone tingled gently. Rachel Ellenstein daintily picked up the receiver. "Nash Antiques."
A pleasant, English accented voice spoke. "Good morning. May I speak with Mr. Russell Nash?"
"I'm afraid Mr. Nash is away on business at the moment. May I help you?"
"What is your name, dear lady?"
"Rachel. Rachel Ellenstein."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ellenstein, yes you may indeed be able to assist me. My name is Alfred Pennyworth. How do you do?"
Rachel smiled at the elegant manners the caller exhibited. "Miss Ellenstein, and I am quite well, Mr. Pennyworth, thank you," she replied, her own English accent unconsciously becoming more refined.
"I do apologise, Miss Ellenstein. Ah, it is exquisite to speak to someone who has obviously been educated at a civilised establishment. As much as I would dearly love to spend all day conversing with someone of your breeding, I am afraid, however, that time forces me to rather crudely bring myself to the point of this call. My employer, a Mister Wayne of Gotham City, recently uncovered a great many artefacts and family heirlooms. Items he wishes to have catalogued and appraised."
Rachel shifted the receiver to her other ear and picked up a pen. "To what period do these artefacts belong, Mr. Pennyworth?"
The man sounded amused. "Master Bruce was rather hoping Mr. Nash would be able to tell him. Perhaps I should divulge a little more information. You are aware that Gotham City recently suffered a rather powerful earthquake?"
Rachel sighed. "Yes. The way the city was treated afterwards was simply barbaric. No civilised society would dream of treating their own in such a fashion." She blinked as she made the connection. "Mister Bruce Wayne? Of the Wayne Foundation?"
"Indeed. Fortunately for Master Bruce, his family estate is located outside of Gotham City proper, and was not considered part of No Man's Land. The mansion itself was destroyed in the initial disturbance, and it was only afterwards, when rebuilding began, that it became apparent that numerous treasure troves of items had been hoarded by members of the Wayne family in various attics. Many were, of course, damaged beyond repair, but a great number were salvageable."
"And Mr. Wayne was hoping that Mr. Nash could help in the identification of these pieces," Rachel finished.
"Precisely, Miss Ellenstein. Master Bruce always prefers to use the best, and Mr. Nash comes most highly recommended. For him to have retained someone of your obvious breeding speaks greater than words of his character."
Rachel flushed with the praise. "Mr. Pennyworth, I'm quite sure you could talk the birds down from the trees."
"I'm horrified to think that you believe my words were anything but sincere praise, my dear lady."
Rachel couldn't help but smile. "Sir, I shall take them as such. And by good fortune, Mr. Nash's business has taken him to Gotham City."
"How remarkably fortunate."
"Although I have no way of contacting Mr. Nash directly, he does call me regularly. If you would care to leave your contact details, I shall get him to speak with you directly."
"Thank you again, my dear. Please let Mr. Nash know that a suite at Wayne Manor will be waiting for him, should he accept my employer's invitation."
Rachel's eyebrows shot up. "I believe Mr. Nash is staying in one of the prominent hotels in Gotham City, Mr. Pennyworth. There is no need to prepare accommodations for him."
"Miss Ellenstein, perhaps I haven't been clear as to the magnitude of the contract. There are several thousand pieces Master Bruce would have catalogued. Requiring someone of Mr. Nash's credentials to commute for several days is simply not something a true gentleman would tolerate."
Rachel's smile widened. "Mr. Pennyworth, I'm sure Mr. Nash will be delighted to assist you. I shall ensure he contacts you momentarily."
"My dear lady, it has been an absolute pleasure to speak with you. Should you wish to join Mr. Nash in Gotham City, it would make me delighted, proud and honoured to make your acquaintance."
Bruce watched as Alfred hung up the phone. With the aplomb of someone who knows the difference between duty and need, he turned to face his employer. "I have organised for Mr. Nash to spend a great deal of time at Wayne Manor for the next few weeks. It should be elementary to follow his movements from there."
Bruce looked from Alfred to Oracle and back again. "That would never have occurred to me."
"Me either," added Oracle. "Alfred, you realise that it is incredibly bad manners to lie to someone?"
Alfred's expression turned almost haughty. "Naturally. However, I was not lying. It is easier to convince someone if your praise is genuine. I would indeed enjoy meeting such a well breed young lady."
Bruce glanced up at Oracle. "Would you do me a favour?"
"Sure. What's up?"
"I need you to search for a needle in a massive haystack."
"Sounds boring."
Bruce nodded. "I'm not sure if it can be done. I need you to try and find out information on a group that call themselves 'Watchers'. They have something to do with these Immortals, and probably have some sort of mark or tattoo on the inside of their left wrist."
Oracle blinked; Alfred raised his eyebrows. "That's pretty specific. I reviewed the recording you made of your conversation with Macleod. Nothing like that came up."
Bruce shook his head absently. "No, when we faced off in the alley he asked me if I was a 'Watcher', and glanced down at my wrist. Given their name, I'm hoping that they will have more information than I was given. Macleod was hiding something."
Damien silently slithered into his new home, recently occupied by a college professor who recently began a sabbatical. In the darkness he hunted, searching the house for signs of recent activity. Finding none, he relaxed, but still drew his blade. The body of the professor was stored safely in the deep freezer, ready to be used as needed to cover for Damien's death when he torched the place.
Suppressing a shout, Damien began his daily callisthenics, slowly building up the intensity of his exercises until he was fighting an imaginary foe with every joule of energy. For several long minutes the evil Immortal went through his kata, his sword slicing through the air like the Grim Reaper's scythe.
Bit by bit, Damien allowed himself to slow. His movements became more relaxed, more fluid, lacking the intensity and passion of the previous minutes. Eventually, half an hour after he began, he stopped completely, his breathing deep and even. Stripping off his clothes, he walked into the bathroom and ran a shower.
Standing under the freezing cold water stream, Damien pondered the night's events. Macleod's appearance was interesting, and a fortunate bonus. He had no idea it the Lady Chantelle's instructor had been the Highlander. It almost made up for the fact that he had been completely wrong about the Batman. Gently, the Immortal rested his forehead against the tiled wall, allowing the cold water to run from the nape of his neck down his back.
Without the prospect of attaining the powers of the legendary Batman, there seemed little point in remaining in such a dangerous city. The Batman's followers had managed to track him from his arrival point within hours, and his previous two hideouts had been discovered faster than Damien would have believed possible.
He was still well ahead of those hunting him, however. And besides, hunting an Immortal and surviving the encounter were skills few mortals had.
No, the prize to be taken in Gotham was gone; the only Quickening left to take that was worth the risk of staying was Macleod's. The damned Scot had been an annoyance for nearly four hundred years. It was time to get rid of him.
Connor opened the door to his tiny motel room and entered quietly, gently closing the door behind him and engaging the many locks, bolts and chains. While he certainly had the funds to stay at the most expensive hotel in the city, those establishments frowned upon registrations to people who would prefer to remain anonymous. The places that took cash with an alias were not in the better parts of town. He opened his overcoat and tossed his sword down onto the bed.
He turned the lights on and quickly examined his room, noting that no one had entered in the time he had been gone. He sniffed lightly and grimaced; not even the cleaning lady had been. Connor sat down on the lumpy bed and kicked off his sneakers without bothering to undo the laces. He looked down at his feet and noted that his socks had developed holes at the toes. Again. Hardly anything lasted more than a few years these days, something keenly noticed by someone nearly five hundred years old.
He picked up his katana from the bed beside him and carefully examined the deep chink in the ancient blade with a sigh. This wasn't something a series of graded whetstones could fix. The damage was severe enough that he'd have to remove the hilt from the blade and use his blacksmithing skills to repair it. Unfortunately, forges were difficult to come by in Gotham City, especially ones that generated the amount of heat Connor required. The run-down motel he was staying in anonymously was exceedingly unlikely to have such a facility.
The Highlander shook his head. It was a crime. The blade was two and a half thousand years old, and had withstood every test thrown at it in that time. Only the Kurgan had defeated its wielder, and even then the sword had drawn a price. The Russian warrior still couldn't speak properly. Connor lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, letting himself drift back in history, remembering the past.
The icy spray of the Atlantic ocean half froze in Captain Carruthers' beard, as he fought to outrun the naval vessels chasing him. His gunrunning activities had finally caught up with him.
Adrian Montague rose unsteadily to his feet again on Boston Common, after unknowingly being run through by Monsieur Basset's rapier. Even though Basset's wife looked like a bloated warthog, Basset himself should be around here somewhere. He pushed his enormous powdered wig out of his eyes, blinking in the sudden light. "Basset? Is that you?"
A warrior of the Frazer clan was pushed backwards towards the Macleod priest, Father Rainey. The holy man drew a small, but serviceable knife and swiftly cut the man's throat, before forming the sign of the cross, praying for the newly departed soul.
The wooden ship exploded, destroying the life of Connor's old seadog friend, Captain Carmichael. The Immortal Khordas once again celebrated the birthday of his wife, by wreaking fiery vengeance. Duncan would eventually hunt down and kill the insane Immortal, but not before more of Connor's friends had been killed by the self-proclaimed god of fire.
A petrified young noblewoman stared down at the crude dagger plunged into her chest. The sight of the partially dried and sticky blood that surrounded the wound pushed her into outright panic, the dagger's hilt trembling in time with her rapidly beating heart. The Highlander gently comforted the newly awoken Immortal, again taking on a student who would die before her time because of his failure as a teacher.
A few hours later, the phone next to the grubby bed rang, startling his eyes open, forcing him back to the present. Connor debated ignoring it, not in the mood for chit chat, but reached out and picked it up. "Hmm?"
"Um, out of state call for Mister, er, Adrian Montague."
Connor frowned at the use of an alias he had discarded centuries ago. "Put it through," he said softly, grasping the hilt of his sword in reflex.
A click followed, and there was silence for a few seconds. Another click, and a familiar voice came through. "Hello, Father."
Connor relaxed. "Rachel? I asked you not to call me while I was in Gotham."
"I know, but I've just had a conversation with the most remarkable man."
Connor chuckled in his soft, breathy style. "You're old enough not to need my permission to date," he told his daughter. She had graduated from Yale in 1957.
Her voice became stern. "He has a commission for you."
Connor blinked in surprise, but listened as his adopted daughter laid out the invitation.
Alfred set out the step-ladder, and carefully climbed to the top, allowing him access to the high mantle below the family portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Gently, he ran a duster along the portrait frame's base, and then began dusting the china vases on the mantle.
A deep gong reverberated throughout the mansion, causing Alfred to pause his dusting. With a sigh, he carefully stepped down the stepladder and placed the ostrich-feather duster on one of the ladder's steps. He removed his apron and draped it over another step, then turned and made his way quickly to the front doors.
He opened the right-most of the double doors, revealing a slim man wearing an overcoat and a large suitcase next to him. He was exactly as Master Bruce had described. A taxi cab with its engine running sat on the gravel driveway. "Mr. Russell Nash, I presume?"
Connor smiled. "Yes, that's right. Please forgive me for turning up unannounced."
"Goodness, no, there is nothing to forgive. Please, do come in. I shall fetch your luggage momentarily." Alfred waved to the cab driver, indicating that all was well. The cab drove off, spraying white gravel off the perfectly raked driveway.
"Thank you," Connor replied, moving past Alfred and into the main reception hall.
Alfred picked up the suitcase, noting that it had obviously been in use for quite some time. "This way, please sir. I shall take you to your room."
"Thank you," Connor said again, following the butler. As the pair made their way to the guest wing, Connor admired the newly rebuilt mansion, seamlessly combining the original elegant styling with state of the art materials, insulation and security.
Alfred took him to the prepared suite, placing the suitcase inside the door. "Your suite, sir. The ensuite is through there," he said, gesturing through an open door to a bathroom three times the size of his recently vacated hotel room. "The sitting room and parlour are through there, opposite," Alfred continued, gesturing to each room. "The sitting room opens onto a balcony which faces west, and I can assure you the sunsets are breathtaking."
Connor nodded. "I'm sure they are."
Alfred gave a small bow. "Unless there is anything else you require of me, I shall leave you to become accustomed to your rooms. Should you require my services, simply give the bellpull there a tug, and I shall be along momentarily. Dinner is served at seven, I shall send along someone to escort you to the dining room. Will that be all?"
Conner blinked at the calm efficiency of the man. "I thought I was to begin cataloguing his pieces?"
"That can wait until tomorrow, Mr. Nash. Master Bruce prefers to meet personally with those he commissions before work commences. The pieces have been waiting for so long, another day would not cause undue alarm."
Connor smiled at the dry humour. "Very well. Thank you, I shall see him at dinner."
Alfred nodded. "Dinner at the Manor is usually a casual affair, please do not feel the need to dress up." He gave another slight bow, and left the room.
Connor looked around, studying the subtle opulence displayed in the room. The trimmings were made to look old, but were obviously brand new. Probably based on the original furnishings, he mused.
The sitting room was as large as it was comfortable. Dozens of shelves lined the walls opposite the balcony, filled with tomes and texts of all descriptions. Connor smiled, and selected one he hadn't read. This would be a most enjoyable commission.
It was a disgruntled Timothy who put on a suit and a fake smile, and led Connor down to the dining room. The teen indicated the place set for 'Mr. Nash', and left to give Alfred a hand.
Connor glanced around the room, dominated by the massive mahogany table stretching for at least fifteen metres. While not as impressive as some of the royal tables Connor had seen in the past, it was eye-catching none the less. The two places set were opposite each other, but across the relatively slim table width at one end, rather than one at each end.
Bruce stood next to the fire, leaning on the high marble mantelpiece, a small glass of sherry in one hand. He turned to face Connor. "Mr. Nash, so good of you to accept my invitation. Bruce Wayne," he introduced himself, holding out his hand.
Connor took it and gave it a firm shake. "Russell Nash. Please, call me Russ. And I'm delighted to be here."
Bruce nodded. "Thanks Russ. And please, call me Bruce." He took a couple of steps towards a sideboard. "Sherry?"
Connor nodded, accepting a tiny glass from Bruce. "Thank you. You live in a very impressive home."
Bruce looked around the room as if he'd never seen it before. "Yes, I suppose I do. I was almost crushed when my father's mansion was destroyed in the earthquake. I made it a point to build it again, better than before."
Connor tilted his head to one side. "Your father's mansion?"
Bruce gave Connor a sad smile. "I wasn't even a teenager when my parent's were murdered. Even though it has been decades since their deaths, I still referred to the old mansion as my father's," he said, his voice trailing off.
Connor nodded, and took a sip of his drink, realising that Bruce needed a few moments to compose himself.
Alfred appeared in the entranceway to the dining room, carrying a massive silver platter with two steaming bowls of soup. "Dinner is served."
Throughout the rest of the meal, the pair chatted away over inconsequential things. Sporting results, literary preferences and artwork featured in their conversation. Connor found himself opening up to the charismatic billionaire, who appeared as down to earth and honourable as his cousin Duncan. As Alfred removed the desert plates and placed a platter of fruit and nuts in their place, Bruce leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"I'll never get tired of that man's cooking."
Connor sighed in contentment too. "I agree, you are fortunate to have someone so skilled who is so devoted to you."
"Russ, I'm glad to have invited you here. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you to your own devices soon, I have a function for the Wayne Foundation that I need to attend."
Connor waved his hand dismissively. "Go, Bruce, go. I've discovered a number of books in the sitting room off my suite that have caught my attention. If I discover many more, I may take a little longer than is strictly necessary to catalogue your pieces," he said with a smile."
Bruce chuckled appreciatively. "Russ, you are more than welcome to stay as long as you like. If you still haven't read all that tickle your fancy by the time you are done, by all means let Alfred know and I'm sure he'll organise for you to borrow any books you like."
Before the sun was completely over the horizon, Connor was up and about, ready to begin his work. Alfred had come to fetch him, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie at six in the morning, something that bemused the Immortal. Connor was led to an enormous hall where thousands of items were carefully packed into boxes.
Connor gently lifted the hessian covering from the first box, and looked down at the varied collection of items below. A few he picked up and discarded as being worthless, many he put aside for further study. A couple, he examined closely, and reverently placed into a separate container.
For the next few hours, Alfred watched him closely, remaining on hand should he be needed. It was obvious that the Immortal knew what he was doing. Each of the valuable pieces Alfred had taken from the mansion and seeded amongst the dross had been selected quickly and separated from the rest.
Connor picked the next item up, and frowned. Alfred glanced at the twisted piece of rusted metal, wondering why it engendered such interest. Finally, the Immortal spoke. "This is part of an old stirrup. The saddle it was attached to would be over a hundred years old. What is this doing in with these items?" he asked Alfred.
Alfred reached out and took the rusty, oddly shaped piece of metal. "Ah, that, and a few other pieces, were recovered from the remains of the old stables. I believe this pile over here contains most of what was discovered there after the earthquake."
Conner ran his eye over the indicated box, pausing as he spotted something of interest. With widened eyes, he withdrew some rust-covered blacksmithing tools. "Where are these from?"
Alfred frowned slightly. "The same building, sir," he replied, again wondering why the old tools were of such interest.
"These stables, did they have a forge?"
Alfred nodded after a moment of thought. "Yes, I understand so. Master Bruce's great-grandfather was an avid horseman, and did his own shoeing, I am given to believe."
Connor smiled. "Might I examine that forge, Mr. Pennyworth? I was taught the rudiments of blacksmithing when I was young."
Alfred nodded. "I shall be delighted to escort you there."
Connor nodded in response. "Thank you. No rush, I imagine I'll be spending some time here."
The next night, Connor informed Alfred that he would like to wander around the extensive manor grounds, and made his way indirectly to the old stables. With a wistful smile, he began preparations to use the old facilities. The old stables had survived the earthquake surprisingly intact. The forge itself escaped the quake unscathed.
Though the last coal delivery had been over a century before, there was still a half-full store of bone-dry briquettes left over from the last time the forge had been used. It took Connor a couple of hours to prepare the forge and file the rust away from the tools he needed to use, but finally, the familiar cherry-red glow of heated steel lit up the inside of the stables.
Connor selected a hammer and placed his glowing katana blade on the anvil, holding it with a pair of tongs. With steady, rhythmic strikes, he set about repairing the damaged sword.
Batman watched in fascination at a master smith at work. The Immortal had obviously been trained not only in traditional blacksmithing, but also on the then-secret method of forging the blade of a samurai sword. He worked quickly, and skilfully, without a break.
Finally, after a few hours, Macleod quenched the repaired, glowing blade in a horse trough filled with stagnant water. He wiped a forearm across his brow and rolled his shoulders, obviously stretching. Batman decided to make his presence known.
"Impressive. When did you learn smithing?"
The only reaction Connor gave to the surprise he felt was the subtle quickening of his breath. "Mister Bat. Most people would ask where I learned to smith. How did you find me?"
"I told you some people call me Detective."
"You didn't answer."
Batman regarded him thoughtfully. "There are only eight serviceable forges in the entire city where you could repair your sword. Only three allow the privacy to do so unnoticed and uninterrupted. I placed bugs at each."
"You're good." he turned back and withdrew the blade from the slimy water. "My first father-in-law taught me smithing; in 1537," he said, carefully wiping the blade.
Batman watched him attached the hilt back to the blade. "Why quench it in stagnant water?"
"Low oxygen content. Makes it less prone to rusting."
Batman watched in silence as Connor reattached the blade to the cleverly embossed hilt. Carefully, he checked the balance, hefting and swinging the sword through a few routines. The blade cut through the air as though brand new.
"Will the blade be able to stand up to Damien's sword?" Batman asked.
Connor shook his head. "Probably not. If it could put such a flaw in it after just one strike..."
"I examined traces of it from the first victim's sword. Unless made by the same methods using the same materials, I don't think there is a sword made on this planet that would stand up to it."
Connor grunted. "Then I don't suppose you have a sword that was made on a different planet?"
A long, slow smile gradually appeared on Batman's face.