Gate Fifty-Four
Authors' note: Hey everyone. The last chapter of Brothers in Arms, part one. Check the note after this chapter for details about future updates, thanks, and other stuff. The soundtrack to this chapter provided the title to the fic, and is one of Dru's all-time favourite songs. If you have it on hand, listen to it, it's very LotR-themed. Enjoy.
Soundtrack: Brothers In Arms (Dire Straits)
These mist-covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms.
Through these fields of destruction
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms
There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones
Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms.
Felix froze. His eyes had widened just a tiny bit, but otherwise he didn't twitch. A few feet away, Sam's hand had stopped dead, two inches away from his knife.
The rest of the group had halted in similar attitudes; Adam's hand had reached his gun, but he slowly eased it away. The automatic remained at his hip.
Peter was the first to speak. "Why?" he said, disbelief and pain warring in his voice. "What the hell are you doing, Trish?"
"I should have thought it was rather obvious," the little girl stated matter-of-factly. The ball of energy pulsed, and grew larger. "First, I'm going to kill him. Then-" she smiled sweetly to the rest of us, "-You're all going to die."
Arwen stiffened. Slowly, slowly, she straightened and turned. I followed suit.
The whole level had nearly cleared out. Frightened people were cramming themselves onto the escalators, heading away from us as fast as they could without running. With good reason.
Eight women had surrounded us. Some were middle-aged, some were young, some were carrying weapons, some were charging spells, but they all shared one trait. They all looked pissed.
Behind them was a line of mages. They all positively reeked of magic and Flight, many of them practically drooling for battle.
"Who the hell are you?" whispered Mark.
Trish laughed, and the eight women laughed with her. There was nothing innocent or childlike about it. It was a sound full of needles and decay, and of dark places where the sun never shone. Her eyes had begun to glow with an inner fire that was unique in that it seemed to be *dark* light.
"Oh, gods." I whispered, as everything became clear. "The Nine."
Arwen closed her eyes, a shudder running down her spine. "She's the Witch-King."
"Very clever, little Elves." said Trish. She cocked her head in a surprisingly human fashion. "Actually, I prefer Witch-Queen."
Her ball of black miasma crept closer to Felix's face. I had to credit him, the kid had to be scared out of his mind, but it never showed on his face. He just narrowed his eyes, waiting, waiting...
"Hey! Hey you! Drop your weapons!"
It was Clifford the Security Guy, and he had backup. A dozen security guards charged over the lip of the escalator, spilling onto the landing with their guns drawn.
Trish's head snapped towards them for a critical instant. Less than half a second, but it gave Felix the time he needed. While her attention was distracted, he snapped a kick into her ribs and knocked her off balance. She fired the spell, but Alice shot an arc of crackling lightning that intercepted the miasma and dispersed it. Felix rolled away, coming to his feet between Sam and Gimli, who'd drawn the weapons and dropped into combat stances.
Trish narrowed her eyes. "You want to do this the hard way? Fine."
She opened her mouth wider than I'd have believed possible, and *screamed*. It was high-pitched, bone-chilling, unearthly; the sound that had the power to triple my heart rate in the space of five seconds.
The cry of the Nazgul.
The mages and Ringwraiths echoed her scream, and charged in.
Oh *shit*.
The security guards were suddenly overwhelmed by a hoard of psychotic mages. I felt a pang of grief for the poor men and women who were just doing their jobs, then I turned to face the oncoming tide.
My knives flew in a blur, slashing and stabbing the first mage to reach me. Blood flashed in the sunlight, but I had no time to pause to appreciate the artistry of the kill. I locked my arm around his neck, and threw him over the rail.
He screamed all the way down.
Suddenly, my throat closed up. I gasped, trying to suck air into my lungs. Swinging around, I spotted one of the Nazgul women. This one had curly brown hair and a rather pretty face. Too bad she was trying to kill me...
She curled her fist tighter, and flexed her arm. A strangulation spell; I felt my throat wrench, and darkness began to creep into the edges of my vision. I forced one hand into the inner pocket of my duster, drawing the gun Gabe had given me.
The Nazgul's eyes widened, and she raised her other hand, casting another spell. Too late. One shot caught her in the stomach, the next through the heart. She crumpled to the ground, and suddenly, I could breathe again.
**********
The four ex-hobbits had mobilized as a group. Back to back, they were fighting tooth, claw, gun, and knife. Sam stabbed one mage and knocked him sprawling, as Mark slammed the butt of his gun into another's temple. Peter kicked the stunned man and sent him tumbling head over heels down the escalator.
Then three Nazgul dropped on them like giant spiders.
Adam found himself cornered, four mages having backed him up against a pillar. His gun had suddenly become more useful as a blunt object; lack of ammo will do that to an automatic weapon. Pupil-less and grinning, the mages looked more like demons than humans. One, a woman, kept flicking her fingers and stinging him with tiny sparks.
"Oooh," she purred, her lips curled back lasciviously. "I like this one. Can we play with him?"
In response, Adam slugged her.
She reeled back, clutching her wounded jaw. Brass knuckles were not considered approved weapons among the NYPD, but Adam had never been a real stickler for regulations anyway.
One of the other mages growled, a fireball springing to life around his fist. "You are going to regret that."
He moved in to fire, but Adam moved first. Catching the mage around the midsection, he flattened him to the ground and dodged as the others shot fireballs and a lightning bolt his way. The spells pumped into their unfortunate companion, wh twitched and jerked as the magic electrified his body.
Adam rolled to his feet, out in the open once more. Mages were sloppy fighters; their minds buzzing on black magic and Flight, they were rarely able to form coherent battle plans. Even when they did, the heat of battle tended to make them unravel.
The female mage had regained her equilibrium and was charging a spell. Suddenly, a blast of wind sent her flying into the wall, smashing her hard enough to make the world spin for quite a while.
Alice drifted to the ground beside him, tossing Adam her gun. "Want this?" she asked, her mouth stretched into a wide grin. Her eyes were solid blue, and her black curls were windblown. The witch-cop was in her element, and, despite the danger, was loving every second of it.
"Thanks." Adam answered, spraying the mages with suppressing fire. Some dodged, but a Nazgul charged into the fray, using her powers to freeze the bullets in midair.
Alice knocked her away with a lightning spell, and another shot rang out, this one from above. Adam flicked his gaze upward for an instant, spotting a familiar head vanishing over the railing. Gabe.
The older man had managed to climb one level higher, and was sniping every time he had a clear shot. As Adam watched, the older man took aim and took out another mage.
Farther away, the four rockers yelled, trying to shake off the Nazgul who'd dropped on them. These women didn't seem to have magic, and were single-mindedly trying to get a grip on their throats. Peter managed to grab one woman's hair, hauling her over his head. She hit the ground, cursing in Black Speech. Peter swore right back in the South Farthing dialect, and kicked her in the ribs.
Mark was less lucky. His Nazgul, a massively built, dark-complected woman, had gotten an iron grip around his neck. Being unable to shake her off, and rapidly running out of air, Mark did the only sensible thing he could think of. He bent and bull-charged the marble pillar, smacking both of their heads against the solid stone. It knocked the Nazgul loose, but it didn't do Mark much good, either. They both hit the ground, unconscious.
Felix, in the meantime, had hauled the last Nazgul off Sam, who sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head to clear the darkness.
"Gee, isn't this fun?" Peter deadpanned, dragging the unconscious Mark away from the fray. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy this."
**********
The tide had begun to turn in our favour. I'd emptied my gun, dropping the mages. You didn't shoot to kill a mage; if they died, their energy was going to hit you hard enough to take you out the fight for quite a while.
Some of the mages had begun leaping up to the level above us. My eyes narrowed as I tracked a red and black blur upwards. Trish, our little Witch-Queen.
"Alice!" I yelled over the noise of the fight. "Give me a levitation spell. Now!"
"Got it." A quick flick of her hand had me rising into the air, eight, ten, twelve feet above the battle. I snagged the railing of the top level, and pulled myself over.
**********
As Alice's attention was focussed on the levitation spell, Adam caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A mage, ready to cast, lining up his sights on Alice...
Adam didn't even think. He sprinted towards the mage, grabbed the man's head, and *twisted*.
The sharp crack of snapping vertebrae was quite loud.
The mage crumpled. Dead.
Adam's eyes widened. "Crap." he whispered.
**********
I swung over the railing just as the effects of the levitation spell faded. I hit the floor somewhat louder than I'd intended, but no one noticed me. Trish, the Nazgul who'd regrouped, and the mages who'd retreated up here were converging towards a single individual some distance away. Gabe.
They'd crowded him back against a glass wall. Earlier, he'd been sniping from the railed area, but some mages had cornered him against one of the glass observation windows that looked out over the open atrium of the airport. Through the glass, you could see crowds milling about on the various levels, and the marble departures lobby three stories below.
Gabe, however, was putting up one hell of a fight. As one mage darted towards him, he dropped to the floor, and swung his leg, catching the unfortunate attacker by the ankles and sending him stumbling. Then, moving so quickly it was almost a blur, he retracted his leg and caught the man with a solid kick in the stomach. The mage flew backwards, knocking several others to the ground.
I stalked up behind them, as quickly and as quietly as I could. They'd obviously realized any spells they sent at Gimli went ricocheting in all directions, but some stupid mages, inflamed from the battle, still couldn't resist. This was definitely adding to the general carnage.
One of the brighter sparks threw a knife, which Gimli slapped away, open- palmed. I saw him grimace, and I saw blood flash. Damn, his situation had suddenly gotten precarious.
Then Trish stepped forward.
She cooly aimed an automatic at his head; the gun looked huge in her tiny hand. Behind her, two other Nazgul followed suit.
"Sorry, dwarf, it's nothing personal." Then she smiled. "Oh, wait. Actually, it is."
That did it.
I had no choice. This Witch-Queen, this demon in the guise of a little girl, she would kill Gabe, she would kill me, she would kill us all. She had to be stopped.
Unfortunately, there was no time for planning or finesse. Abandoning any pretense of stealth, I sprinted towards the ranks of mages, planted my hands on one startled man's shoulders, and flipped over their heads. Dropping in front of the magic-users, I shoved one Nazgul out of my path; Trish's head began to turn, a fraction of an instant too late.
It turns out that a child-turned-Witch-Queen cannot fire a gun as fast as an elf can pounce. I plowed into her and we both smashed through the window, into the open air beyond.
We seemed to hang in space for an eternity, then my fingers latched onto her throat and arm. I heard her scream, a soul-chilling shriek, and then we were falling.
**********
Alice caught a blur of movement overhead. Her head snapped around as she heard a Nazgul scream, approaching at what seemed frighteningly close to the speed of gravity. Throwing herself towards the rail, she instinctively cast a levitation charm.
Nothing. No familiar buzzing, nerve-tingling charge that came from spellcasting. Not even a twitch. She was tapped out. Exhausted. Her personal magic well had run dry.
"Fuck." she whispered, falling to her knees as Legolas tumbled past, his black duster tangling around his legs, fingers still wrapped around the little Witch-Queen's throat.
Hitting water from a height of twenty metres after jumping from a burning helicopter is somewhat survivable. Smashing your head off a marble pillar to knock out an adversary is a good way to concuss yourself, but certainly isn't fatal. However, landing on a stone floor after throwing yourself through a glass window three stories overhead is an excellent way to kill yourself.
**********
Alice was the first one to reach the main level lobby. The entire area was deserted, the general population being smart enough to head for the exits when spells started flying.
The rest of the Fellowship was somewhere behind her, not being as quick as the witch. This was only natural as the men were limited to running down escalators, not being able to vault over railings, level by level. Arwen was running on the last dregs of magic in her system, barely able to slow her fall enough to avoid breaking her ankles each time she landed.
She finally hit the floor of the lobby, crumpling to the ground as her legs gave out. Shoving herself up with her elbows, she crawled over to where Legolas was sprawled in a sticky red pool. Shards of glass ground into her palms and shins, and blood began to well from some shallow-to-mildly-serious cuts.
Arwen collapsed next to the blond elf, wincing in pain and sympathy, trying to assess his injuries. His breathing was rapid and shallow; he coughed, and blood sprayed from his mouth in a fine mist. His right arm and shoulder were twisted at an unnatural angle, and most of his ribs looked as though he'd caught a giant hammer-blow to the side; they had folded inward, indicating definite damage to lungs and other internal organs.
His lips had turned blue, and his skin was cold. He was going into shock.
It was obvious that Legolas had managed to land atop Trish and roll, taking the full brunt of his impact on his shoulder and side. His neck and skull seemed intact, but nothing else had been spared. Arwen yanked his shirt over his stomach and chest, gently probing the ugly black bruises. Internal bleeding, and a lot of it.
Trish herself was lying in a mangled heap several yards away, a tangle of red serge and black velvet and long black hair. There wasn't much left that was recognizable as human.
"Oh, Christ." whispered Arwen, struggling out of her scarf and jacket. As she leaned over his face, Legolas's eyes fluttered open. He tried to speak, but couldn't seem to force a sound past his lips. Arwen held his head steady as he breathed as deeply as he dared. Blood bubbled past his lips, but he finally managed to talk.
"Arwen?"
"It's okay, she's down, she didn't kill anyone. You got her."
"She won't stay down..."
"I know, we've got to go. The mages are withdrawing, but we won't have long. Can you walk?"
A strangled sound that might have been a laugh. "Stupid question."
Arwen tried to grin. "I guess so. Hang on, okay?"
"Good plan..."
Legolas's breath caught suddenly, and he began to choke. Arwen rolled him onto his side and waited until he could breathe again. He was slipping away; his eyes were rolling back into his head and his breathing was growing shallower.
"Shit, Legolas. Stay with me, you pointy-eared son of a bitch. Don't you dare die and leave us to do this alone."
His eyes fluttered one more time and he managed to choke out one more phrase. "Glorfindel said White City Enterprises, in Paris...be careful."
Arwen squeezed his hand and felt a tear run down her cheek. She had absolutely no talent for healing spells; even if she did, there wasn't a drop of magical charge left in her. There was nothing she could to ease his pain.
Footfalls rang on the floor behind her, and Adam fell to his knees, catching her as she leaned back with a sob. He wrapped his arms around her as she cried, and she realized with a twinge of irony that this seemed to happening a lot lately.
Finally, she straightened up, and scrubbed her sleeve across her eyes. "Come on," she said roughly. This was no time to sit around and cry. The mages were gone, but they'd be back soon. She turned towards Trish, but the little girl had faded away.
All she'd left was a crumpled velvet dress and her red coat, lying on the marble floor like the clothing of a discarded doll.
She was gone.
Frodo and Sam were making their way across the lobby. Some distance behind them, Pippin was standing on the escalator, with an unconscious Merry-hobbit propped against him. Gabe had sprinted down three levels and across the floor, skidding to a halt next to the crumpled form of Legolas.
"Alice, I think we'd better go." At the sound of his voice, Arwen turned to face Adam. For the first time, she realized that he looked a little dazed; his eyes were unfocussed, and he seemed unsteady on his feet. She frowned, mentally replaying bits of the battle. It had all happened so fast...had Adam taken a hit, and she hadn't realized?
Then, with some sort of bizarre reverse deja-vu, Adam's knees buckled, and he fell. Arwen barely caught him before he hit the ground.
Felix ran over and helped her lower Adam to the floor. "What's wrong with him, Lady?"
"I don't know." Arwen did a quick, clinical scan, looking for visible injuries, trying to ignore her pounding heart. No broken bones, a few minor cuts and bruises, some burns on his hands and arms; as far as she could tell, there were no serious injuries.
Then she ran her fingers over his shoulder.
"Look at this." She yanked his shirt to the side, and the ex-hobbit's eyes widened.
"Oh. Crap." commented Sam, who'd crouched beside them. "He must have killed one of the mages."
Tiny black pinpricks were breaking the skin like ink. They would eventually resolve themselves into a tattoo that was as unique as the dead mage and as unique as the killer. A design that would last as long as life.
"He's going to be in a whole lot of pain when he wakes up." said Felix. Peter was working his way across the lobby, dragging the unconscious Mark behind him with a long steady stream of muffled cursing.
"Is it safe to move him?" Sam nodded at Legolas.
Gabe laughed, but it was completely humourless. "Even if it wasn't, we'd have to bring him anyway. We can't just leave him here."
"All right. Gimli, Sam, take Legolas. Frodo, help me with Adam. Peter..." Arwen trailed off. "Just try not to concuss Mark any more, okay?"
"Yep, I can handle that."
Gabe and Sam gingerly hefted the elf's body; the ex-dwarf winced as a rather visible blood trail dotted the floor behind them. Frodo grabbed Adam's ankles, and Arwen lifted him under the arms, trying not to jostle him any more than necessary. She blew an errant strand of hair off her face.
"Come on," she said. "Gate 54. Let's go to Paris."