AN: This will be my first story outside the Halo/SW crossover section, so I hope it satisfies your taste. The main plot will be about a war between Narnia and Middle-Earth for reasons not yet confirmed by me. Note, this is only a prologue, so you might be a little confused. Just to clear things up: This is after the events of Return of the King and somewhere during the Pevensie's rule in Narnia. So they're adults. There will be a plethora of OC's, but the original characters will be here. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: Let's put it this way, if I owned both franchises I wouldn't be here right now.
Thwak!
The archer's aim was true; the multi-feathered arrow traversed the battlefield of corpses and blood and found its fleeing quarry. The centaur, armored in red-gold steel, clutched at the arrow piercing his thick neck. The beast fell, thrashing wildly in his death throes. Another arrow landed, with a dull thud, in the centaur's chest. With a dying breath, it shuddered once more, then lay still.
"That's the last of them," his killer sighed, slinging his bow across his broad back.
Deremir, son of Hamathir, Third Captain of the Grey Company, stepped away from the pile of his enemies and turned.
The Rangers had been interrupted during their evening supper at camp. A wounded soldier from the Forodwaith campaign stumbled into their fire, startling everyone in the area, even the horses. After a brief period of treating the man's injuries, he told the Northern Rangers of a contingent of centaurs that managed to pass the border. The creatures attacked their fort and slaughtered nearly everyone in the vicinity, save for a few prisoners. The man, whose name was Gros, was the only one who escaped. Spurred by wrath and duty, Deremir mustered his attachment and ran, ran as if the very whips of his master were behind him, to the marauders. They found the centaurs resting in a glen, drinking by the creek. The prisoners were bound and gagged against a tree. Stealthily, Deremir ordered his men to fan out and surround the centaurs in a loose pincer formation.
The ensuing skirmish was quick and bloody, but the rangers were victorious in the end. Just like they always were.
Deremir, blocking out the acrid smell of the growing pyre of his enemies, inspected the row of fallen rangers resting against a small incline.
"Five dead," a gruff voice said from behind him. The captain felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Could be worse. Their souls are gone from Arda now."
"To where, Elbarad?" Deremir said, stroking his red beard. He turned to his elder subordinate. Elbarad was a skilled veteran from the War of the Ring, who fought on the walls of Minas Tirith during the Great Siege. A scarred and weather-beaten countenance faced the world like a worn crag on the shore, hard but unwavering. His once curly brown hair was now a close-cropped grey, and his eyes were hard as rock. Despite his intimidating manner, he was actually very friendly among the company, and had a peculiar love for old poetry. One verse came to mind, a verse Deremir quoted.
Where does Man go after death?
Do they pass by stern Mandos in his halls of judgment,
Or do they go to a realm far beyond the reach of the Valar?
"That's the point, Deremir," Elbarad chuckled, recognizing the short stanza as one of late father's, who was a part-time minstrel at the capital. "If the bloody Valar don't know, how are mere men supposed to?"
"Maybe they go to their afterlife," a jovial voice spoke from over the incline. "After all, theirs is the only religion besides our own."
Aranur, Deremir's young lieutenant, swaggered over the hill, cloak fluttering in the twilight breeze. His flowing black locks bounced comically atop his head, a detail he always failed to notice. Even when the others pointed and sniggered at him as he traipsed about. Although his face was fair and handsome, he had not the tactical intelligence to lead a troop of baboons.
"If that's the case," Elbarad hissed, shivering, "I would plea for immortality."
"Better hurry up, Elbarad," Aranur jibed. "It's not like you have much time."
"Watch yourself, Aranur," Deremir warned, holding back an enraged Elbarad. "What would your poor father think of his darling son insulting old age?"
The boy blanched, pivoting swiftly and stumbling away towards the new camp.
"Remind me why he's here again," Elbarad asked, wiping a speck of spittle from his chin.
"His father paid the Ithilien Rangers to take him in as one of their own, on behalf of his own son's request. Obviously, our brothers didn't want to put up with him any longer. Without displeasing the senator, they sent him over to us instead of kicking him off the company outright."
"Government spawn," Elbarad spat. "Their freshly-bathed limbs aren't suited for this kind of life."
The sound of booming thunder ended any further conversation between the two. A torrent of rain fell onto the earth. Pulling his hood over his head, he ran alongside his older friend to the shade of a nearby willow tree.
"I hate the weather here," Elbarad grunted. "I feel sorry for the colonists coming in from the east."
"As does all of Middle-Earth, brother," Deremir said, watching his men chortle and joke around the campfire. "You heard the news from Gondor. Arnor will be the first to be occupied during the war."
"If there is one at all," Elbarad scoffed. "Those creatures don't have the spine to brave the northern wastes, much less cross swords with our men."
"Trust me, Elbarad, they do."
"Oh?"
"Many a caravan bearing wounded bordermen passes Arnor. If you took the time to have a word with them you might learn a few things."
"Like what?" Elbarad inquired, all business. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. The steady patter of the rain and the voices of the rangers were the only sound as Deremir collected his thoughts.
"Centaurs aren't the only beasts they have at their disposal," the third captain began. "I've heard tales of goat-men wielding swords, impaling men with twisting horns. Animals with the ability to relay orders during the heat of battle in common tongue. Terrifying giants with stone clubs, easily tearing down forts.
"How's that for your 'spineless' army?"
Elbarad fixated his gaze on his leader, seeking for falsehood in his storm-grey eyes.
He found none.
"Well," Elbarad said, clapping his hands together in finality. "That's a real bucket load if you ask me. How 'bout we warm ourselves by the fire, eh?"
Deremir nodded, noting the nervous anxiety in his lieutenant's eyes, and joined the thirty-odd rangers, slowly immersing himself in the cool night time atmosphere.
Twenty-Sixth Year of Sovereign Rule, Narnia, Cair Paravel, King Peter the Magnificent's Private Chambers,
"I'm telling you, Ed, we can't just barge into Middle-Earth and march straight to the capital! We need a plan!"
"So we keep probing their defenses? Waste more lives getting a taste of what they have to offer? It's preposterous!"
High Kings Peter and Edmund, dressed in their full royal regalia, stood nose-to-nose, practically fuming. Mesinthus, Captain of the Royal Guard and both brothers' loyal confidante, sat quietly on a wooden stool beside the lavishly decorated bed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at both kings' behavior.
He was one of the few satyrs ever to reach such a prestigious position in the realm of Narnia. Born and bred in an old hovel near Cair Paravel, Mesinthus' only ability that set him apart from the rest of his litter was his uncanny intelligence. Twenty-seven years later, he found himself leading an elite group of satyrs and fauns with the sole job to protect the royal monarchs.
"My lieges," he began, standing from where he sat.
King Peter and Edmund stopped their argument, faces flushed, and turned to the captain.
"Yes, Mesinthus?" Edmund sighed, brushing his stubbly chin.
"I know I forget my place when I ask this, but won't both your plans work better when implemented together?" he pointed out.
There was a moment of silent embarrassment as the two High Kings absorbed the satyr's logic. Peter smiled bashfully, brushing a stray golden bang from his forehead.
"Of course, Mesinthus," he said. "How stupid of us. I thank you for your advice."
"I am ever your faithful servant, my kings." Mesinthus replied, bowing.
"Nonsense, Mesinthus," Edmund responded, waving a hand. "You are more than that to us. You are our friend."
The royal captain felt an unfamiliar surge of kinship with the two Sons of Adam, but pushed it down the moment it surfaced. You re the Royal Captain, he told himself, Nothing more.
"Well then, we might as well get started," Edmund sighed, moving to an oaken table covered by a map and two ink quills. The young king swept a calloused finger across the cloth, tracing mountains and rivers. He stopped at a thin dashed line separating Narnia from Middle-Earth.
"The source of our problem," Peter commented from behind his brother.
"Calormen has already agreed to aid us in our campaign. All we need now is to muster an army big enough to contend with whatever Aragorn has to offer."
"Plus, we have to survive a few months in two deserts: One of sand and one of ice." Said Mesinthus, joining the two by the map.
"I always thought that was odd," Edmund said, fine brows furrowed. "A tundra directly below a bloody hot desert."
"The point is," Peter said, giving a stern look at his younger brother. "We need sufficient rations to support an invasion force numbering in the thousands."
"We tell each soldier to bring a sack lunch?" Edmund inquired not-so-helpfully.
"Then, we have to pass the bordermen guarding the southern wastes." Peter said.
"Not a problem," Mesinthus interjected. "Reports from expeditionary forces say that the bordermen are tough, but the appropriate amount of force should push them back. It's not the bordermen we should worry about."
"Indeed," Peter whispered, tapping his index finger on a stretch of land labeled Arnor. "Additional reports talk of strange hunters killing off scouts with relative ease, using the shadows to their advantage. They move with almost no sound at all, and they possess uncanny senses."
"Rangers," Edmund sighed.
"Rangers. Ed, remember the time when we were going to visit King Eomer at Edoras?"
"Clear as day, brother." Edmund said, eyes never leaving the map.
"Remember when those strangely clothed men seemed to materialize from the shadows of the trees, blocking the entourage? They surprised even the bloodhounds."
"I remember."
"Imagine what hell they could wreak to our forces with those skills."
Even Mesinthus shuddered. The satyr captain was there when that happened, protecting the monarchs from any plucky wild men or stray orcs. One of the rangers had looked at him strangely, a tall man with a red beard. Pushing the image away, the captain returned to the matter at hand.
"Let's not worry about those things, my lords. That will only deter us from the main goal. A goal we should reach quickly if Queen Lucy is to recover from her depression."
The men's' faces paled, sending an ungodly lurch through their stomachs. Peter's face turned an ugly shade of dark, and his fingers tightened on the table edge. Edmund looked away, guilt forming on his fair features.
"I do not think I should remind you of what is at stake here. Our goal is apparent and vital to the survival of this nation."
"Agreed." The two kings said.
'So," Peter began, regaining his cool. "We try to survive three months of harsh travel with a few thousand soldiers."
"Destroy the border guard and occupy Arnor without getting picked off by the rangers." Edmund added, trying not to sound too grim.
"Then we traverse the whole of Middle-Earth and march to the capital, Minas Tirith."
The last phase all three said, with much fervor and hope.
"Then we take back Queen Susan from their clutches."
AN: I hope you liked it! As always, leave a few questions and critique, because I'm bound to have made a few mistakes, grammatically and plot-wise. R&R!