AN: I'll be uploading a chapter for this story after I upload one for Endwar: Breaking Point. And vice versa. Anyways, this is a filler chapter. Plus, the entrance of two familiar characters.
DISCLAIMER: Lebron James: Championship: Me: Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia
The warm, August breeze stirred through the plains, caressing the long grass like the growing tuft of a newborn babe. It rolled through the flatlands, reaching something unfamiliar to its touch. Heavy canvas, smelling of sweat and musk, and the extinguished charcoal of campfires.
The Narnian camp awoke.
Thousands of tents were stretched across the plains, dotting the landscape like rice grains scattered atop a field of brown. In the center of the vast camp ground was the Royal Tent, a massive construction spanning over forty-two feet in length and forty in width.
Inside, splendid ornaments hung on the interior walls, adorning the otherwise mottled canvas with bright colors and antiquities. Two adjacent quarters, edged with red-gold privacy sheets, stood at the far end. A giant, oak table stood in the center, covered with crinkly maps and ink.
Peter walked out of his quarters, fully dressed in his sky-blue royal tunic and brown trousers. His golden hair flowed down his muscular neck, free from the restraint of the crown. He kicked at the other room's wall.
"Rise and shine, Ed," he called.
A series of unintelligible mutters followed, dampened by the dense barrier. Peter chuckled, waiting patiently.
Edmund exited his room, brushing back his tousled hair. He pulled on a regular soldier's shirt and pants, and apparently decided to be done with it.
Peter looked his younger brother up and down, eyebrows reaching the ceiling,
"What?" Edmund said defensively. "It's not like I'm attending a gala or anything."
"Always look your best in front of your soldiers, Edmund," Peter lectured.
"So what," Edmund snorted. "They know their king. They'll relate to me, like they always do."
Peter shook his head, not wanting to prolong the conversation any further. He reached the map table, sifting his hands through the numerous sheets. He pulled out the right one and laid it on the top.
"Calormen," he whispered, scanning the miles of desert land they would have to cross. He took out another map, this one older and drawn in a foreign hand.
"Forodwaith," he said, louder this time so his brother could hear.
"Some of the natives call it the Frostwaith," Edmund added helpfully.
"Brother, sometimes I wonder how in the world we can lead an army across this land," he sighed.
"By the proper amount of good leadership and determination," a friendly voice pointed out.
Mesinthus leaned on the wooden post by the entrance, smiling. He wore his royal armor, and his golden-brown fur was freshly washed and brushed. Even his spiraling horns looked trim.
"Mesinthus, come in, please," Peter grinned, happy to see a familiar face.
"What's up, captain?" Edmund asked, reclining on a velvet sofa.
"The troops are fully awakened and are awaiting the bugle call, my lords." The satyr answered.
"I trust they are ready for inspection?" Peter inquired, adjusting his clothes.
"As ready as I can prepare them to be, my liege," the satyr replied.
"Well then," the younger king exhaled. "Let's go."
The trio exited the Royal Tent, heading to the eastern side of the camp, where the daily inspections took place.
The camp had been separated into ten sectors, each numbering about eleven thousand. The sectors went into their designated fields, where they would stand in rank and file and wait. To accommodate such massive numbers, the captains appointed inspection officers to scan the troops. While the officers were up and about, the kings would stand at the head of the soldiers looking regal.
They would go visit each sector after the other, until it was over. The whole process would take over four hours, but it was worth the time. Constant vigilance was the key in pulling an army across miles of harsh landscapes.
The invading force of 111, 105 Narnian troops needed to be in tip-top shape when the Forodwaith border line appeared over the horizon.
When the last inspection was over, the soldiers retreated to the eating grounds to devour breakfast. Peter, Edmund, and Mesinthus went back to the Royal Tent, where the servants had probably already prepared the meal.
Sure enough, three hot, steaming bowls of oatmeal awaited them, plus plates of egg and bacon, and to top it off, a platter of roasted chicken.
Edmund's stomach growled in longing.
"Let's eat, shall we?" he said, eyes alight.
They sat down and began to partake, savoring each delightful sip or munch. They were well into their euphoric eating when the entrance flapped open.
"Busy, signors?" a rich, exotic voice asked.
Peter looked up from his plate to see General Scipio Mantéra stride into the tent.
The man was a Telmarine, anyone could see that, and a fine-looking one at that. He was dressed in full-steel armor, complete with a feathered helm. He removed the helmet when he walked in, revealing close-cropped black hair, combed and oiled and graying at the temples. His tanned face showed no trace of a wrinkle, yet the king swore he was pushing fifty. He had bright, green eyes, and a trimmed mustache below his Roman nose. He looked friendly enough, but the High King had dealt with many Telmarines before. They were not a most trustworthy people. He would have to be careful when dealing with the general. He was the leader of the two hundred odd Telmarine mercenaries traveling with them.
"Signors?" he repeated, the foreign lilt lacing his words. "Are you to busy, perhaps?"
"No, general, not at all," Peter answered, gesturing to a chair next to Mesinthus. "Please, sit."
The Telmarine nodded, sitting down beside the satyr. Both stiffened, pretending not to notice each other. Peter knew that Telmarines had an intense dislike of native Narnians, and were not afraid to express it. Even in front of two kings.
Edmund cleared his throat.
"So, general, what brings you here?" he asked politely, leaning back in his seat.
"A simple thing, really," he answered, stirring his bowl of soup with spoon. "Just a change of sleeping grounds."
"Why so?" Peter asked, brows furrowed.
"My men are quite tired of having to rest beside your centaurs," he said, meeting the High King's gaze. "I mean you no offense, but having someplace else to situate ourselves would be much appreciated."
"What's wrong with centaurs?" Mesinthus grunted, sipping his tankard of apple cider.
"Nothing, captain, except maybe the smell and the sound of their incessant neighing," the general answered, his tone a bit too condescending.
"Maybe the constant raucous your men make every night causes them to be so annoying," the royal captain remarked.
Scipio shot him a glare, one that the satyr gladly returned.
"At ease, gentlemen," Peter said. He didn't want the spark to become an overwhelming fire.
"You might want to use another term for the one beside me," Scipio commented. "Gentlemen seems too human. 'Beast' is more like it, si?"
Mesinthus stood with a growl, leering down at the calm general. Scipio grinned slightly.
"ENOUGH!" Peter roared, standing. "Mesinthus, return to your quarters!"
The captain saluted and bowed, still shaking in fury. He stalked out of the tent. The Telmarine shook his head, tongue clicking.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clucked. "You might want to put a leash on that one, my liege."
"General, I think we have had enough time to discuss the matter. You and your men will remain where you are. Am I clear?"
Scipio's fair face darkened, but he nodded.
"Leave us." Peter ordered.
Scipio stood and exited the tent. The High King sighed, slumping into his chair. Edmund watched the Telmarine general walk away, cursing at anyone who crossed his path.
"I think we might have to put a leash on him," he said.
Peter shook his head.
"The sooner we get to the fighting , the better," he exhaled. "Because then they'll focus on fighting the enemy rather than each other."
Northern Arnor, half a league from the Forodwaith
A gust of icy wind blew across the line of rangers, pushing at their cloaked bodies as they traversed the flat tundra. Snow was beginning to pile on the road, and Deremir feared that they wouldn't be able to reach the first fort in time
"Stay strong," he called, voice dim under the roar of the wind. "We are close!"
The men stayed firm, pulling their cloaks tighter around their bodies. Deremir knew his men were strong, so he wasn't worried about them. He was worried about their steeds.
Deremir laid a palm on his horse's chestnut skin. It was vibrating slightly, and the captain knew Hátha was using all his strength to stay standing.
The ranger bent forward, whispering encouraging words in Elvish into his friend's long ear. The horse seemed to straighten, moving at a faster speed, but he knew time was short. If they didn't make it to the fort soon, then Hátha would die.
"Will it be worth it, captain?" a voice rasped from his bottom right.
Deremir looked down to see the captive satyr, Glenthus, walking calmly beside him, hands bound tied to a knot on Deremir's pack. It was as if the Narnian walked across snowy plains every day; he didn't look fazed one bit.
"Hátha is strong," Deremir answered, more reassuring himself than answering the prisoner. "He will make it."
"Are you so sure?"
Deremir ignored him.
"Halt!" a voice called out from one of the trees bordering the snow-packed road. "Who goes there?"
Deremir stopped, lifting a hand. The rangers behind him froze.
"I am Deremir, son of Hamathir, Third Captain of the Grey Company. We are journeying to Fort Faran for lodging and a place for our horses."
There was the sound of rustling, then twelve men clothed in the garb of Bordermen walked out of the underbrush. The lead man, a gaunt thirty-year-old, gave a wary glance at the red-headed man at the lead of the large troop.
"What brings the Dunédain to the Forodwaith?" he asked suspiciously.
"We offer aid to the beleaguered men up north," Deremir answered. "And news from the capital. What is your name, soldier?"
"Kaslan," the man grunted, stamping his feet on the snow and rubbing his arms. "I go by Kaslan. You are welcome, rangers. Faran is not too far from here. Enjoy your stay."
Deremir urged his horse faster, passing the men by the road. Kaslan noted the captive beside Deremir and spat at Glenthus' feet. The satyr ignored it and walked on.
The fort awaited them, a massive building of logs and plaster, as tall as the gates of Minas Tirith. The wooden gate creaked open, pulled by men in animal furs. The rangers rode in, immediately attended to by the Bordermen.
"Where are the stables, soldier?" Deremir asked one of the men as he dismounted.
"To your right, sir." Deremir was surprised to see a boy look up at him. He looked like he belonged in a schoolhouse, not a fort. "Not to worry, captain, we'll take care of your horses."
As the Bordermen led the beasts to the stables, the rangers headed to the tavern. Its door was open, and the red light of a fire welcomed them in. The tavern was filled with men, most of them congregated around the large fire beneath the hearth. Several oaken tables were arrayed across the room, and the thirty rangers scattered around them.
Deremir saw Elbarad approach him.
"Its good we got here, eh?" the old lieutenant remarked, reveling in the warm atmosphere. "And not a moment too soon."
Deremir nodded.
As the rangers conversed with the Bordermen, Deremir noticed two children sitting in the corner, clutching silver pints in their hand. At first, he wondered what children were doing in a tavern, then he wondered what children were doing in a tavern drinking.
He approached the duo, who he noted were wearing viridian capes over their tan tunics and trousers, held together by silver leaf brooches. It looked elf-made to the captain. He tapped his finger on the first one's shoulder, the one with curly, dirty-blonde hair.
"What are you doing here, boy?" he asked.
As they turned, Deremir discovered that the two children were most definitely not children at all.
"Do you have a problem, kind sir?" the blonde one inquired, lifting a golden eyebrow.
"Yeah," the other remarked. He had a mop of brown curls, and his voice was light and accented. "You don't just go barging in our drinking time, sir."
Deremir looked them up and down, and despite their small stature, they had the appearance of young men. Then, of course, there were their large, hairy feet.
"What are two Halflings doing in northern Arnor?' Deremir asked, smiling. His jobs as a ranger often brought him around the Shire, and he enjoyed watching the hobbits do their daily activities from a safe distance. Their kind weren't too fond of the "Big People".
"Is it any of your business?" the blonde one asked.
"Well-"
"NO! I don't think so!" the hobbit yelled, gulping down a mouthful from his pint. "Who are you anyway?"
"If it makes it any better, I'm a ranger."
The two Halflings froze for a second, then changed. Deremir was surprised at how an individual could go from cold and hostile to bright and chipper in the space of a millisecond.
"You're a ranger?" the brown-haired one asked, voice high. "I take it you've been to the Shire?"
"Not in it, but near."
The blonde one stood and stuck out a hand.
"I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, but you can call me Merry. This here's my friend, Peregrin Took."
"But you can call me Pippin."
"My name is Deremir," the third captain said. "It is good to meet you."
"You too." They said in unison.
"So to my first question," the ranger added. "What brings two hobbits to northern Arnor?"
"Adventure," the one called Pippin piped.
"And battle," Merry added. "We love a good battle."
Deremir stood in shock for over three seconds. He plopped down beside the two hobbits and waved over to the waiter.
"Two pints for the gentlemen sitting here," he called.
As the two tankards were handed to Merry and Pippin, Deremir leaned forward, red beard almost brushing against the table-top.
"Now, tell me your story, because I have a feeling that it will be the best I've heard in a while."
AN: Like I said, a filler chapter. This one's almost too pathetic to even bother to R&R, but please, do so anyway. It would be greatly appreciated.