This is a story inspired by Zandar's Saga and The Ballad of Adler Young, both by  tegerio, and The Thin Line by  eocostello.

The story will, over its course, feature Mature and even Adult situations, so be patient and enjoy!

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Part One.


It was late afternoon when the caravan arrived at the southern gates of Rajjan Tor. As the banner of the Kingdom of Faerie stirred in the breeze, the Yeomanry who had been guarding the caravan drew up in a defensive ring. They may have been just as eager to seek out their homes and stabling for their ants as the traders they escorted, but duty came first.

One of the Yeomanry, the native inhabitants of the town who had volunteered and trained to supplement the Regular Army’s garrison, tugged aside the thin cotton veil shielding his muzzle. The fennec fox’s nostrils flared as the breeze brought him the smells of orchards and green fields.

Home.

The Great South Road reached its end at the town from its beginnings far to the north, and the Great West Road hooked south across the Wastelands to intersect it before heading northeast again, to eventually join its brothers at the statue of Fuma From Whom All Blessings Flow. Very few of the inhabitants of the town had ever seen the statue of the Skunk Goddess, but everyone knew about it.

The town itself clustered around the great hill that helped give the place its name, the tor crowned with a stout walled fortress and an almost as impregnable Temple of Fuma on an outlying spur. Rajjan Tor and its garrison protected the entire district, a sprawl of small villages, oases, orchards and fields of various crops. Several oases fed water to the inhabitants, and the mountains to the northeast were the source of the rains that nourished the area during the spring and autumn.

The Temple held the town’s greatest treasure, an artesian spring that would provide water to the people if the place ever came under siege.
Rajjan Tor had been a crossroads and trading post before the Kingdom of Faerie arose, and it was still a vital point for commerce with the tribes and cities to the south.

“Aqhm!” The fennec turned as a private, a thin mouse, waved at him. “The caravan checks out. You can pass.”

“Thanks. Fuma’s blessing on you,” and Ayyub Sharpears gestured for his small force to usher the caravan into the town. Heavily-built ants gronked as they hauled saddle-packs and loaded wagons inside while their handlers chirped or sang encouragement to them.

His own ant, a much leaner breed than the drays, drew a foreleg over its right antenna and raised its head. Ayyub fancied that it was looking at him, as if saying, “Can we go home now, please?”

He reached down and patted it affectionately. His family had once bred riding ants, but had gotten out of the business in his great-grandfather’s time to concentrate on farming. The family still had a way with the animals. “Easy, Beauty,” he soothed, “we’ll be in soon enough. A nice cool stable for you, and a soft bed and a bottle for me. But first we wait, eh? Remember, first out, last in.”

The ant didn’t agree with him, but kept her peace. Only a brief ruffling of the gauze caparison that protected her spiracles from dust gave any indication of her feelings.

Finally it was his turn to enter, following the small column as it trailed behind the caravan. Once the gates had closed, Ayyub steered his ant in the direction of the nearest livery stable.

All of the Yeomanry, Ayyub included, owned their own mounts, and were charged with maintaining them out of the stipend they received from the Army coffers. He got a few coppers more, being an Aqhm, or Top, the rough equivalent of a sergeant. Rough, in that he wasn’t the same rank as a sergeant and had to defer to them.

He didn’t mind, really. The Yeomanry selected their own leaders, and he had been chosen a year earlier. Armed with a short sword, a short recurved bow well-suited for use while riding, and a dagger, each member of the Rajjan Yeomanry prided themselves on being better than any Regular, up to and including the Imperial Lancers.

Beauty daintily picked her way through the crowds in the town, headed by instinct for the livery stable her master used most often. A soft gronk usually sufficed to help others get out of her way. The ant was ten feet in length from her mandibles to her stinger, and stood four feet at her midshoulder. Her carapace was primarily tan, with two reddish-brown blotches on her head and gaster. His initials and a family sigil were branded into the tough chitin of her propodeum. A set of leather reins ran from her antennae to her master’s paw, and she wore a riding saddle.

“Fred!” Ayyub called out as he reined Beauty in at the stable. “Where are you, lad?”

“Coming!” Presently a small tortoiseshell-furred kitten with a broad and cheeky grin emerged, wiping his paws on a rag. “Did you see bandits out there, Ayyub?”

The fennec’s ears twitched. They were a touch smaller than a true fennec’s ears; that and the slight grayish cast to his fur were the only remaining legacy of the gray foxes who had come south generations ago and founded the Sharpears family. He dismounted from Beauty and stretched. “No, Freddie, no bandits this time,” he said with a smile.

“Aw.”

“Don’t be so eager to get in a saddle, you little scamp,” and he ruffled the kitten’s headfur, then took up the reins and led Beauty into the stable.

There were ten stalls, but only three ants, and their antennae waved about as they scented another. While ordinarily skittish around strangers, they recognized Beauty’s scent and calmed down almost immediately. “The usual, Ayyub?”

“Yes, the usual, Fred – no, get me a little sugar, please. She deserves a treat.” Ayyub busied himself with leading Beauty into a stall, then removing her saddle and reins. He then stood facing her, arms up and palms out.

“Chhrp, chhrp, prrrr,” he said, and the ant’s antennae reached out and stroked the palms of his paws, reassured by his scent. It gave a barely audible gronk and a series of almost affectionate chirps.

Fred came back with a small leather sack capable of holding perhaps a quarter-pound of loaf sugar. “Here you are, Ayyub,” he said in a quieter tone. His father was raising him well; even at twelve, he knew to keep a hushed and respectful tone in the stable so as not to startle the ants.

“Good boy,” Ayyub said in the same tone. Fred tipped the lump of sugar out into one of the fox’s paws while his other paw stroked Beauty’s head just above her mandibles.

Even a riding ant’s jaws are capable of chopping off an arm, but scenting the sugar Beauty opened her mandibles obligingly. Ayyub placed the lump at her mouth and pulled his paw away as the ant chewed blissfully, antennae twitching while her master stroked her. After making sure that she had enough fodder and fresh water, he and Freddie left the stall.

The fennec detached his short sword’s scabbard from the saddle and fixed it to the belt under his cloak. Like the rest of his unit he was dressed for a desert climate, leather boots with cotton trousers, a caftanlike cotton shirt gathered at the waist with a wide belt and a woolen cloak. His headdress was basically a loose hood that allowed him the use of his ears. The colors were muted grays and tans. “Clean my saddle and tack, will you Freddie?” he asked, adding a few coppers to the amount for stabling his ant.

The money disappeared as if by magic. “Sure thing, Ayyub. How long are you staying in town?”

“About a week, I think. Depends on the caravan schedule, you know.”

The fennec stepped out of the livery stable and squinted as the sun hit him in the face. The heat reminded him that he was thirsty, yes and hungry too, so he headed into the marketplace.

Stalls, kiosks and shops were displaying wares from many parts of the Kingdom. One fruit stand even advertised fresh peaches, “All the way from Persoc Tor!” He rather doubted that, but paid a few coppers for one after haggling down the price.

The peach was delicious, juicy and sweet, and he licked his fingers after devouring it down to the pit. It satisfied his thirst as well as his hunger, at least momentarily.

His clothes were dusty, and he needed a bath, but he had one more stop to make before he could finally relax.

The Army’s garrison had an office down in the town, in addition to its main headquarters up in the fortress, and he made his way there. He stamped the dust from his boots before walking in. “Hello, Sergeant.”

The wolf looked up as the fennec came in and he grinned as he got to his feet. He was wearing the standard garrison uniform, cotton trousers and tunic in sand-brown with his rank stripes in dark brown . “Good to see you, ‘Top,’ and the two shook paws. “Any trouble this time out?”

Ayyub winked. “There’ll be trouble in here if I don’t get something to drink.”

They both laughed as the sergeant pulled a bottle of cider from a desk drawer along with two glasses. He poured a generous tot into each, gave one to Ayyub and raised his. “His Majesty.”

“May Fuma always bless him.”

The two drank, and Ayyub drew back his hood, then took off his cloak. He draped it over a chair and placed his bow and quiver on the seat. “You’re not going to sit down?”

“I’ve been in the saddle for nearly a week,” the vulpine snorted. “Standing won’t kill me. Now, the caravan.”

“Yes.” The two walked over to a wall-mounted map of the area south of the border. “Any activity?”

“No, and that worried me a bit.” Ayyub gestured at a series of symbols depicting an oasis surrounded by high tableland. “I expected something here, like a raiding party from Tel Ostori,” and his finger jabbed at the town’s location, careful not to mar the parchment, “but nothing.”

“So what do you think?” the wolf asked. “The Lieutenant will want a report.”

“I’ll write one, but you can tell him for me that something doesn’t feel right, and all my men feel the same way.”

“When can he expect a full report?”

Ayyub smiled. “I’ll bring him a scroll tomorrow morning, up at the fort. Meanwhile,” and he sniffed at himself, “I need a bath and a good meal.”

“Mess is open.”

“I meant a good meal, Sergeant,” and the two laughed as Ayyub scooped up his gear and walked out.

The fennec headed up a certain street that snaked partway up the great hill, to a building whose sign proclaimed that it had rooms available. The door was open, so he shouldered aside the bead curtain that shaded the lobby and stepped inside. “Gareth?”

“One moment!” A waving feline tail could be seen above the front desk, and the tabby-marked feline straightened up. “Ayyub! Good to see you,” and he plucked a key from a hook. “Here,” and he tossed the key at the fennec, who caught it. “Staying long?”

“About a week.”

“Good. Your room’s ready – oh, and Marjorie sends her regards.”

“Thanks.” Marjorie was Gareth’s wife. “Any mail for me?”

“Let me look.” The tabby disappeared again and emerged with a small scroll. “Arrived two days ago. Got your family seal on it.” He gave it to Ayyub.

“Thanks. The bath working?”

“For you? Always.”

“Heh.”