This is a sequel to Mont Rose, which is a sequel to Rajjan Tor. The stories are set in  tegerio's Realm of Faerie universe, as shown in his Zandar's Saga here on FA, and The Ballad of Adler Young.

Also check out  eocostello's Realm of Faerie stories:
The Thin Line
From Whom All Blessings Flow
Personal Diplomacy
The Font of Honour
It's Only Funny Until Someone Loses Their Dignity
. . . Is In Another Castle
The Coin of the Realm

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Blunt Objects
© 2014 Walter Reimer
Art by  tegerio

Part Two


The next morning Ayyub joined the rest of his men for tea and breakfast. Around the oasis the caravan was getting ready to move, and the Yeomanry’s camp had already been struck. As he took another bite of the twice-baked pasty, Eadgar cocked an eye at his twin brother and asked, “You all right, Ayyub?”

“Hmm?”

“You look like you didn’t get any sleep, is what he means,” Eadward said.

Ayyub washed down the mouthful with a swallow of tea and said, “I didn’t get any sleep.”

The newest member of their troop, a taciturn rat named Hrothgar, gazed into the depths of his tea. “Care to talk ‘bout it, Aqhm?”

The fennec’s tail waved, then drooped. “Give me a little time to think things over, all right? Look, we’re all friends here,” and he smiled. “Once I’ve finished reading the letter, we’ll talk things over.”

The rat twitched his ears. “Letter?”

“From your girl?” Eadgar supplied.

“She not backing out on your betrothal, is she?” another trooper asked, spluttering slightly after almost spitting out his tea.

“No no, nothing like that,” the fennec said. “But it’s why we agreed to a year for the betrothal – to get things smoothed out and make sure we’re right for each other.” He refilled his tea, sipped at the drink and made a face. “Let’s get the caravan into Tel Ostori,” and he glanced out at the rising sun. “Fuma willing, we’ll be there by midday, which means – “

“Actual beds,” one said.

“And women,” another piped up, to general approval.

“Well, for most of us,” and Eadward poked a thick finger into Ayyub’s chest, and the rest laughed.

“The lot of you should become an act in Mont Rose,” Ayyub scoffed. “They’ll love you there. Come on then, let’s mount up and get the dray-ants in safe.”

There was another oasis between them and Tel Ostori, a hilly, rocky area where sweet water gushed from a cleft to pool within a wooded copse. The Yeomanry troopers paused to pray at the cairn that had been set up near the hill, for this was Tel Akom. The battle on the plain between the oasis and the town of Tel Ostori had seen the Imperial Army defeated, in part by a half-mad magic user. Dusty puddles of once-molten glass cracked under the ants’ claws as they made their way eastward.

Ayyub’s scalp still throbbed from the force of his knuckles as the caravan was greeted by the merchants of the town, and deals began to be concluded even before the ants were unloaded. Consignments and cargoes for the town were set aside, while the cargo for the Four Sisters was secured in a warehouse.

The warehouse was built so that the cargo was kept in the center of the building, with rooms around it that housed the caravan guards. In this case, the Yeomanry.

Ayyub called the troopers together after the last case and bale were locked away. “We’ve got some time before the curfew bell rings – when is that, by the way?” he raised his voice to ask the representative from the town’s merchant’s guild.

“Ah, the curfew is run at the third hour of the night, Aqhm,” the antelope replied.

“Thank you. That gives us about nine hours. Don’t carouse too much,” and they laughed as he sent them out to relax and sample the amenities of the town.

“Where are you going, Ayyub?” Edward asked.

“I’m going to finish reading Isabeau’s letter. Then I’m going to find a place to eat.” The fennec grinned. “Don’t you and Eadgar drink too much.” The two bulls enjoyed a good drinking match, and with their bulk they were difficult opponents.

The bovine laughed and walked off, and Ayyub settled on his bed and reopened the scroll.

” I won’t lie when I say that I’m worried about what he might do.
Of course, I don’t think he’d do anything wrong or bad, like kidnapping me like you hear in the old ballads. I just worry that he might make a scene when you get here. Aunt Verity has offered to get rid of him, and I’m not really sure if she’s joking or not.
Have I told you about my Aunt? She married a soldier a very long time ago (no, not the Long Ago, she’s not that old, silly), and followed him from place to place every time his regiment was sent somewhere. She’s very, well, interesting. I’d really liked to have known her when she was younger. You absolutely have to meet her when you come.
She says that Uncle Viktor died before I was born, but she talks about him as if he was still alive. So please be patient with her.
The one thing you can be sure of is that she’ll like you, just as my parents do. I’ve told her about you, but despite her constantly asking me, I won’t tell her if you and I have, well, you know, yet.”

Ayyub chuckled quietly to himself at that. Appearances had to be kept up, of course; he and Isabeau weren’t married yet. His mother had been overheard talking with Isabeau’s, and he was a bit surprised to hear his own mother talking about a bride being ‘bulging’ rather than ‘blushing.’

Of course, if Isabeau did get pregnant, he was prepared to marry her immediately. He’d even written that into their betrothal agreement.

”I miss you terribly, Ayyub. You know that spot by the river that I told you about? I’ll confess that I go there and think about you.
And I touch myself. You know, there.
I think of you, and I think of your paws on me . . . “

Ayyub put the scroll down, stood and lit a small oil lamp. He then closed the door before going back to the bed, unfastening his trousers. It would be embarrassing if anyone walked in on him unexpectedly.

Later, after washing up, he headed out into the town in search of something to eat. The sun was dipping toward the western horizon, and his stomach was getting more and more insistent.

One of the shops in the market square had a stall set up in front of it, with a wood-fired grill beside it. The boar presiding over the stall was offering skewers of chicken marinated in spices and grilled, and after haggling for only a moment over the price, Ayyub bought three. He munched at one as he wandered around the market, looking over the various things on offer.

He had finished his last skewer, licked his fingers clean and bought a cup of date wine from another stall and a hunk of buttery flatbread slathered with cheese from a third. He was wearing his sword and uniform knife, so footpads or cutpurses knew enough to stay away.

The wine was sweet and had a healthy kick, so he drank it slowly as he sat at the wine-shop. Several of the townsfolk sat there as well, and after a while one of them, a thin rabbit asked, “You’re from Faerie, are you?” His voice sounded a bit slurred.

“I am.” Elves don’t lie.

The buck’s ears swiveled a bit and his eyes looked a bit glassy. He’d obviously been drinking more than his fair share. “I hate Elves from Faerie,” he declared, jabbing at his chest with a thumb.

“Fedor,” another fur said.

The rabbit ignored him. “I lost a brother last year.” He had both paws flat on the counter.

Ayyub kept himself still. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll pray to Fuma for your loss.”

“You ain’t praying to that stinkin’ whore! Not for MY brother, you’re not!” the rabbit shouted suddenly. Passers-by stopped, looking back and forth from the drunken local to the fennec in his Yeomanry uniform.

Ayyub sighed. I’m not nearly drunk enough to start a fight, he thought, and downed his remaining wine in one swift gulp. He set the cup down a bit more harshly than he might have planned and turned to the rabbit. “Fedor was it?”

“Yes.”

“Ayyub. Lost two fingers last year,” and he held up his right paw. “Now. Where do you think I should pray, Long Ears?” His stool creaked as he stood up, his steady gaze a challenge.

Fedor’s nose pad flushed red and he started to get to his feet, only to be grabbed by his fellows. One of them, the jerboa that had used the rabbit’s name earlier, turned to Ayyub. “He’s just had too much to drink.”

“It’s all right.” Ayyub started to take another bite of his bread and cheese, made a face and put it on the counter. “I’m not hungry anymore,” and he left the wineshop.

He wandered about for a while after that, feeling the date wine buzzing in his blood. A dim part of him acknowledged that there would still be hurt feelings. Caravans had started moving almost immediately after the Town Council of Tel Ostori had signed the truce with Governor Longtooth. Chances were good that it had been too quick for some people.

His injured paw throbbed a bit.