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 Three.


He was certain he’d stopped to drink at one more wine shop, at least, after the encounter.

It would explain his headache.

“Hey, Ayyub! C’mon, time to get up!” Eadgar said, and the fennec slowly awakened and sat up, his ears laying flat. “You had too much last night.”

“I must have,” Ayyub said, running his paws over himself carefully. There were no broken bones or cuts on his body. He checked his wallet, and discovered that he hadn’t been rolled – the leather pouch was a bit lighter, but not empty. “I keep forgetting about the date wine down here.” He licked the taste out of his mouth and squinted up at the bull, who held a lit oil lamp. “Morning?”

“Morning.”

“The caravan getting ready to head out?”

Eadgar nodded and held out a steaming mug. “Tea?”

“Mint and herb, made FAFI-style. Should wake you up, clear your head - and maybe iron your uniform,” the bovine said with a smirk.

“Very funny.” Ayyub took a sip and discovered that the trooper hadn’t been joking. The tea was about strong enough to take the chitin off an ant. “Iron my uniform?” he said after gagging theatrically, “more like burn all my fur off.”

“Good for what ails you, I suppose – well, that and the sunlight and fresh air.” Eadgar was being much too cheerful, probably because Ayyub only rarely drank too much. The bull’s smile grew sympathetic. “Read the rest of that letter yet?”

“Some,” and Ayyub breathed deeply of the steam coming from the tea. “That’s not why I was drinking.”

“So?”

“I ran into a fellow who lost his brother last year.”

Eadgar winced a bit. “Yeah, we’re going to be dealing with that for years, I’m afraid.” Elves had long memories to match their long lives.

Ayyub nodded and drained his mug, then shivered at the taste. “Next stop, the Four Sisters.” He got to his feet, swayed a bit and smiled at the bull.

“Yeah.” The pair chuckled as Ayyub started to get ready.

Beauty seemed to sense that her master wasn’t quite himself. She gronked and waved her antennae at him as he approached. Ayyub chuckled and held his palms up for the feelers to brush against them. “See, girl? I’m all right – oof!” and he staggered back a step as the large, chitinous head butted against him. “Hey, I’m all right, Beauty, just a little hung over,” he insisted as he rubbed the bristly carapace reassuringly.

“Gronk?”

“Yes, yes, I mean it,” and he laughed at her solicitude as he saddled and bridled her. He climbed into the saddle and patted her. “Ready?”

“Gronk.”

“Good girl. Let’s go.”

Several of the merchants riding with the caravan looked very pleased with themselves, having struck deals over their dinners with the Tel Ostori counterparts. One of the terms of the truce gave the town some preferences over the other areas south of the Border, and both sides sought trade advantages from the other.

The caravan route made its way through a desert area known as Fuma’s Oven to the locals. Despite its sands and very sparse vegetation, it was actually a better place than the vast salt pans and aridity of Alkali Tor. For example, while it rained perhaps once a century at Alkali Tor, it rained once a decade here. Oases were few and far between, and the caravan carried extra water for the ants and the Elves to drink. Bathing was a waste of precious water, and was prohibited until the group made it out of the desert area. The trek usually took several days, with lodestones and the stars to keep them on course.

A river marked the southern boundary of Fuma’s Oven, and the caravan route paused there for a day among the reeds and palm trees to replenish their supplies and water the ants. After the animals had drunk their fill the furs took the time to relax.

That included bathing.

The river was a broad swath of slow-moving water that was only slightly the color of tea with a generous dollop of milk in it. There was a bridge across it, some said, far upstream that offered an easy crossing into the trackless lands to the south. More bridges (including a rather famous one supported by boats) connected the Four Sisters, separated as they were by the broad estuary that fed Lake Jennefya.

Freshly-washed Yeomanry uniforms and riding cloaks lay stretched out over bushes and banks of reeds to dry in the sun as their owners bathed or soaked in the river. Most had waded in, but Ayyub and a few others, more used to canals, had chosen to take running dives at it.

The fennec surfaced, shaking water from his ears, and squinted across the sunlit water at the others. The rest of the troop were watching and laughing as Eadgar and Eadward splashed each other, still arguing over the affections of their young woman.

Eadgar succeeded in picking his brother up over his head and, with a mighty effort, threw the other bull into the reeds. “Hah!” he shouted. “I’m the stronger, Eadward, not you!” He grinned as the others applauded, and he pointed at Ayyub. “Thank Fuma, Ayyub, that you didn’t have to fight for your lady.”

Another trooper, a canine, guffawed. “He shouldn’t have to,” and he jerked a thumb in Ayyub’s direction. The laughter grew louder as he inclined his thumb downward toward the fennec’s crotch and waggled his eyebrows.

Ayyub blushed and sank into the muddy water up to his waist. “I’m not that blessed,” he said flatly.

“Mayhap not,” another trooper said, carefully deadpan, “but I’ll wager she isn’t complaining.”

The others laughed louder as the fennec’s ears blushed redder and he sank into the water up to his neck.

The next day the dray-ants were goaded into motion, this time eastward along the river. A few had to be prodded a bit harder to keep them from pausing to munch the sweet reeds on the bank. As they reached the outlying farms, the road grew wider and more than just a sandy track.

The four large towns began to be seen as a hazy smudge on the eastern horizon, and as the caravan moved forward across the flat terrain they grew and took on more detail.

They encountered a guard post first, a squat building with its walls and central tower built of quarried coquina. The relative softness of the stone was an effective defense against thrown missiles such as catapulted rocks, and each of the posts was within sight of each other. The towers enabled sentries to wave signal flags or lit torches to warn of danger or to summon help if they were attacked.

The caravan advanced under a slightly faded red parley flag, signifying peaceful intentions, and after identifying what town they had come from, the sentries waved them through. One or two jeered at the sight of Yeomanry uniforms, but Ayyub had reminded the troopers that they were guests in the country. The caravan escorts saluted as they rode past the sentry post.

The outskirts of the towns grew out of complexes of farms and orchards, and signs of civilization grew until the first of the Sisters, Tel Agraf, was reached. The town’s walls were made of the same rock as the outlying sentry posts, and it had taken a very long time (even measured against an Elf’s life) to construct them. The coquina had to be cut and shaped, then dried in the sun for days before it was ready to be cemented into place. It made for stout fortifications, but it couldn’t be put up overnight.

The walls weren’t the same as the walls around fortresses found in Faerie. They were fairly low, and steeply sloped. It wasn’t circular or square, but set about in a set of sharp angles that gave each part of the wall protection by archers on neighboring walls. The town’s population clustered inside in districts that resembled pie slices inside the shelter of the fortifications, with the central Keep dominating the skyline.

The caravan drew to a halt at the main gate, and Ayyub rode forward with the caravan’s leader to meet the senior guard. The leader presented their passport and bills of lading, and the caracal looked them over with a critical eye.

“Is the Shaykh still ruling?” Ayyub asked courteously.

The feline nodded, still reading the scrolls. “Yes, praise Fuma. Shaykh Raddlen Rohl still reigns, and is in fine health,” he replied absently. He rolled up the scrolls and passed them back to the caravan leader before gesturing at the sentries to raise the barrier across the open gateway. “Enter in peace, and leave in friendship,” he said.

Ayyub and the caravan leader expressed similar sentiments as the ants were urged forward.

Each ‘slice’ of the town had narrow streets and byways, the better to entangle an invading enemy, and the caravan wound its way through one district to reach the marketplace. There the ants were stabled and the goods offloaded and put into warehouses. Prospective buyers and traders were already gathering.

While the rest of the Yeomanry saw to their ants and accommodations, a member of the city guard walked up to Ayyub. “Aqhm?”

“Yes?” Ayyub looked up at the taller canine. “May I help you?”

The guardsfur bowed. “I have been sent by my Master, Shaykh Raddlen Rohl, to invite you to dinner tonight.”

Ayyub returned the bow. “Please convey my thanks to the Shaykh. What hour am I expected?”

“At the first hour before sunset, Aqhm. My Master desires conversation with you.”

“Please let him know that I’ll be there.” The fennec had a spare uniform in his pack; not his formal one, to be sure, but it was at least cleaner than what he was currently wearing. And the first hour before sunset gave him four hours to get ready.