Haste to the Wedding
© 2015 by Walter Reimer

This is a sequel to Blunt Objects, which is a sequel to
Mont Rose, which is itself 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.

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Art by  tegerio

Part 2.


Once leaving the market area, the traffic thinned out considerably and Beauty picked up her pace a bit. The change in stride didn’t affect Ayyub, giving the fennec tod time to think.

Most of his thoughts concerned Isabeau, and their upcoming marriage. The vixen had sent him a letter nearly once a week since they had parted company at her home in Woodbridge, and he fancied that he could hear her voice as he read them. She had also scented a few of the scrolls.

What type of scent could be discerned from how his ears blushed red when he thought back on it. What she’d written to go with it had made him wish Fuma the Ever-Fertile would move Midsummer Day a few months closer, just this once. He’d written back to tell her that even at a distance she was still able to get him aroused.

Of course, he prefaced his reply with a plea for her to not share the letter with her parents.

Isabeau’s latest letter had given him news of his younger sister Alys and her budding romance with Cheshire Blunt, the son of a shopkeeper a village near the Weatherwrights’ home. Despite the occasional spat (one of which resulted in Cheshire getting a black eye; Alys was quite capable of handling disputes herself, as a few erstwhile suitors in Rajjan Tor discovered), Cheshire and Alys had started to get along better.

The local Priest of Fuma had taken the two of them in paw and taught them about the Skunk Goddess’ fabled second command to the Elves: Crescite et honora Faerie sicut enim erit et fructus crescere.

After meeting with Father Laurent, Isabeau had packed a picnic basket for them and led them to a spot she knew, deep in the woods near a slight bend in the stream that ran through the town. She’d left them there, and Alys and Cheshire hadn’t emerged from the woods until after the sun had gone down. Both were smiling and blushing, so both families considered it a good omen.
Her fiancé added that odds were being taken down in the village as to when the wedding was to be held, and whether Alys would come to the altar pregnant. Such a thing wasn’t unheard of, and in fact was honored in certain parts of the Empire.

Which made Ayyub think of Isabeau again, and he shifted in the saddle as his manhood stirred in his pants.

Thinking of married life reminded him that he’d just paid off and left what passed for a bachelor’s rooms in the town, and he was going back to his parents’ house. While there was plenty of room, the tod wanted a place of his own.

Well, his own and Isabeau’s, and any children that Fuma in Her Bounty would grant them, of course.

Beauty didn’t need her rider to guide her to her home paddock. She had been bred to be smart as well as fast and sure-footed, and occasionally dipped her head and tapped the road with her antennae, picking up traces of her scent. Satisfied that she’d been this way before, she gave a pleased gronk and quickened her pace just a bit.

Ayyub sensed the change of pace and smiled indulgently. “Good girl,” he said quietly, feeling the ant’s breaths stir the fur on his tail. Beauty’s spiracles were shielded from road dust by gauzy veils attached to her saddle.

A few hours later Ayyub saw his home come into view, a one-story structure made of brick and faced with stucco. While its thick walls ensured it was cool in the summer and retained warmth in the winter, some summer nights were spent sleeping on the roof to take advantage of the night breeze and the splendor of Fuma’s heavens.

One of the farm’s hired paws, Godefroy, was removing an ant from its plow harness and leading it to the paddock as Ayyub rode up. “Hello, Ayyub.”

“Godefroy. How’re things going today?” Ayyub dismounted and the two fennecs shook paws.

“Not much. Got the north field harrowed.” The tod gave the plow-ant a gentle slap on the abdomen as it ambled into the paddock and headed immediately to the manger. Beauty followed her as soon as Ayyub had removed the last of her tack. Godefroy eyed the two creatures as they started eating the lumps of dried fungus. “Beauty’s looking well.”

“Her queen and her drone both lived a long time,” Ayyub said, “so you’d think Beauty and her sisters would live a long time as well.” He didn’t add that the drone, Stomper, had eventually found his way into a butcher’s display window. Drones that were past breeding age tended to end up on the dining table, usually with a piquant fruit sauce on the side. “How are you getting on with Lucy?” he asked.

Lucy was Ayyub’s younger sister, and mention of her brought a fond smile to her beau’s face. “We’re still a little young to be talking betrothal, let alone marriage,” the younger tod said with a wistful sigh, “and I’m still saving up. I want to be able to support her, The Lady willing.” He rubbed his knuckles between his ears piously.

Ayyub nodded. The younger fox was a good sort. Godefroy eyed the small pile of luggage Ayyub had removed from Beauty. “You moved out of Gareth’s?”

“Uh huh. Going to start looking for a place for me and Isabeau.”

The farmpaw nodded, and the older fennec gathered up his bags and headed into the house.

He unpacked in his room, putting several of the scrolls under his mattress. Not that it wouldn’t completely escape his mother’s notice (or probing his thoughts through her use of Elf-mind), but he reasoned that she’d be insulted if he didn’t at least give her a sporting chance.

The fennec’s large ears perked as he heard his father’s voice coming from elsewhere in the house. Placing his now-empty panniers by the door, he followed the soft baritone.

”Here's twenty silvers on the drum
For those who volunteer to come,
To join and fight the foe today
Over the hills and far away.

O'er the hills and o'er the dell
From highest Heav’n to Netherhell,
The King commands, and we obey
Over the hills and far away.

If Irenaeus calls, we all must go
To stand and face another foe,
But part of me will always stray
Over the hills and far away.

Then fall in lads behind the drum
With His Sword blazing like the sun
Along the road to come what may
Over the hills and far away.”

“Father?”

Farukh Sharpears was outside the house, in the inner courtyard and near the beehive-shaped outdoor oven. Flour dusted his arms as he kneaded a mass of bread dough, singing in time to his motions. He looked up and grinned. “Hello, son. How were Gareth and Marjorie?”

“They’re fine.” Ayyub looked at the floured mass on the kneading board. “Why are you doing the baking?”

Farukh smiled. “Just keeping my paw in. I used to cook for myself, you know, before I met your mother.” Before his son could ask he added, “She took Lucy and Jake to the Temple for afternoon instruction.” Father Ambrose was a stickler for making sure that the youngsters in his parish received a solid Mephitist education.

“Good.” Ayyub remembered his own instruction, as well as when his father took him to the Shrine of Fuma the Ever-fertile, where he lost his virginity.

Farukh tipped the dough into a bowl to rest and asked as he wiped his paws clean, “How are you doing? What have you learned?”

The younger man grinned a bit, his ears dipping slightly. He hadn’t really thought of learning any Gramerye, the magic of the Elves, until he’d become betrothed to Isabeau. It had a lot of uses, requiring only a receptive mind and practice. Many of the spells, like Elfmind, were simple.

“Well, I’ve learned a bit of Elfmind – “

Prove it.

Ayyub’s eyes partly closed. How’s this, Father? He smiled despite the tiny spike of discomfort that seemed to come from somewhere inside his skull.

“Not bad,” his father said. “Anything else?”

“The soldiers in the garrison were very helpful.”

Farukh laughed. “I’ll bet. Basic things?”

“Yes. Mend small tears in cloth, erase stains if they’re not too bad, boil water – one of the Artillery sergeants taught me a cantrip his mother told him to keep food fresh.”

“All very useful for housekeeping. That’s good.” He raised an eyebrow when Ayyub suddenly blushed. “What?”

“Well, Father . . . “

Farukh’s tail swished irritably. He didn’t like it when his children got tongue-tied. “Out with it, Ayyub.”

His son sighed. “Met a fellow at a tavern in town. Rabbit, with a private’s stripe on his uniform. He was a bit drunk – “

“Ayyub.”

“He offered to teach me a cantrip.” The fennec’s ears went flat. “A contraceptive spell.”

“A what?” Farukh said, momentarily raising his voice in a mixture of shock and anger. “What the Netherhells would he think you need to know that for? Only herbalists are supposed to know something like that. I hope you reported him.”

His son nodded hastily. “Of course. Knowledge like that is best kept to priests and herbalists, Father. I’ll never use it; Isabeau and I want kits.”

“Good,” Farukh said, partly mollified. “Just don’t tell your mother about it, please. What else have you learned?”

“The squaddies have been very helpful.”

“Really?”

“A pair of them taught me a series of spells that would enable me to make beer.”

The older tod laughed. “FAFI tea no longer to your taste?”

Ayyub laughed with him. “It’s very good for polishing armor, according to the Lancers. Oh, and a junior herbalist in the commissariat taught me something. I doubt I’ll find it useful, though.”

“Oh? What is it?”

He blushed a bit and he shifted from one booted foot to another. “Well, it’s sort of – “

“Ayyub.”

“It would prevent me from getting poxed.”

Farukh’s ears went up. “The pox? Please tell me you’re not kicking over the traces already, my son.”

Ayyub glanced around quickly before lowering his voice and saying in a quiet tone, “Fuma’s velvety twat, no, Father.” His father had also served in the Yeomanry, and he gave a soft snort of laughter at the imprecation. “I’m very happy with Isabeau, thank you, and you know the girls up at the Shrine are blessed by the Abbot and the Abbess before they’re allowed to take part.”

“Good, but for Fuma’s sake don’t ever tell your mother.”