Middenly Charms

© 2016 by Walter Reimer

A hearty thank you for the use of characters by  eocostello set in  tegerio’s Realm of Faerie universe!


Part 8.



Years of experience in the Imperial & Royal Army, along with my years in Marshal Roland’s service, have given me a bit of an eye for details. Some furs call it “the soldier’s eye.” I can look at a piece of ground and pick out the best places to set up a defense or spot the weakest bit of terrain through which to drive an attack home.

The WQ would add that my “soldier’s eye” sometimes spots details about a femmefur's arse. Which is also true – Elves Don’t Lie, but it’s hardly germane right now.

About a third of a league past the frontier between the Grand Duchy and the United Cities the ground started rising in a series of long, low hills. I started seeing them then, small redoubts and trenches dug in on either side of the road, and staffed with hard-eyed wolves armed with bows. Stern-faced officers and sergeants watched us carefully as we rode past.
“They’re waiting for a fight to start,” I muttered.

“Plain as the nose on your face,” the Wolf Queen helpfully supplied.

I gave her a glower to match her smirk. “This is deadly serious. The Army’s just waiting for them to come out of those trenches and attack.”

“True,” she said, “but if they don’t attack?” I blinked and she smirked at me. “I read once that, in the Long Ago, two Elves had met face-to-face as they were walking across a plain. Neither one would step aside to let the other pass.” Her ears dipped. “For all I know, they may still be there. Typical mels.”

I contented myself with gazing out the window and sulking, while Prince Erik dozed.

Once we were past the defensive lines, the landscape started to become dominated by trees. Huge pines and massive leafy oaks and maples cast the coaches into the shadows as the road started going up and down more steeply. Side roads led uphill or downhill, sometimes precipitously, to small farms hacked out of the dense forests.

At one point the trees to our right thinned out, revealing that there was a road leading downslope. At the base of the valley was a fast-flowing river with a mill set over it. Prince Erik followed my gaze downward and remarked, “You’ll see quite a few of those, Master. Practically every river in the Grand Duchy has at least one mill.”

“I didn’t think there was that much farming here,” I said.

“You can use water wheels for a lot more than farming,” the wolf pointed out. “There’s a great deal of mining up in the Balaur Mountains, and the mills work hot steel, iron or firestone. Others are used by foresters to cut lumber, and so on.”

“Quite an industry then, with all these trees.”

“Most of the houses you’ll see are wood, Master. Exceptions are fortresses or castles,” Prince Erik said. “As far as I recall, we have the best woodcarvers in Faerie.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “No offense to Elfhamian craftsfurs.”

“None taken,” and I chuckled, “because none of them are here to start an argument.”

The sun disappeared behind the western mountains as we started down into a valley, and the coachfurs set out magic-powered lamps so they could find their way. I took a look out and agreed that the lamps were necessary, because even in the gloaming I could see that the side of the road dropped away precipitously. “By the Lady,” I breathed.

Prince Erik glanced out the window and said in a judicious tone, “Maybe two hundred feet to the riverbank,” and he half-stood and rapped on the hatch set into the roof. The coachfur opened it and tugged his forelock in respect before Prince Erik asked, “Where will we be stopping for the night?”

“Ar, an’ it please Yer Highness, we’re puttin’ in at a FIAT in aboot another quarter-hour, Great Alpha willing,” and the coachfur closed the hatch as Prince Erik sat down, grinning happily.

“Pardon me,” I said, “but FIAT?”

“Hm? Oh? Sorry, Master. It stands for Farkas’ Inns and Ant Traders. Rooms for the night, good food, and stabling and care for ants. I suppose it’s a bit like the Empire’s Antecor stations,” he replied. He licked his lips. “I’ve eaten at a few of them, and the food was always good – part of their reputation.”

The Wolf Queen decided that this was the right time to open up her mouth. “He’ll likely starve, if it’s all lupine cuisine,” she observed with a sneer in my direction.

My turn to sneer. “I can dine anywhere, thank you, and I don’t have to hunt or chase down my supper.”

“Maybe not,” Prince Erik said as the Wolf Queen and I were about to start Round Two.

“What?” the wolfess asked.

“I recall a legend that there’s some kind of ambulatory plant life somewhere in the Southlands,” the wolf mel said. “It’s supposed to be exceptionally ugly. If I recall the balladeer, it’s called The Legendary Walking Tree of Sohomely.”

I must have looked a bit skeptical at that, until a glance at the former Chief Constable of Artemisiaford (now the Wolf Queen) reminded me that there was quite a lot of Fuma’s Shining Land that I hadn’t seen.

And I still haven’t seen nearly enough of it, which, I think, was another reason the Marshal agreed to send me on this mission.

The FIAT building was actually a small cluster of buildings, with the ant-stables and carriage house to one side, a one-story diner, and a two-story hostelry at the other end. The wood construction made it look like part of the forest, and the warm light coming from the windows gave the place a sort of a homey feel. On the whole, it was bigger than the standard Antecor setup, which didn’t usually have a full restaurant and rooms as part of the amenities.

There was a sign beside the entrance to the stables: FIAT #75. You’ll have had your tea.

As we were disembarking, there was a collective perking of ears as a long, drawn-out howl could be heard. With the echoes, it was a bit hard to place where it was actually coming from, but it appeared to be originating from a nearby mountain peak. “What’s that?” one of our diplomatic staff asked.

“’Tis the sun-sleep howl t’the Great Alpha, so it is,” one ant-tender replied. “’Twill be a fair guid nacht.”

"Sounds like an ad for cough pastilles," the Wolf Queen said very quietly to me. I refrained from laughing.

Much to my pleasure, not all of the fare was meat, and I and the herbivores in the party ate well. It was mostly breads and some greens, along with a very thick onion soup. The Wolf Queen ordered and was served a fine broiled trout, and Prince Erik attacked an herb-crusted lamb shank.

At one point, I found myself watching the prince with great fascination as he sucked the marrow out of the bone. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” I said quietly.

“Hm? Yes, Master?”

“Are you eating that, or trying to have venery with it?”

“What?” He followed my glance to his plate and he blushed slightly. “I’ve eaten only smoked or dried meat for far too long, Master – not meaning to cast aspersions on you, of course; the Great Alpha knows we could have had a far worse gaoler – but fresh meat . . . you have little idea how much I missed it.”

I nodded. He’d said something similar at the Golden Advent, and part of me wondered when he’d finally get used to the taste without looking like he was in ecstasy.

For my part, I was thoroughly enjoying my dessert when I felt the Wolf Queen’s voice through Elf-Mind. ”Are you going to keep eating that?”

”What, this ‘salted nut roll?’ It’s very tasty. Right up any herbivore’s street, really.” And it was tasty; a delicious combination of roasted acorns and walnuts, salted, and wrapped around a chewy, sugary core. ”Why do you ask?”

Her smile was a bit malicious. ”No reason, but you might be sorry you ate so much of it.”

The next morning I knew she’d been right.

Damn her.

In the garderobe the next morning, the noises as my body complained about that damned salted nut log almost eclipsed the morning howl echoing from the mountaintops. The Wolf Queen had the good grace not to laugh as I practically staggered into the coach for the next leg of our journey.

The road stayed well-paved, but it was easy to see signs of wear and for every flourishing farm we saw there was maybe another that was either struggling or gone to seed. My thoughts went back to King Adler’s words to me after the Battle of Mossford: ”Imagine, Corporal, Dame Eudora Chitterleigh. Now multiply that by ten, fifty, a hundred, five hundred or more. And it's not just the selection out of the weakest or the unfit. Wars have a tendency to take the best. The strongest, the fittest, the most clever or the most brave.”

It was a reminder of just how disruptive the Gray Horde’s war against Faerie had been, if Elfhame’s population crash after Skull Forest had been any example.

The scenery and the bright sunshine finally managed to draw me out of my brown study as we stopped for lunch. Not at another FIAT station, but at a small tavern that sold food and ant-fodder quickly and cheaply. The name on the sign was Neas Taigh, or ‘Weasel House.’

As soon as we drew to a halt Prince Erik was out of the coach, nose in the air and sniffing eagerly. He gave a practically cublike yip and made a beeline for the tavern, several wolves of our guard falling in beside and behind him. I turned to the wolfess, who was also sniffing the air. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, “but something smells great.”

I sniffed, and decided that “smells great” was a matter of opinion.

Prince Erik, his bodyguard in tow, was emerging from the tavern happily munching something on thin wooden skewers. The prince himself was eating one while holding two more in his free paw and he was grinning widely, with traces of sauce and grease matting the fur around his lips. “Wolf Queen,” he said as he approached our coach, “may I offer you one of the local specialties?” He held out the two skewers in his free paw.

My nostrils flared and my nose almost immediately regretted it. The meat was wild game, marinated in herbs and grilled, then smeared with a honey-based sauce. “What is it?” I asked.

“Sizzling weasel on a stick!” Prince Erik said with a grin.

Ulp.

The Wolf Queen took an experimental sniff and nibble at the skewer. Her eyes lit up and she started eating with gusto.

Prince Erik, happy to get in the wolfess’ good graces, said enthusiastically, “They’ve also got deep-fried ermine.”

She licked honey from her fingertips. “As good as this?”

“There are connoisseurs who would argue the point,” Erik said, waggling a paw. “Would you like some?”

“Thank you, yes!”

It looked like it was going to be a long afternoon of putting up with various odors virtually tailor-made to turn an herbivore’s stomachs. I started to contemplate spending the rest of the day riding on the roof of the coach when a prolonged subterranean rumble rolled through my belly.

I grinned. Two could certainly play at this game. All I needed to do was formulate a little bit of Gramerye to silence any noises that might give the game away.

Sure enough, about a half-hour later:

“By the Great Alpha, Master! What have you been eating?!”

“Your Lady’s ____, Master! You’re making my eyes burn!”

A motion that I be relegated to the roof of the coach was made and seconded with alacrity. My objections were overruled on a viva voce vote of those present.

I didn’t mind very much, but I expect the drivers of the other coaches behind us might have.

Eventually the various foul odors, both inside and outside our coach, stopped and I lay back on the roof to admire the clouds and the view all around me. The weather was nice and mild, neither too hot nor too cold, the clouds were fluffy, the mountains were little short of spectacular, the rock hurtling toward us appeared nicely jagged –

Wait, what?

There wasn’t much time to think about options. I pronked into the seat next to the driver, snatched his goad from his paws and snapped it straight across the rumps of the ants, who promptly gronked and scampered for their lives. The coach sped forward – just in time, as it turned out.

The rock was a respectable size, maybe two ells across, and it would have destroyed the coach I was sitting on if it had hit it squarely. Failing that, it would have swept the coach, me, Prince Erik, the Wolf Queen, and ants and all, off the cliff we were riding beside. As it was, the projectile struck the road, bounced once and went tumbling down off the cliff. We all dismounted from the coaches as the sound of the boulder crashing through trees echoed back up at us.

The Wolf Queen and Prince Erik were standing beside me, the noble looking a bit embarrassed. I found out later that when the coach had started forward, he had fallen out of his seat. He had landed on his knees with his muzzle firmly between the wolfess’ legs, and I think that throughout the course of these tales I’ve made it abundantly clear that the Wolf Queen’s preferences do not run toward mels.

Of any species.

Add to that the fact that Prince Erik has very good manners, and one can certainly appreciate his embarrassment. If any of the Auld Sweats had found himself in a similar predicament, he would very likely have been sent to Fuma’s Embrace with the widest smile on his muzzle that you ever saw.

“There’s no signs warning of falling rocks,” one of the diplomats observed.

“There’s nae sense in thot,” the coach-driver said dismissively. “Furs’d jist get confused by it – should they speed up? Should they slow doon?” He went back to soothe his still-distressed ants.

I peered up at the top of the mountain. “Is there anything up there?”

“Aye,” a member of Bloodtooth’s Cataphract replied. “Ane o’ th’ reaver’s forts. In wartime, they’re to cut the road doon here.”

“How?”

“Throw bluidy gert rocks at ‘em,” he said.

The Wolf Queen and I exchanged glances. ”The Marshall did tell me to keep an eye on Prince Erik,” I said in carefully-shielded Elf-Mind.

”Roly-Poly may have had the right idea for once,” the Wolf Queen said. She glanced up and said aloud, “It’s such a fine day, Master. I think I shall stretch my wings for a little while.”

“As you will, wolfess,” I said. Prince Erik came walking up to us, his expression stern and his tail swaying loosely. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“I’ve spoken with the leader of our escort,” he said, “and we’re close enough to it to spend the night there safely.”

“Where?” the Wolf Queen asked.

“At Fog-Run Hold,” the prince replied. “My Grandfather’s lair.”


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