Middenly Charms

© 2017 by Walter Reimer

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

Thumbnail arts by  tegerio, with color by  Major Matt Mason!


Part 23.



The interior of the public house smelled of peat and pipeweed smoke, wolves and roasted meat, beer and toasted cheese, and candles supplemented the light coming through the stained windows. A game involving knives and spread paws was going on in one corner, the air was filled with low-voiced conversations, and in another corner a few furs were playing instruments. No, not baglutes, thank the Lady; there was a lute, a recorder, and a small drum.

It reminded me a bit of the [Sheaf of Arrows], really. A magically-gilded sable femme over the fireplace wouldn’t be out of place. The walls were decorated with an icon of the Great Alpha and smoke-stained paintings of stern-faced wolf warriors astride battle-ants.

“’Ere, buck,” one voice rose above the others and I recognized Angus, the fellow who had invited me. “C’mere, an’ I’ll stand tha lunch.” I picked my way over to the table he and several other wolves were sitting at, while a voice was raised to recite a kenning with musical accompaniment.

Angus was as good as his word, because Elves Don’t Lie; a dish of roasted carrots, corn and tomatoes was presented to me, with dense oat bread and a large mug of beer. The others ate meat-heavy dishes, with one or two eyeing me to see if the sight of carnivores tucking in would disturb me. The I&RA isn’t an herbivore-only organization, though, so it didn’t bother me.

(Apart from one incident, back when I was a private, when someone was eating a venison pasty. Couldn’t help but lose my appetite out of sympathy for a fellow cervine.)

Lunch was helped along by the very good music coming from one corner of the establishment, and punctuated by the occasional cry of pain as the knife blade nicked someone’s finger. Howls of laughter attended one of these, followed by a bit of a scuffle as chairs were shoved aside.

My ears perked and I started to get up, but Angus touched the back of my paw. “’Tis nothin’, Master o’ Elfhame. They’re guine t’have th’ Insults, they are.”

“Thanks,” I said, and took another swig of my beer as, along with everyone else in the house, I paid attention to the two combatants. The two duelists appeared to be somewhat advanced in inebriation, so honors were even for the start.

The first, a rail-thin and tall wolf with a nick in one ear, rasped, “When t’Great Alpha put teeth in tha mouth, She ruint a fine arsehole.”

The second, a bit shorter and stockier, said, “’Ere’s me, hopin’ that someday ye’ll choke on all the ____ tha talks.”

“Och, that’s a tellin’ blow,” Angus said in an aside to me. “Fergus is allus guine on ‘boot something.”

Fergus glowered. “If my face were as ugly as tha’s, I’d shave m’arse and walk on m’paws.”

“Malcolm likes thinkin’ he’s th’ Alpha’s gift t’femmes, he does,” Angus supplied helpfully. I nodded, paying attention to the combat.

“Hah!” Malcolm barked. “Keep rollin’ yer eyes, Fergus; mebbe tha’ll see a brain in there somewhere.”

“At least I have ane. Ye’ve only th’ one between tha whole family. Who’s got it t’day, I wonder?”

The two started barracking each other, the color and tone of the insults escalating as sides were drawn up and offered encouragement. Money was starting to change paws as well. I was watching closely when a vast dark shadow fell over me.

I looked up.

And up.

Quite easily the biggest, widest, most muscled wolf I’d seen towered over me, looking down at me with a single raised eyebrow. He made Ranulf, one of the wolf-prisoners back in Elfhame, look like a cub.

Angus grinned up at him. “Conlan! Sit tha doon. What news?”

Conlan bellowed at the barkeeper for a mug and seated himself beside me. “They’ll nae abide talk, Angus. It’s a settlin’ they want.” He suddenly seemed to remember that I was seated next to him. “Who are ye, buck?”

“Yon’s Master o’ Elfhame,” Angus said. “They’ll nae talk, eh? Nothin’ fer it, then.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Angus looked a bit troubled. “Next neighborhood o’er, an’ us, we’ve a dispute. Talk won’t settle things, so we’ll meet on t’field.”

“A fight?” I asked, frowning.

Conlan gave a deep chuckle. “Nae, buck, tho’ it may seem so. We’ll sort it oot with a ball game.” A sudden pained howl caused everyone to turn and look at where Malcolm and Fergus had held their insult duel. Fergus, it appeared, had been coming off poorly in the competition, and had decided to strike up the metaphorical swords by kicking Malcolm in the crotch.

Half of the crowd was yelling at Fergus and the other half were comforting Malcolm, who was on his knees and busily emptying his stomach out on the floor. Mark you, many an Auld Sweat would tell you that in combat, giving a lad a fine old punt in the balls is a winning technique. And Elves Don’t Lie; I've done it enough in post-pub crawl brawls to tell you that the fur on the other end of my hoof usually loses a good portion of whatever he's drunk in the previous six hours, as well as whatever he's eaten.

Still, it’s not very sporting, annnnnnd the Wolf Queen would not doubt be making comments as to the length of time I'm spending on mels getting kicked in their privy members, so I'll move on.

[Appended note to manuscript: “Good idea.”]

[Appended note to manuscript: “Shaddap.”]

“So, a ball game, then?” I asked. I was supposed to observe and report on lupine culture, and this seemed to be a great opportunity. “Would you mind if I came with you and watched?”

Conlan and Angus looked at each other. Conlan said, “I’d been told orff t’gather th’ lads,” and he drained his mug in a gulp. We all paid for our drinks (Angus insisted on paying for my lunch), and about twenty wolves (and one roebuck) left the Crown and Doxy.

It seemed that Angus and Conlan’s neighborhood shared a village green-sized space with the other neighborhood they were having trouble with. A square playing area that took up nearly half of the green was marked out with stakes and lines of powdered chalk, with a basket in the exact center. Two separate groups of townsfolk were setting up tables and putting chairs and blankets in position, while young cubs raced about getting underfoot. Some large ant-carts carried food, supplies, and several casks. A local priest, recognizable by his homespun robes and general air of authority, kept an eye on things, likely in an attempt to keep the fun clean.

One wolfess suddenly bawled at her mate, "Nae foightin' i'th' street, ye blitherin' eedjit! Save it fer th' ball field!"

Angus and Conlan had filled me in on the game as we walked to the green. There were two packs, or teams, in any even number from four to twenty. The ball (an inflated bag of tanned leather) could be put in motion by throwing or kicking it; carrying it was forbidden. You scored by getting the ball into the basket, and the winner was determined by whichever side scored the most goals in a mutually agreed-upon time limit. “Sounds simple,” I said when they finished.

“Aye, tis,” Angus said, “but can get a leetle rough. See that there?” he asked, pointing at a wolf’s skull on a stake near one corner of the pitch.

“Who was that?”

“Last referee we had, twenty year agone,” Conlan replied.

“Whut?”

The big wolf shrugged. “Grand Duke tho’t every ball game should have a referee. Took ‘em oot th’ prison at Sliabh Bas.” He hawked and spat, expertly scoring a bull’s-eye on the skull. “Me Mum tells that he gave a penalty, an’ both sides disputed it.”

“I’m guessing he lost the argument.” Conlan laughed and poked me in the shoulder, which nearly knocked me off my hooves.

The priest walked over to us. “Where’ve tha lot been?” he boomed. “An’ who’s this?”

“Been doon at pub,” Angus said, “an’ this’s t’Master o’ Elfhame.”

I gave a slight bow. “Westersloe Winterbough, Fifth of his Name, sir.”

He gave me a scowl. “I’ll grant ye guest-richt, young Westersloe. You lot, shake tha tails! I’m holdin’ firth a two-hour match,” he said loudly, which raised a cheer from some and groans from those wolves who would be taking part, “an’ I say, in’t Alpha’s Name, tha’ll be playin’ with twelve a side!” More cheers and some laughter greeted this, but an older wolf mel stepped forward, waving a paw. The other was occupied with holding a mug of beer. “What, Seamus?”

“Wuffa ain’t comin’,” Seamus said. “Sick.”

“Sick, is it? He ain’t sick till he’s daed, an’ he ain’t daed till he’s buried!” the priest declared, to general hilarity. “That gies tha eleven, richt? ‘Twon’t do, ‘twon’t do. Angus? Hae ye anyone else?”

Angus started looking around, his ears and tail drooping as the other shook their heads.

“Um, excuse me?” I looked a bit startled when I saw that my paw was raised. “Excuse me?”

The priest pointed. “Th’ public-house has a garderobe, buck. Noo – “

“I want to play.”

He blinked and looked at me. I think everyone else did, too.

“An’ art tha famil’ar with th’ rules?”

“Angus told me about them, yes.” It seemed awfully simple. How hard could it be?

The priest harrumphed and explained it to the rival neighborhood, who grudgingly agreed to the substitution. The two twelve-fur teams drew up facing each other on opposite sides of the pitch, and the priest trotted out onto the field with the ball under one arm. He applied a cantrip to his throat and his amplified voice rang out.

“There’s a break on th’ half-hour – can’t hae tha gettin’ parched,” and the onlookers cheered, “so put tha trust in’t Great Alpha’s Merciful Paws, an’ play fair!” With that, he threw the ball straight up into the air, and we started running toward it as fast as we could.

Now, I’m a roebuck, which means I’m rather small; personally, I’m shorter than average. But I have certain advantages, not the least of which is the ability to move extremely quickly if I feel the need to do so. Plus, I’m Elfhamian, and there’s very little that gets an Elfhamian buck’s blood running hotter than the prospect of a row. My teammates howled as we swept forward, the sound punctuated by roebuck barks.

The ball had fallen to the grass, bounced, and rolled slightly away from us and toward our rivals. I put on a burst of speed and managed to get a paw on it before a wolf plowed straight into me at speed. I was knocked head over hooves and damned near ended up stuck into the ground by my antlers. One of the opposing team grabbed at the ball, only to be bowled off his feet by Conlan, who scooped up the ball and threw it downfield toward a teammate.

I was getting to my hooves and Conlan said, “On yer feet, tha!” before he took off running to where an untidy snarl of wolves had gathered, trying to get forward to the goal with the ball.

It suddenly dawned on me that I had the honor of the Imperial and Royal Army of Faerie, as well as the Bucks of Elfhame, riding on me in this game. No damned wolf was going to beat me!

I raced after the crowd and plunged in, getting elbowed and dodging kicks until I dove and wrapped my arms around the ankles of the opponent who had the ball. He had been in the process of throwing it, and my interruption of his movement caused the ball to go awry. I barked as one of my team caught it, passed it to another player, who kicked it to one of the two players who were standing sentry over the goal.

He caught it, fought off the opponent’s attempts to snatch it away from him, and threw it into the basket. First point to us!

There was a pause as the priest came forward, took the ball out of the basket, and tossed it up in the air again. We all went pounding off after it, and battle resumed.

Yes, I said ‘battle,’ and this was probably the best melee I’d been in that didn’t involve me drawing my short-staff and using it to best effect. By the time the priest bellowed to stop play, we were all needing a round of beer and a bite to eat as we caught our collective breath. The prospect of a cold mug of the Gray Horde beer was a cheerful one, to be sure.

Less cheerful was the fact that we were tied with the opposing neighborhood, 1-1.

I was sitting on the grass rubbing feeling back into a shoulder when I heard a voice say, “Hmmph. I would have expected you to be fighting somewhere.” I looked up to see the Wolf Queen towering over me. She wasn’t carrying Sun-and-Moon or showing her wings.

“Hello, wolfess!” I said cheerfully. “For your information, I have not been fighting, and Elves Don’t Lie. I’ve been playing a friendly ball game,” and I raised my mug to my teammates, who returned the toast. “How have you been? Is everything all right?”

“Everything has been handled . . . satisfactorily,” and I got the impression that this was all the reply I was likely to get.

“That reminds me. Have you met the wolf-femme soldiers at the High Lair?”

Her ears went up. “Wolf-femme soldiers?”

“Yes. They’re called Duchess Gruoch’s Dainties, and one asked if you were up for some ‘sport,’ as she put it.”

“’Sport.’”

I nodded. “That’s what she said. In the meantime, get yourself a beer and watch the game. We’re tied right now, and I think you’re attracting an audience,” and we glanced over to my left where a small crowd of adult femmes and cubs were gathering.

The priest started bellowing for the second period, so I got to my hooves and joined the rest of my team. The Wolf Queen walked over to the crowd, but I didn’t see how that turned out, as the ball was put in play again.

The other neighborhood had apparently spent the interval plotting strategy, since they set out a string of team members all the way to the goal so that they could keep the ball in motion. They scored their second goal that way, and managed to keep us out of it until the next interval.

We came straggling back to our side, down 2-1, and the Wolf Queen gave me a mug of water. “Water? Where’s the beer?”

She smirked. “Beer is for closers, and after that sorry performance you don’t deserve it.”

“You wound me.” That netted me another smirk, and I gave her my (empty) cup and went in search of Angus and Conlan.

It was time to prove the old wheeze that every squaddie in the I&RA carries a Marshal’s baton in his knapsack.

The third period opened with us driving forward in a flying wedge, scattering our opponents before one of us grabbed the ball and tossed it. We managed to keep it out of enemy paws until the ball was thrown into the goal, evening the score and causing our supporters to cheer.

Our opponents gave as good as they got, though, and back and forth the contest raged, pretty much from one corner of the square to another. We all headed back to our respective sides for the final interval with a few players limping and some nursing bruises and black eyes.

This time, the Wolf Queen offered me a foaming mug of beer and an apple. “You’re improving.”

“Thank you,” I said after drinking off half the mug at a swallow. I bit into the apple and asked with my mouth full, “How are you doing?”

This time the Wolf Queen smiled. “The beer is quite tasty, and everyone has been quite friendly.”

“Good.” I dusted off my Elfhame Rangers uniform. A futile gesture, really; it would require several cantrips to clean it and mend the small tears and holes that had gotten into the fabric over the past ninety minutes.

The priest looked hard at each side before marching onto the pitch with the ball. “Tha has done champion,” he said. “Will tha continue till t’end?”

“YES!” we all roared, wolf howls and roebuck barks mingling.

“Richt. Off tha goes, then,” and he threw the ball up in the air and scrambled for the sidelines.

The other side managed to score again almost immediately, and there was a lot of racing about with the ball either rolling in the grass or flying the through the air, impelled by either paw, foot or hoof. With time running out, someone on the other side made a critical error and threw the ball where I could snatch it out of the air.

I heard a distant thunder as the opposing side stampeded toward me, intent on taking the ball away and probably trampling me into the sod in the process. I looked around with growing panic, looking for someone to throw or kick it to.

Powerful paws suddenly grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and the seat of my pants, and I went flying.

And no, I didn’t try to pook, thank you. I could see where I was going.

Where I was going, was straight into the basket.

At the exact last second, I put out my arm.

The ball hit the bottom of the basket maybe a heartbeat before I did.





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