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
Dance, Ballerina, Dance

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Blunt Objects
© 2014 by Walter Reimer

Art by  tegerio

Part 24.


Ayyub had drunk tea and had a bite to eat in the field many times before, usually while encamped with the Regiment out on maneuvers. He’d had tea and a bite while waiting for a raiding party to muster up its courage and attack a caravan he was helping to guard.

Netherhells, he’d even had tea before the Battle of Tel Akom.

Of course, the tea was whatever the FAFI did to the herb after they got it from the farms, and most of what there was to eat came from magically-preserved packages or from foraging teams.

He had to concede, though, that this was probably the tensest place he’d ever had a cup.

Eleanor, Hannah, and Salome circulated around the dining room table with the teapot and plates of toast slathered in butter and apple or pear preserves. The herbal mix that Verity had given them had proved to be very useful for chasing off the chill. After everyone had drunk a cup the teapot had been emptied, rinsed, and the contents replaced with tea. It was very tasty, and went well with the food on offer.

Still, some of the company left something to be desired. Cheshire’s glaring at him was a bit off-putting.

The three fathers – his, Isabeau’s and Cheshire’s – were still looking at each other, as if waiting to start their business. Ayyub wasn’t certain, but he thought they might already be communicating via Elf-mind. He resolved to ask his father to teach him the method. It was something, he thought, that would be useful for a parent to know.

Alys sat near his mother, sipping her tea and shooting furtive looks around the room.

Finally, Farukh spoke. “Ayyub?”

“Father.”

“I would like you – and Isabeau – to go into the front parlor.” He paused. “Please.”

The tod flicked an ear. “Of course, Father. We’ll be there if you need us.” He stood up and waited for his betrothed, and they walked out of the room. After a moment, Verity followed them out and closed the door behind her.

The older vixen shook her head. “Too many voices at once,” she remarked cryptically.

“I thought they were using Elf-mind,” Isabeau said.

“That they were,” her aunt said with a sigh. “Loudly.” She sank onto a small divan and sprawled across it theatrically, one paw rubbing her forehead. “Haven’t ‘heard’ such a ruckus since Viktor told your grandfather that he was marrying me, my dear.” She smiled at Isabeau as she said this, adding, “I was pregnant with your cousin.”

Isabeau blushed red to her ear-tips, and after taking a breath asked, “Do you know what they’re talking about now?”

“Hmm.” Verity cocked her head. “Yes, I do.”

“And?” Ayyub asked.

“Your parents, Isabeau’s, and Cheshire’s folks are having a talk about him. And Alys.”

Ayyub blinked. “What? Him . . . and Alys?” He hunched forward in his seat and started rubbing his temples. “Oh, for Fuma’s sake . . . “ Isabeau laid a consoling paw on his shoulder. “What are Mother and Father thinking?”

Her paw tapped on his shoulder, and he looked at her. “Yes, maiteak?”

“Ayyub . . . “ The vixen looked a bit troubled.

“Yes, Isabeau?”

“When . . . before I met you, Father and Mother had a talk. Without me in the room.”

Ayyub blinked.

“Then . . . they sent a message to your family.”

The realization hit him like one of Cheshire’s fists. He’d just been coming back to Rajjan Tor from escorting another caravan. There had been a letter from his father waiting for him at Gareth and Marjorie’s hostel, and he’d read it while in the bath.

A day later, he’d met Isabeau.

He sat up and looked at Isabeau, whose eyes gleamed with unshed tears. They had been introduced to each other because each had not wanted an arranged marriage, and the local prospects . . . had not been suitable . . .

He drew her unresisting into his arms, and Isabeau rested her head on his shoulders as she returned his embrace. Privately, he felt that he was never surer in his life that he felt Fuma Herself hovering close, smiling in Her motherly way as Her Will was worked.

Or maybe it was just a plot concocted by two families that had worked once, and there were hopes it would work again.

Verity nodded, and he felt the touch of Elf-mind. “Yes,” the vixen said, “you should go to the Temple tomorrow. Both of you.” She smiled, and cocked her head toward the kitchen again.

Her smile shifted into a frown. Isabeau wiped her eyes, sniffed and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Her aunt rolled her eyes. “Cheshire’s being a bit difficult, the lump. Can’t say I’m surprised, really – he still doesn’t like you, Ayyub.” Her brush flicked. “Pity he’s so woodenheaded. Alys seems like a sweet girl. Ah, his mother’s laying into – ouch!”

“Aunt Verity?” Isabeau asked.

Verity rubbed her head. “Don’t mind me, but I never promised I wouldn’t eavesdrop,” she chuckled. “Salome’s good at blocking Elf-mind.”

“Can you hear anything else?” Ayyub asked.

“No. They’ll have to come out of there soon, though.”

“Why?”

Verity gave him a look. “Someone’s going to have to cook dinner.” Ayyub and Isabeau chuckled.

After a few minutes they heard footsteps on the stairs and Lucy came down with Bertram and Jake. “What’s for dinner?” the girl asked.

“Told you,” Verity said. She got up and banged a fist on the door.

“What?” Cedric called out.

“Brother, you have hungry kits out here – and me. What are you and Eleanor going to do about it?”

There was a distinct growl. After a few moments the door opened and a small purse was thrust into her paws, followed by the door shutting again.

Verity turned to the others as Aelfric came in. “Looks like dinner’s on me, kids. I know a good place in town.” The younger fennecs cheered and the others laughed. “Come on,” and she plucked her shawl off the coatrack by the front door.

There was still a group of townspeople gathered a short distance away. “What are you lot waiting for?” Verity asked.

“As if you don’t know,” one said.

“When’s Round Two?” another asked.

“Aren’t they done with their tea break yet?”

Verity glowered at the third person, who seemed to wilt. “If there’s a second round, we’ll sell tickets. For now, go on home and get some dinner.” She made shooing motions with her paws. The crowd broke up and went home, a few of them exchanging coins with varied expressions of triumph or disgust.

An old canine nudged his companion. “What about our bet?”

“No wager, old boy. They’re not fighting anymore.”

“Ah well. An Elf proposes, Fuma disposes. Alehouse?”

“Yes. Watching a good punch-up always makes me thirsty.” The two walked off.

After the last of the townsfolk had left, Aelfric walked over to his relative. “Aunt Verity?” and he offered his arm.

“Thank you, Aelfric. Come along, the rest of you.”

The inn she led them to was called The Limping Ant, and the sign depicted the odd sight of an ant with a crutch under its right midleg. Inside, the place was warmly lit and a group of buskers were playing soft music. The instruments they used were a lute, a flageolet and a small drum, and the music appeared to be a collection of local tunes. A few of the customers were singing along.

Dinner was a savory mutton stew served with biscuits. There was cider for the younger kits, while the adults savored glasses of red wine. The atmosphere was not too bright or too dark, but convivial. Dessert was an apple pie, cooked in a rustic style with no pie tin to support it.

Conversation during dinner was led by the two youngest kits, who had watched the fight with great enthusiasm. Jake beamed at his older brother. “You hit him good, Ayyub! When I grow up, I want to get into the Yeomanry so I can learn how to fight too!” He pantomimed a few punches at Ayyub, who blocked them easily as he laughed.

“Just remember one thing,” Ayyub said. “It’s not enough to know how to fight. You have to know when not to fight, too, or something bad might happen,” and he held up his maimed right paw. “I lost two fingers, but there were a few of us who lost . . . well, they went to Fuma’s Embrace,” he said solemnly, and Jake swallowed hard at the sight of the bruised stumps.

“Do they hurt?”

“A little,” the tod admitted, “mainly from punching Cheshire.” He clenched his fist and used his other paw to point at his knuckles. “See? When the fist lands, it lands right there.”

Jake winced and took a drink of his cider.

One of the buskers, a roebuck named Sears, sang a final romantic ballad, Somewhere My Love Lies Sleeping, with a male chorus supplied by the audience. Ayyub sang along, while Isabeau blushed and smiled at him. Jake and Bertram looked bored while Lucy fidgeted a bit, probably missing Godefroy back at their farm.

Verity held her wine glass aloft in a silent toast, shook her head sadly and drained it before flagging down the tapster to settle their bill.

Fuma’s musk was seen in the night skies as they headed back up the hill. Jake was riding pick-a-back on Ayyub, with Aelfric doing the same service for Bertram. The two younger brothers were nodding off from the excitement of the day by the time they reached the road junction.

Ayyub paused. “I think I’d better get Jake and Lucy to bed,” he told the others. “Good night.”

Aelfric nodded, while Isabeau gave Ayyub a gentle kiss. Verity said, “I’ll make sure your parents know you’ve gone back to the Shaded Repose. They should be done talking by now, by Fuma’s Tailfur. Come on, children,” and she led Aelfric and Isabeau up the hill.

Ayyub, still carrying Jake, and Lucy took the right-paw fork leading back to the inn. “Tired?” he asked his little sister.

“Sort of.” She seemed a bit downcast, and not all of it was from being sleepy.

“Thinking of Godefroy back home, huh?”

Her tail bottled. “How – “

“He told me, so calm down.” He grinned at her as she kept walking. “You two are a little young, but for what it’s worth I think it’s a good match.” Her tail swished a bit. “So, have you told Mother?”

“Uh-huh,” she replied. “Mother told me that she and I will be going to the Temple of Fuma when we get back.”

Ayyub nodded, recalling what he’d heard his father talking with his mother on a certain day. The occasion was his father taking him to the Shrine of Fuma the Ever-Fertile when he was seventeen.

”There’s nothing,” Farukh had said, ”like a good religious education.”