FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

*****

Any fur observing me for most of the afternoon would have decided that I was either bored or that I had gone somewhat around the bend.

The squaddies who were continuing work on the forts were probably of the latter view, since most of them kept popping their heads over the parapet like feral squirrels to see what I was up to.

What I was up to, was alternately freezing and thawing a small side-eddy of the river, much to the distress of a tiny fish that no doubt was wondering why the seasons were passing so rapidly. I tried a number of different formulations until I remembered what that mad bastard Silverbrush had done: he was using the flat of his paw instead of his fingers. Seen that way, it made sense. There was more surface area in contact with the water, and one was far less likely to freeze one's digits in the river, which would have been trouble under some circumstances.

By the time dusk had settled over the area, I was able not only to freeze a shelf into the river itself (if not the whole river), I was able to thaw it, with a somewhat satisfying cracking noise. Silverbrush had been right: it was not just the energy (or anger) you put into a Gramerye formulation, but it was also the positioning of your paws, or even if you used your paws at all. I reflected that nearly all of the Gramerye that I had been taught, whether by Uncle or by Lt. Rutter, had been of a type where paw-usage had not been important. It wasn't necessary to camouflage one's self, or dispel a glamer, or make repairs. Here, though, the old tod had been demonstrating the actual and even violent manipulation of the state of physical objects. I reflected on the centuries of practice he must have had, and reflected further that it would be a very foolish elf indeed, or one that was as experienced as he, to make a challenge.

The sun had vanished behind the trees toward Flourford when I heard a soft grunt from behind me. Boy Tom Burrows was walking toward me with a brisk stride and great purpose. He had, I was very interested to see, a longbow slung around his back, and a number of arrows stuck in his belt. It made one feel safer just looking at him. I fell in a step or two behind him as we crossed the river and, technically, the border with the United Cities.

The terrain started to dip not long after we stepped onto dry land, and continued to drop until we reached a flat area. It was possible that this had been the former river-bed, and that for some reason it had shifted south some yards, possibly because of an earthquake or other natural occurrence. Looking back, I could see that a small portion of this area was "dead ground," not visible to the field fortifications. However, any movement forward or backward out of the dead ground could easily be seen, and I'm not sure I would have wanted to stay on my stomach there.

There was a grassy slope that went up at a moderately steep angle, and I used my single stick as a staff to help me keep up with Young Tom. A squadron of ant cavalry could work up quite a bit of momentum coming down, though I would have been interested to see how they would have handled coming up to the river.

We covered the first mile and a bit in a little over twenty minutes, and as we approached Lark's Rise, Boy Tom grunted and pointed east, to his right. I looked over, and saw in the very last gleams of the light a largish lake. There was an outlet that sprang down and to the east, further along, probably joining the Mill Rilver near Silverbrush's place. The lake itself was probably the size of the Albric Tor Parade Ground, and were you to have an aquatic regiment, I imagine you could have marched a good few hundred, fifty abreast, across its surface. The dim outline of a dock and some tied-up boats could be seen, and already, a few boats had been dragged onto shore and turned upside down, in preparation for winter.

It was fully dark by the time we came to the edge of the hamlet, and Boy Tom made a paw-motion at me to get down, which I did. What happened next mildly surprised me. You wouldn't think a rabbit could perform a passable imitation of an owl, but I suppose it shows me what I know. A lifetime of country living, perhaps, with plenty of inspiration. In any event, a series of soft hoots erupted from Boy Tom before he, too, crouched down.

After two or three minutes, I could see a shutter in one of the small buildings move aside, slightly, and a greenish light appeared. This must have satisfied Boy Tom, who grunted and tapped me twice on the head. I followed him as he did a crouch-run through a side street, ending up to the side of the building from where the light had shone. He stopped, made two owl-hoots, and when a door opened, slipped inside. I followed quickly, and the door shut behind me.

The room was quite dark until the light from a bull's-eye lamp was slowly revealed. There were a number of furs sitting at a rough table, and it was clear evidence of the long-standing marriage policies in the area. Every single mel around that table looked exactly like Boy Tom. Spoke like him, too. A series of grunts were exchanged among the lot. My guide indicated me with a grunt and a jerk of a thumb.

The light was put out again, and soon another window was cracked open, and a green signal was given. A minute or so later, there was a quiet piping of a lark, and a smallish figure was admitted. When the lights were turned up, a chipmunk emerged with some difficulty from the tangle of cloaks that he was embedded in.

"Confounded, blasted, stupid...why in the name of the Sacred Lady do they never put buttons...ah!" He finally managed to free himself, and with some satisfaction, looked around. He eventually spotted the one fur who didn't have prominent teeth and a terse vocabulary. He extended a paw.

"Hallo, Piers Hollow, how d'ye do. Are you Corporal Winterbough?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jolly glad to see you. Well, I mean, I was hoping for more of you, but still, one fur is better than none. I'm the assistant to Hugo Chestnut, the Burgomaster of Sainted Oaks and Chief Burgomaster of the United Cities. How much have furs told you about what's going on?"

"You've got a Grand Duchy on the other side of your border that's sniffing around and making your boss very uncomfortable. Which explains the recent treaty, which no fur is supposed to know about, I'll bet. But they do, even here."

Hollow tugged at his collar. "Errr. Yes. Well. I can assure you that we've made thorough investigations on our side, and please, don't take offence, but word was not spread from our side. Only the Council and a few assistants like myself knew of it, and even the opponents of the treaty have kept their word of honour. Well, no sense in weeping over that lot of spilled nuts."

"Except for the fact that it's causing trouble."

"Yes. Well. We've had a number of "incidents" in the last few weeks. Oh, nothing major, you understand. Windows broken at random, a few traveling merchants roughed up and robbed, whispers about certain things going wrong with the nut-flour supply, that sort of thing."

"What's the average squirrel and chipmunk making of it?"

"Well, hard to say, and that's what's been worrying Burgomaster Chestnut. Whether this is just coincidence, or whether the Grand Duchy is trying to stir something up, we can't say. And we daren't overtly call the Empire for help, y'see."

"Even with the treaty?"

"Well, y'know, it was more of a whatchamalit, a bit of reinsurance. Just in case. Only expected it to be used in certain circs, like a proper invasion."

He took me by my elbow, and gently steered me to a corner. The rabbits seemed to take no offence at that, and merely began to exchange poker-faced stares at one another. He dropped his voice.

"The Imperial Ambassador is returning to Sainted Oaks tomorrow. He's supposed to be bringing a slightly larger staff than normal. Some picked furs from the Army. Eyes and ears right at the centre, dontcherknow."

"So why me?"

"Well, our ambassador in Persoc Tor was advised that your Marshal had a backup plan, based around Mossford. Just in case things went wrong. Mentioned a name, that was it."

I winced a bit. "And how many furs know about this?"

"Only the Chief Burgomaster and myself. The scroll had been secure, and was destroyed, so I think things are safe, for the moment."

I was somewhat nervous by the fact that more furs on this side of the border knew my name, and what I was doing in the area.

"Anyway, Corporal, the Burgomaster wanted me to make contact with you, so I got your lepine chums here to help me. Solid chaps, loyal to the Council. Not like some of those blasted wolves..."

I raised an eyebrow. "Wolves?"

"Yes, small minority of 'em. Live along the border of the Grand Duchy, cause no end of headaches. Had to manipulate the elections earlier this year to get the last of 'em booted off the Council. Not sure that was a bright idea, since they've been skulking about ever since."

"Missing any that know about stranglewort?"

"Eh? Come again?"

"Never mind. So back to tonight."

"Oh, right. Well, did you get a decent recce of the hamlet, here?"

"Some. Got a pretty good feel for the terrain in between here at the Mill River at the border. Looks like old river-bottom land."

"Oh, yes. The river shifted a long, long time ago. Something about the mate of one of the local gods wanting to rearrange things. Silly legend. Anyway. You ride much?"

"Give me something to grip on, hard, I can."

"Fine. Got a fast ant outside for you. Keep one in reserve here. I'll take you down road to Sainted Oaks as far as it's safe tonight. You'll want to have a look."

This was not, in some ways, an ideal suggestion. I'm no greenhorn, but then again, I'm not Colonel Briarrose, either. Fast ants are good for a few things, but they're not exactly the most patient of beasts. After doing the lamp-douse and sneak-out, I was introduced to my ride. Given the way it waggled its antennae at me and clacked its pincers, I'm not sure it liked me, either.

Hollow helped me into the saddle, and got me safely stowed away. The ant skittered a bit, and at one point tried to buck. I got it to settle down, somewhat, by making clicking noises at it, which at least distracted it.

As I recalled from Auld Tom's map, the road to Sainted Oaks was a good one, about ten miles away. On a dry night, with little traffic, a fast ant could easily make that in about two hours. We were not, though, in a rush to try the bitter at that fair city's pubs. We made a number of stops along the way. At some points, it was to slip aside into the woods or a side-road. At others, it was to point out certain features, most especially the fork where the Lark's Rise road met the main road from Sainted Oaks to the border, and then to Flourford. At still others, the routes around the three villages on the main road.

At some points, it was to pick me up where I'd been tossed off by the ant.

Still, there was something to be said for the mode of transportation, because I could not only hear the bells of Sainted Oaks strike the mid-eve hour, I could actually see the belfries. Some of the salient features of the city were pointed out to me from a safe distance, on a wooden rise. I did see the Central Market, the Main Temple, and most notably, the imposing bulk of the Armoury. That building was the seat of government, and held the Council Chambers and the Dunjon, as well as the obvious workshops and so forth. Unlike the other buildings I saw, it was cheerless and glowered from its position in the centre of the city.

This was as close as we dared get, since I was told there was the Night Watch. There was also, of course, the question of how many unfriendly eyes there were close to the city. Still, it helped to have a least some sense of the lay of the land.

The return had its harrowing moments, mostly my own. Piers left me at the junction, largely because had to double-back again to the city, at some risk of furs spotting him. I had to make the last few miles on my own, because I needed to return the ant to its stable at Lark's Rise. The ant wanted to go home, and wasn't overly concerned whether we made it together or separately. In the end, it was separately, with me chasing the damn thing for about the last mile. So much, in that sense, for subtlety, though I could see one of the rabbits catch it just before the hamlet, and lead it quietly into its stable.

After catching my breath, and resolving to do something about my training, I met up with Boy Tom, who grunted a query at me. I grunted back, which seemed to satisfy him a good deal. And so, ultimately, back across the Mill River, and as the old expression goes, then to bed. For about fifteen minutes before Millwright blew reveille in a cheerful and vigorous fashion.

One of the rare times I cursed my rank, and my need to set an example. I wasn't Captain O'Bloom, of course, and able to stay in bed all day.