The Book of Wind: The Quest for the Crystals, #1

By E.E. Blackwood

The World of Vida is war-torn between the forces of the messianic Zuut, and the Retainers who oppose his global rule.

Enter Regina Lepue, a skunk left orphaned after canine bandits destroyed her village. Regina has grown up believing that all canines are evil -- but what about the nameless canine who fights the Zuut's rule? His claims that Vida's World Stones are in peril seem authentic, but can Regina believe this ruthless killer's "quest for the crystals"? Or is willful attachment to the "safety" of childhood trauma much too precious to let go of?

The award-winning author of The Master of Monsters brings you a new tale of high-fantasy adventure and psychological oblivion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sterile Dirt Press
• Release date: Jul 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386881155

Book preview

1. Smoke upon the Moors

Regina Lepue awoke to the distant bray of ponies outside her open window. Across from where she slept, she saw several streams of light shimmer into the midnight sky over the barrier of thuja evergreens that protected the crop fields beyond the village gates. The young skunk kit wondered in partial wakefulness if Mr. Spikeclaw and his three sons were out among the wetlands, letting off fresh fireworks in preparation for the coming Harvest Festival, in just a week’s time.

Regina loved the Harvest Festival. It was a seven-day-long celebration of a year’s hard work of slaving over the crop fields. If the Goddess, Mother Azna, blessed Altus Village with a fruitful harvest, all was well for preparation for the village’s trade agreement with Keeto Town, across the moors.

But of all the villagers, Regina loved the Harvest Festival most, because it also marked the coming of her own little celebration. Regina Lepue was but a mere stone’s throw from her eighth birthday.

Summer air howled in from the night air, called to her. She could hear the exterior shutters shiver against hooks that held them open. Slowly, Regina crawled out of bed and crossed the darkness of her bedroom. A warm gust tousled the fur upon her face and brought her drowsy skunk mind to dull awareness.

To her disappointment, the fireworks didn’t explode into radiant plumes or intricate constellate images. They instead arced the air over the village, vanished past the top of her window frame.

She leaned out her window in wait for more fireworks to appear. Regina wondered if her papa had returned from his meeting yet and prayed he wouldn’t come to kiss her goodnight, only to find her up and out of bed at such a late hour.

Outside, several dozen more streams of light let off into the air, arcing again over the village. Some of the fireworks glanced off the cobblestone. Others pierced neighbouring hay-thatched roofs.

These weren’t real fireworks – were they?

This perplexed Regina. She hoisted herself up over the edge of her windowsill and took a hard look at whatever it was that now lay blooming, smouldering, a few feet outside her bedroom window.

It was a feathered stick, its very tip a raw ball of fire, with a small ceramic orb tied to the flame-licked portion of the shaft. The unmistakable scent of kerosene filled Regina’s nostrils. The liquid seeped out from a crack in the orb, forming a small pool in the street. An instant trail of fire followed.

Regina gasped.

A loud crackle startled her, like the sound of a felled tree splintering right above her. It was then that she realized the hay ceiling had bloomed to life, burning away to caustic smoke that filled the bedroom.

Flames dripped around Regina, upon the woven carpet made by her mother. She watched dumbfounded while flakes of fire drifted around her, catching to the drapes, to linens, to paw-crafted toys, to anything they whispered past.

"...gina...! – Regina!!..."

Her bedroom door burst open against the roaring shoulder of her papa, with mama close behind. The sword scabbard at his hip swayed with frantic immediacy as he swept into the room. Regina was in his arms in an instant. As he drew away from the fiery carnage, Regina watched in horror while her bed became quickly devoured by fallen chunks of burning roof-thatch.

What’s happening? her mama cried. Thomas, what’s—

They’ve found us, Gloria, he said with finality.

Thomas Lepue led his family through their small home, where flames had already started to descend the simple walls of field rock and consume everything. Regina and her parents headed to the entry space, where the front door stood wide open and waiting for their escape.

The streets were alive and dense with the frantic shouts from rabbles of farmers; wives, husbands, and children newly awakened to an unforeseen attack upon their homes, their livelihood. Thomas passed Regina into Gloria’s arms. "Take Regina and find Elder Rombard; he should still be back at the Scythe and Stone with Krum and the others. They’ll take you to safe passage – Go!"

Thomas, I’m not leaving you— Gloria started to say. Regina squirmed, reached out for him, crying out, No, Papa, don’t!

Thomas drew the sword at his hip free and started towards the village gate, where others – Grimmish Solomon, Tyrael Ravenoth, Zenova Albrecht, and others raced with weapons of their own drawn and ready. Don’t argue! Go!!

He suddenly paused, returned to his wife and child. He placed a gentle kiss upon his daughter’s brow, then upon his wife’s lips.

Go with Mother Azna.

You too, Thomas, said Gloria. Tears flowed from her little skunk eyes. She grabbed him by the shoulder and placed a deep kiss upon his lips. Thomas brought her close and embraced his family for a long time. And then without another word, he pushed his wife and daughter into the rapid current of fleeing neighbours, friends, and relatives.

Regina turned her cheek into her mother’s fur and found the village gates. There, the silhouette of her papa gazed out into the haze of a red-black sky with sword held at his side. Past his hip, Regina saw a great horror never thought possible.

The crops were burning.

Townsfolk equipped with pails and buckets brimming with fresh water rushed past. At the sound of their arrival, Thomas turned away from the village gates with an expression of pure defeat upon his face. For a moment, Regina thought his eyes met hers. She outstretched her paw at him, body wriggling against her mother’s embrace as she was carried in the opposite direction.

Papa, don’t leave us!

But it was no use. She and her mama were swallowed up into a sea of moles, skunks, hedgehogs, hares, and rodents in an instant.

EARLY MORNING RAYS spilled across the Altusian Moor as it wept forenoon dew before broken perimeter fences. Beyond a breached wall of burnt evergreens lay dead fields, corrupt by smouldering crops before the wreckage of a small farming village. Thick black smoke plumed into great dark clouds that ruined the clear sky.

Winds from off the open wetlands shrieked through lifeless roads and alleyways. Homes that once brimmed with song were now silent. Meagre field rock walls stood crumbling, etched black by sulphur. Hay roofs lay collapsed within or were burned totally away. Window shutters, streaked by flame and smoke, creaked free with no one to lock them shut. In the streets, water buckets thumped bone-dry across cobblestones forever stained with the blood of those who fought and those who fled.

Regina sat alone and shivering upon the lip of the village square’s stone water well. A filthy nightgown clung to her body, smeared with grime and mud, blood that wasn’t hers. The chill of a new day stung her tear-stained cheeks. The stench of death and burnt crops hung inside her nostrils.

Fifty paces ahead, her papa laid among those who swore to protect the village gate. Mama was still missing. They’d been separated in the night, fleeing to safety with the others towards a place of scythes and stones.

They’d been pushed, pulled, thrown in all directions. All around, thatched rooftops burst into flames, fleeing townsfolk were felled by rogue fire-arrows – Regina remembered the begging eyes of Westley Horne, a little rat boy crushed beneath the great weight of his dying grandpapa...

And then the canines had spilled into the street, hewing their way through everyone with sabres and halberds. In one fell swoop, Regina and her mama were pulled beneath the commotion, and...

Regina shuddered.

Now, the farming tribe of Altus Village was but an open grave. There was no trace left of the canines that wrought the tribe’s destruction. Their retreat had been as swift as their assault.

The grieving wind howled. Regina wiped her eyes, leapt down from the well, and took hollow steps towards her papa. He lay on one side, arms outstretched as though to embrace her. His sword lay chipped and stained in the dirt at his shins. Regina fell to her knees, placed her little skunk nose upon his parted lips. They were so cold, breathless.

Papa... She nudged him gently, but he didn’t react. She shook him, hard. He didn’t grunt, nor did his faded eyes squint at her. She slapped his shoulders and pinched his ears, but he didn’t flinch, nor scold her. "Papa ... Papa – please, get up ... Get up!!"

But he did not. And though Regina continued to shake and scream for his reaction, only her echoes upon the wind replied.

Regina shivered, laid herself down against her papa’s body. For awhile she simply remained with him. And as the father sun stretched midday shadows across the village, Regina found herself in a state of haze between unsettled rest and frightened wakefulness.

The fierce wind finally relented. Soon, thunder boomed. Regina closed her eyes against the pelt of raindrops between her ears. Spittle darkened the cobblestone streets. The little skunk whined against her papa’s ruined tunic, but not even he could keep her dry and safe now.

Nearby, layers of canvas used to cover firewood flapped in the breeze, trapped beneath a pile of fallen latticework. Regina hesitantly climbed to her footpads and went over to it. She pushed aside the rubble of splintered wood and gathered up as much canvas as her little arms could carry. It would make for a suitable blanket against the storm. She headed back to her papa, bent down and placed a loving kiss upon his damp brow, then lay the canvas over him.

Regina went back to the pile and bit through a larger piece and wrapped it about herself like an oversized rain shawl. She then gathered her tail into her arms for a semblance of warmth and began to wander through the village ruins in search of her mama.

Skunks by nature have terrible eyesight. It was difficult for Regina to see much of anything too clearly past what any mammal might consider a few feet in normal situations. Her vision was made worse off due to the heavy rain that caused thick grey smoke to plume the streets.

Bodies of those Regina knew and loved surrounded her at every step. Only hours before had they been at peace and asleep, impatiently awaiting the coming of the Harvest Festival that would now never arrive. It was to be a celebration of a summer’s-long hard work, a testimony to the bounty and blessings of Mother Azna upon the village. And the final verses of the Song of the Harvest, proclaimed by all during preparation, would ring high even above the greatest of mountain peaks:

...For Harvest marks Our Lives’ good work ... For Harvest marks Our Lives’ good work...

Regina felt ill. She stopped to rest inside the pony livery outside of Mr. Griswold Spikeclaw’s general store and watched heavy rainfall splash into overflowing puddles in the street.

Regina sniffed away fresh tears, when a faint but familiar aroma swathed through the stench of corruption, into her nostrils. It was the smell of roses and orchids – a fragrance Regina knew so well.

Mama!

Hope swelled into her heart. She pulled the makeshift canvas hood overhead and ventured back out along the road towards the place of scythes and stones, where she had become lost from her mama.

She followed the fragrance, sniffing the air with such force her nostrils could have bled. Though she was blind along the smoggy streets, she was no longer afraid, no longer alone. Her mama’s smell brought only love and the memory of song. Ghosting bonds of tender paw pads stroked along Regina’s arms like gooseflesh.

The smoke engulfed her, though despite her poor vision, Regina recognized blotches and shadows of buildings and roadways as the western route at the edge of the village. This had been where they had been separated in the night. She searched through the din, calling out over and over, but there was no response despite how strong her mother’s fragrance was here.

Regina pushed onward, determined. The dense vapour that clung to the village ruins parted. A silhouette appeared in the distance – the outline of a standing figure.

Regina’s glazed eyes focused. She slowed to a halt. Heavy downpour kept the figure’s identity secret, but the familiar aroma was at its strongest here. Regina’s lips bloomed into a relieved smile. Filled with renewed vigour, she raced towards the silhouette.

Mama!

Whomever it was hidden by the rain noticed her immediately, but pulled away within the embrace of dense fog that rolled in around them. A voice called out to her: ... Reggie ... Go back ... Go and find yer father ...

Regina gasped. Mama! Mama! Wait!

The shawl of canvas became loose around her body with every rapid footfall upon the ruined cobblestones. It soon fell away at Regina’s heels, but she ignored her nakedness to the rain and threw herself into the smokescreen that had swallowed up her mama, safe and well after all.

Mama! Mama! Wait for me!

But nobody greeted Regina within the fog. She threw desperate glances all around. She called out to the howling wind, over and over – "Mama! Mama!!" – But nobody was there to answer her.

Regina heard the creak of wood on chain, faint against the hiss of the rain. She drew towards a new shadow that hung high up in the air, not too far away from where she stood. Her wet eyes barely made out what became a wooden scythe sealed in wooden stone.

The sign was attached to the eaves of a long two-storey building made with cubed stone walls and curved stone shingles – far sturdier than the homes made from mud-packed field rock and hay-thatched roofs that now lay in ruins throughout the remnants of the village. It was the only building of its kind in Altus. Not even Elder Rombard lived in such luxury.

Regina didn’t know much of this place, other than it was the place she was not allowed to go, but she did know grownups came here for food and drink. She knew it best as the place where her parents met often with the Elder and others in the village to discuss important, secret, matters not meant for the ears of younger kin.

But now, its many windows were dark and its double doors stood wide open before empty stone steps that led down to the street.

Mama! Regina shouted. Where are you?!

Her voice resounded into the endless ether.

Mama ... Mama ... Mama ...

Where are you ... are you ... you ...

The wooden sign creaked on wind-blown chains.

Something within the darkness of the stone building caught the corner of Regina’s eye. She used the back of her paw to wipe away raindrops and fresh tears. The doorway loomed over her like the open maw of a weeping monster, with darkened windows on either side like eyeless sockets. There she noticed a shadow within the entrance. It sank deeper inside the building.

Mama.

Regina rose to a stand and took hesitant steps towards the Tavern of the Scythe and Stone. She broke into a stride up the stairs, consumed by thoughts of not just her mother inside this place, but also of Barty Molonue and his parents, as well as Gerta Adams’ family and Tesla and Oliver Bronte – among many, many, others. They were together feasting a great breakfast as plans were underway to recuperate whatever crops managed to survive the midnight blaze.

What Altus Village had endured was but a test by the paw of Mother Azna. The Harvest was not lost, nor would it ever be – Regina just knew it.

When she reached the top of the stairs, it was a struggle to breathe, the excitement at what lay inside was too much for her heart. All the food, blankets, familiar faces, and most important – her mama’s embrace, her gentle voice, her fragrance – roses and orchids.

Regina giggled. Her empty stomach roared with renewed appetite. She threw herself into the shadows past the open doorways and entered into darkness.

2. The Secret of the Scythe and Stone

Inside the tavern, Regina found only disarray. Candle sconces mounted to load-bearing pillars and oak archways provided only darkness beneath chairs that had been pushed away from their tables. Half-drained goblets were left to ripen the air with stale odours. Plates of foodstuffs lay abandoned to decay for a feast of flies. Dartboards hung in each corner of the main hall, each with clusters of forgotten feathered knives forever stuck to their numbered faces. Large wall posters that announced events of celebration for the coming Harvest Festival hung cast in shadow.

Hullo? Regina’s voice filled the empty tavern hall. Mama, are you here?

Only the hiss of the rain outside answered.

Regina shivered, cold and damp. Clutching her tail close to her chest, she weaved between tables and overturned chairs, led by flexing nostrils – but even her mama’s aroma had become lost to the stuffiness of soured drink, spoiled edibles, and faint remnants of fear.

Another scent filled Regina’s nostrils. Blood.

The coppery odour was fresher than anything else in the tavern. Regina sniffed her way over to an impressive curved serving bar that spanned the majority of the tavern hall’s right-hand side. Tall, velvet-seated stools stood pushed together around the serving bar like patches of metal trees. Some lay felled on their sides.

Regina hedged careful steps along the very edge of the bar with paw digits raking through bristled tail fur. The little skunk envisioned her mama cowering in the corner, licking at wounds. She imagined wild eyes, filled with pain and bemusement – widened, softening, at the realization that her daughter was not only safe and alive, but there with her. She heard her mama’s voice call out to Regina and throw her arms wide open to embrace her.

Mama! Regina bounded around the edge of the bar with excitement in her heart. On the other side she found only darkened shelves and cabinets. A light breeze brushed against her shins. It was stagnant and rich with the scent of blood and ... food.

Regina’s eyes fell upon dark ruby droplets between her footpads that trailed along the hardwood floor and vanished into shadows beyond the reach of the edge of the serving bar, where the breeze seemed to emanate from. She looked over-shoulder and saw that she had unwittingly followed a path of spilt blood this whole time.

It was then when she noticed planks of false hardwood leaned against the edge of the bar and an adjacent cupboard. Within the deep darkness, a secret hole appeared in the floor.

Regina carefully stepped around the hole and fell to her paws and knees to peer over the edge. Her nose twitched against the grip of damp earth from within. Just below the lip, an unsteady staircase made with rope railings and slabs of wood led down to dark soil exposed only by the dim light around Regina. Her shadow stretched across the cellar’s distant dirt floor.

Hullooo? she called. "Mama, are you down there? ... Mama, it’s me!"

Upon closer inspection, the rope staircase looked as though someone had gone at it with swift axe strokes, but had given up or had been pulled away in mid-process. A section of the upper part of the stairs was unfastened from the wall, causing the frame to sway unbalanced to one side where large nails kept the opposite end intact. The frame and railing sported deep gashes of unwinding manila and jute; splintered ends curled skyward like paw digits of a mammal reaching out in anguish.

Is Mama down there...?

The first step wobbled on uneasy threads beneath Regina’s bare footpad. She clung to what secure rope remained, descending into the hidden cellar as twine further peeled and snapped all around her. Regina dared not to look down as she groped along. It was a long drop – at least, a long drop for a small skunk. Gravity pushed her body into the unbalanced frame, caused the ropes to burn into flesh beneath fur and tear into her grasping palms.

Strained manila snapped all around her with noises like someone were plucking lute chords. Jute knots came undone and before Regina could stabilize her weight against the frame, the whole mid-section sagged like a heavy grain sack.

Regina shrieked, clung to whatever possible while wood slabs beneath her footpads simply vanished. She kicked, scrambled to hook her heels to ropes, the grooves in the wall, anything, but the frame’s unbalanced weight caused her body to slowly twirl in both clockwise and counter directions. Steam wavered from her paws as the ropes cut deeper into her grip. Her arms quickly lost strength, despite attempts to pull herself back up. Regina let out a yelp of pain and lost her grasp. Her shrieks filled the air while her body fell backwards. Then there was only sudden and sharp weightlessness.

SHE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS beneath a net of untwined ropes and splintered wood. The soil beneath her was soft, cool. The stagnant air was filled with various blends: nuts, berries, cheeses, breads. The scents roused Regina. She burrowed her way out of the wreckage of the fallen staircase and rose onto unsteady footpads. Her already unreliable eyes saw everything quadruple. She rubbed them until they were sore and stars appeared. Her brain felt like a trampled pumpkin. She thanked the Goddess nothing appeared to be broken.

Before her, several ceiling-high shelving units lined the right-hand area, like a makeshift wall. Midway down, two load-bearing oak pillars created a gap between them, like an archway into the next part of the cellar. She wobbled past large standing barrels branded with runic letters W-I-N-E (whatever that was) and larger kegs stacked on their sides like pyramids, branded with runic letters A-L-E (whatever that meant). Both smelled awful. The shelves, however, were host to all sorts of delicacies kept safe and secret inside bulging burlap sacks and pine boxes of various sizes.

Regina sniffed along open baskets and their contents – berries, nuts of every kind; jars of live and candied grubs presented themselves to her like a peace offering for the rope stairs mishap. Regina’s stomach grumbled to life. She used the hem of her nightgown to gather up whatever small edibles possible.

Nibbling on a walnut, she explored the area for further food and comfort and found two filled-up wicker bread baskets against the far corner of the cellar. The loaves were massive – twelve feet high, at least! To Regina, who as a child was only a little bit over two feet tall – about the size of a full-grown rat – they were of a goddess’ design. Her hungry eyes grew as large as the mother moon. She crunched the walnut into oblivion and scampered dutifully towards the bread baskets.

Everything dropped out of Regina’s nightgown when she pulled free one of the heavy loaves. She brandished it overhead like a stubborn patch of dandelion finally uprooted, and plunked down between the baskets. She looked upon the oak archway that led to the other side of the cellar. Though she couldn’t make out what lay beyond, her eyes feasted upon the darkness as she did the bread.

For a time, she ate in silence. Her mind was blank. Eyes grew listless, stared off into nothingness. Soon, the bread was but crumbs in her lap. Then, the berries she had dropped were gone. The fallen cheeses and nuts too were no more. Everything from inside her hem-basket had been consumed. Regina’s hunger was a sea’s vortex that dared to swallow every ship and island in its reach.

Fallen clutter sounded from beyond the archway. Regina leapt to her footpads, dropping another half-eaten bread loaf to the dirt. She dared a careful peek past the pillars. Large pyramid-laid kegs and barrels lined the shadows of the far wall. A harvest table to the right was the centerpiece to pushed-back chairs and fallen quills and papers that littered the ground around them. Folded sheets gusted through the din, like moulted feathers.

Just a fallen stack of documents, that’s all it was. Regina let out a sigh of relief. One of the fluttering pages swooped into her chest and fell upturned into her paws. She gazed down into a grid of detailed charts, benchmarks, and runic legends of a topographical expanse that represented the Keeton Forest, the Altusian Moor, and all that closely surrounded them.

Papa... Regina whispered behind the choke of fresh tears. She hugged the map close to her body. The map he had finished only two days before. He’d been so happy to be done with it, just in time for that night’s council meeting. The sweet scent of lavender and duskroot smoke – his scent – clung to the canvas sheet like he was right there with her.

Her nose buried into the map and took in great whiffs of him. But there was something else, too. Something filthy, bloody ... it was the scent of something, something – someone else down here with her.

Hullo? ... Mama, is that ... is that you? Regina stuffed the map down the front of her nightgown and investigated.

Two small orbs flashed from the darkness near the back of the room. ...Get ... get away ... I told ye, go – go and find yer father...

Regina’s eyes focused upon a trembling hedgehog. He lay curled into a ball between some stacked barrels against the far corner. Drooping eyes glared at her. Bristled spines quivered, ready to fend off the unwelcome.

His name was Dwain, a few years older than Regina at twelve, and the middle son of Mr. Griswold Spikeclaw. She recognized him from errands to the general store. He was always either busy stocking shelves or on his way out the door to deliver goods of recent import from Keeto Town. Regina had no real opinion of him, other than she thought she liked him. Because of the difference in their ages, the children were mostly strangers to each other. Dwain was always nice to her, at least.

"By the paw of the Goddess, sod off, girl! he snarled behind a croak of pain. If’n I’m gonna die ... I’ll do so in peace, yeah. Don’t ... don’t need no rank skunk ... to help suffocate ..."

It took Regina a moment to realize that the visible trail she had followed up until now ended with Dwain. He shifted away from her, momentarily revealing the fact that he cradled a crushed and splintered paw close to his body.

You’re ... you’re hurt, she said, shifting closer to him.

Dwain winced. Aye, but it’s nothing a hardy Spikeclaw can’t mend with a tub o’ mead. At least, well, that’s what Da always declared, yeah. Oi, yer own father be a worried mess about ye.

Regina stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly, shook her head no.

Dwain’s chin fell. Aye ... Alone, too, are ye.

Have you seen my mama? Regina asked. I’ve been searching all over, but...

Dwain’s sleepy gaze firmed up. He said quickly – too quickly, perhaps, No. I ain’t seen her.

Regina blinked. B-but ... I – I followed her here though, and she came inside, and if you are here too, would you not have—

I ain’t seen her. Dwain stared Regina down with hard deliberateness. His eyes softened when he saw the despair in Regina’s heart. Must’a been me you followed in here, yeah. I’m sorry.

...Okay. She started away from Dwain, mind foggy and numb to any new words he spoke to her. Her knees buckled under footpads that turned to ash motes. She clutched to a leg of the harvest table, but crumpled to her knees anyhow. Fresh tears spilled free. She turned away from the hedgehog and used her tail to cover her face while she wept, filled with shame and defeat.

Oi! ... Oi, lass— Remorse filled the air. Regina heard Dwain shift his weight. He said in a stronger voice, "Hey ... ye – ye name’s Regina, right? Reggie – That’s what yer mum calls ye, yeah? Ye gals come into the shop alla time! I remember ye, I does, yeah... He fought back a fit of coughs. Oi, then, ain’t no time for tears! Not all is lost!"

Regina sniffled, used the back of her paw to wipe her nose. She looked at him over-shoulder with large sad eyes.

Dwain, now sitting up against one of the many barrels, flashed her a bright grin. Aw, there’s a bessy, then. Rescue’s on its way, yeah, I promise ye that, said Dwain. Once word is on the wind, all the merchants of Keeto Town will come to wage war on the curs who dared to invade us, with Alexia the Sage leadin’ the charge! In the meantime, we can’t stay down here forever.

Nowhere to go, said Regina. I broke the stairs.

Dwain blanched. Then burst out into uproarious laughter, cut short by a fit of choking coughs. Don’t tell me that – that racket all those ages ago was ye, then, yeah? I – I thought the whole place was comin’ down! He took a deep breath, wiping one eye with his free paw. Those ropes were frog’s droppin’s t’begin with, but if a girl yer size brought the whole thing to its knees! Such a mighty li’l thing ye must be!

The hint of a smile dared to blossom at the corners of Regina’s lips. She hiccupped a small giggle.

Dwain uncoiled himself, sitting with legs splayed wide out. His tunic was just as filthy as her nightgown. Welts and gashes throbbed to life where fur and spines should have been. Regina’s sad gaze fell to his mangled paw. He shifted it into the safety of the shadows, out of her sight.

Well then, now what? he asked. I ain’t dyin’ in frunna ye. T’would jus’ be ungentlemammal-like. How’dja manage out there, anyhow? Yer alive, and somehow unbroken. Remarkable, really. A true Harvest blessing!

Regina shrugged with shoulders so heavy her head bobbled. She didn’t know what to tell him. There had only been darkness, and the heavy weight of so many, the wails and the moans of the young and the old all above and around her. They had buried her. Buried her deep. So deep she lay hidden. Hidden, and safe...

She shuddered and rose to a sudden stand to stave off the memories.

I agree, said Dwain. He grappled onto the barrel behind him and struggled to his footpads. Wincing with pain, he started along the back wall towards where further shadows gathered, using the barrels to keep him upright. Here, lend me a paw a moment. Maybe we can get it open now.

Regina’s ear twitched. She looked his way. "...Get what open?"

"Da told me – if’n there’s ever any trouble to come here straight-away. Down to the tavern’s cellar, he tol’ me, You kits git on over there like the lightening were biting at yer tail, that’s what he kept tellin’ us. The shadows swallowed him up while he spoke. The keg in the corner – put your shoulder into the keg in the corner..."

Regina followed Dwain’s trail and found him patting around one of the large kegs stacked in the opposite corner. His digits hooked around a hidden lip upon one of the exposed lids.

He flashed another stoic grin at Regina. Here we go! C’mere and help put all your hate into this thing. It’s too heavy for me on m’own, with this broke paw. Let’s see if we can crack this barrel open!

Regina hesitated. ...Where does it lead to?

Does it matter? Dwain asked. The moor, Keeto Town, maybe. Outta this grave tomb is all I know for sure.

...Out of the village? A chill coursed through Regina’s body. Were she to help Dwain and leave here, that would mean she would leave everything behind. Her home ... her parents ... But what if rescue comes? Like you said, people from Keeto Town might...

Reggie. Dwain glared deeply into her soul. Do ye wanna live?

Regina’s fretful eyes met his. What?

Do ye wanna live, I asked.

Regina’s thoughts drifted. She couldn’t find the words to answer him. She considered everything up until now for long, long, minute. There was nothing left for them in Altus Village. Nothing else remained for either kit now except for uncertainty. Whether she wanted to live was not a question she could face. But with as much honesty she scavenged from the remnants of her young and broken heart, Regina had no idea if she could.

3. The Blood Hills

For as long as Regina understood the world around her, the coming of the Harvest was Altus’s most important celebration. It was a testament to the hardships of those who spent long days tending to crop fields. It marked the mutually beneficial pact between Altus Village and Keeto Town through the abundance of trade that the Harvest provided each year. And alongside the Harvest was its Song, a gospel with no origin such as the Harvest, itself – it had always been, and always would be.

During the preparation of the great Harvest, the Song of the Harvest filled the infinite skies from father sunrise to mother moonset. And despite the threat of blight or infestation, or even the judgment of the wind itself, the Song of the Harvest never failed to bring strength to the crops from the tongues of those who sowed and reaped countless hours in the fields:

Row by row

These Crops we grow

They shall proclaim their worth

For by the blessed kiss of Wind

these seeds will sow rebirth

Row by row

These crops we grow

Great riches of the land

Praise to you oh blessed Wind

For Harvest marks our lives’ good work

Yes, Harvest marks our lives’ good work

Dwain urged Regina to sing it with him as they trekked the secret tunnel: It will be our anthem, yeah – t’ the survival and championship of our village, he told her. And those who escaped t’ Keeto Town will hear us as we near and they shall join our voices, so that those canine mongrels who now hide as cowards will know Altus’s true glory!

But to Regina, there was no longer any honour to the song. She reflected on the many silhouettes cast against orange evening horizons, choiring with such pride while they tended to the crops. She thought about the nights her mother lulled her to sleep with it under the scents of rose and orchid that brought maternal security. And as she and