~ Regina of the Wind ~

[Volume 1 Patreon Sampler]

Written by Millie Blackwood

Regina of the Wind: Volume 1 Patreon Sampler

Copyright © Blackwood Press, 2021

Published in Canada byBlackwood Press

www.millieblackwood.ca

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright may be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form or byany means without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Jeannette,

Thank you. For all that you do. For all that you are.

For everything.

“Animals don't behave like men. If they have to fight, they fight; and if they have to kill, they kill. But

they don't sit down and set their wits to work to devise ways of spoiling other creatures' lives and

hurting them. They have dignity and animality.”

―Richard Adams, Watership Down

~ Part One ~

The Fall of Altus

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 five yards, or fifteen feet, or so in normal situations.

Tonight, her vision was worsened due to the heavy rain and thick smoke pluming into 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 o 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 Dwain journeyed through the deep darkness of the physical

unknown, it became apparent, despite her young age, that the hymn meant to benefit their village was

but now a eulogy.

A round door made of planked wood awaited the children at the end of the tunnel. It stood above

steps made of tightly-packed dirt and rested within a paw-crafted clay track that looked as though the

door could be rolled away inside a deep crevice within the wall.

Dwain dragged himself up to it and took one of two iron handles fastened on either side of the

door. It was heavy, stuck within the earth that sealed it. He pushed and pushed with all the strength he

had left, but it was no use. The door was impossible to move on his own, not to mention with just a

single able paw.

Regina realized this right away. She circled around Dwain, carefully planted her paws upon his

hedgehog bottom, and shoved with all her little might to help accommodate. Dirt hissed down upon

them as the door shifted against the clay track. Pure daylight lit up the tunnel in a single blinding ray.

Regina clenched her eyes shut. Dwain turned his face away and threw his shoulder into rolling the door

further up the track.

Cool afternoon air billowed into the damp and stagnant chamber. A strong sweetness of

huckleberries filled the children’s noses – as well as the husky scent of fir trees, chestnuts, and wet

grass. Somewhere, sparrows and jays of every kind cheered for the children’s escape.

The door came to a stop halfway, too heavy along the upward track to keep momentum. But the

way was open, and that was all that mattered.

The children collapsed into the dirt. Dwain bit back tears as he nursed his wounded paw. Regina

panted for fresh air that didn’t yet fill her lungs as she slowly climbed to a stand. She looked back

down the tunnel. For a moment, she became mesmerized by a pure emptiness, an abyss, which lay

before her from the tavern cellar whence they journeyed.

Dank winds that had haunted their every step up until now faded into the earthen walls.

…Please, come back…

…Please, don’t wander off where danger waits…

… Please, do not leave us here … to rot…

The howls of the dead, left behind. Regina shuddered.

“Reggie.” She felt Dwain’s digits clasp around hers. She shook off the ghostly tendrils of the

tavern’s secret tunnel and allowed herself to be led towards the light.

They stepped out into high-grassed clearing. Mossy rocks of every size speckled the area, like

sleeping ogres. The clearing was circular-shaped in nature, walled in at every turn by steep coniferous-

rooted hills, red like blood under a veil of fallen pine needles.

The door rolled shut behind them. The children turned back and found themselves before a fallen

log, moss-covered and home to large, flat-headed mushrooms. The log’s face bore the cracks and rings

of many ages long since passed. Dwain placed paw digits upon it. It was flat, seamless – perfect.

Regina, in the meantime, took wary steps out into the middle of the glade. Somewhere, crows

cackled in the distance amidst the cacophony of jays and sparrows. Her listless eyes found sad

reflection in rain droplets that rolled off some leaves of a low-hanging sycamore branch, into a bare

patch of soil with a faint splash.

Dwain’s voice resonated from behind: “Keeto Town shouldn’t be too far from here, yeah.

Hopefully.”

“Where is this place?” Regina asked.

“Smells like the Keeton Woods, yeah – though I don’t reckanize these parts, say.” Wheezing with

pain and exertion, Dwain searched the grass for worms and fallen berries and gobbled up whatever

could be found. All the while, his determined hedgehog eyes devoured the impossible steepness of the

hills that kept them grounded.

The Keeton Woods. Regina had never been outside of Altus Village before, not even during the

Harvest Festival when trade between Altus and Keeto Town was had. She gazed upon the vast red hills

that surrounded them at every turn and felt very, very, small. Wherever they’d ended up, she had no

choice but to take Dwain’s word for it.

“In any case, if we’re to find our way out of these forsaken woods, we’ll need to climb these hills,

yeah. Quickly, though. Last thing we need is to run into any guffin’ canines.” Dwain spat into his claw

and marked the direction of the breeze.

“What are you doing that for?” Regina asked.

“Hrm. Eastwardly, then, yeah. Ma always told us these stories of how our village was blessed by

wind. If one of us kits ever went out, she’d tell us – Oi, you spine-headed loves, if ye ever git your fool

selves lost, follow the wind, yeah, and she’ll guide ye back home, yeah—”

Sober realization flashed across Dwain’s face. His eyes went empty, evasive from Regina’s gaze.

He turned away from her and wandered off to inspect the hills further in unannounced silence.

The look upon his face only lasted a moment. But Regina had seen it, recognized tangible pain that

seeped from within: the realness – the weight – of Dwain’s own loss. She recognized this in an instant

and respected the new silence between them.

Regolith and red pine needles rolled down the incline around Dwain’s ankles as he attempted to

ascend the hill directly ahead. But its vast steepness threw him off balance. A young sycamore off to his

right teased him into reaching for its fledgling branch for support. Tall and thin as it was, the sapling

elbowed without effort as soon as Dwain took hold. It dragged him face-first into a bed of pine needles

that carried him yelping in pain all the way back down beneath the high grass.

Regina rushed to his aid, but he nudged her away and climbed to a wobbly stand on his own by use

of a large rock nearby. He tossed away sapling leaves and searched around the glade, muttering about

stability and staves.

Among a huckleberry bush near a small stone formation, Dwain found a fallen branch, likely

broken off one of the sycamore trees during the earlier rain storm. He tucked the branch under one arm

and used the hem of his tunic to wipe it clean of dew and dirt, and then broke off stray limbs and

thistles. Last, he peeled away any loose bark, save for a fist-wide band near the top, caught around a

particular hook which refused to snap.

“Here, climb onto my shoulders,” Dwain found his way back to the boulder and patted its rough

surface. “We need t’ find a road. The main road, yeah. That ol’ hedgehog’s tale about the protection of

the wind got some truth t’ it.”

Regina eyed his spines with wariness. “Is … is it safe to?”

Dwain wrinkled his nose at her. “Well, like I said, might be some canines about, but don’t ye

worry, Reggie. We’re a tough lot—What? Why, pointing’s rude, lass, didn’t ye know? Ohh, guff’, don’t

worry. I won’t prick ye, I’m no moody porcupine.”

With a little coaxing, Regina climbed up the side of the large rock. The spines on the back of

Dwain’s head and neck were flat over the collar of his tunic, gleamed against the afternoon sun.

Regina touched him with a hesitant paw. His spines were scratchy, but somehow also smooth, and

almost shivered under the stroke of her digits. Farming straw came to mind, like the mounds piled high

in the hay loft above Mr. Kessel’s poultry keep. She could almost see the barn swallows dive between

nest-encrusted rafters under rays of sunlight that spilled in through the cracks, above. The smell of

chickens and hens filled her nostrils, the swell of stuffy heat tingled over her cheeks and arms. It was a

warmth that brought imaginary sweat to her pores … brought forth the flame-engulfed hay that dripped

all around; the streets ran red with blood as Westley Horne begged for help under the crushing weight

of his dying grandpapa. In the distance, crops burned to ash and the canines slaughtered all those who

fled for—

“Reggie.”

Dwain’s face appeared before her. She felt his gentle clutch upon her shoulders. All the awful

memories faded from her mind – at least, for the moment. There was only quiet now. There was just the

two of them, together, in the quiet of the forest. Regina shook her head to abate any leeching nightmare

remnants that still clung to her memories. She shuddered and looked away.

“Reggie, look at me. I need ye to trust me,” Dwain said to her. He searched her face with a gaze of

deep concern. “Look. Do ye trust me?”

Regina slowly looked into his eyes. She nodded. It was all she could do. But it was all she had to.

Dwain’s worried stare melted into a relieved smile.

“Come on, then,” he said. “The father sun is soon to set, yeah.”

Together, they started up the hill, this time using the newly-made walking staff to support their

balance. Just as Dwain predicted, the extra sense of stability was all they needed to get to the top.

Regina nestled her cheek against the back of his neck and closed her eyes. With every thump her body

made under his step, her mind grew lighter and her eyes, heavier.

Finally, she could rest without fear. And she did so, drifting off into a deep, dreamless, sleep.

4. A Wizard and His Mule

Regina awoke into semidarkness. She uncurled her body beneath a blanket of sycamore leaves,

stretched out her limbs, and found herself alone inside of a hollowed log. There was a loud pounding at

her ears, voices that screamed and wailed her name.

… Regina …

… Regina, please don’t leave us …

…Please, don’t abandon us …

Behind her, long grass tickled the log’s opening, reached for her tail as stray leaves blustered

inside. Her eyes focused on tree roots directly beyond, waited for the face of a ghost to appear from the

edge of the opening. But nothing more than the wind dared to torment her grogginess. It was just the

wind. Only the wind.

She closed her eyes, turned towards the opposite end with breath held deep. She imagined blood-

hungry canine eyes and a maw of frothing madness. But there was nothing. Only grass. Only leaves.

Only the wind that screamed and struck the walls around her. Only her imagination.

Regina wiped one eye with the back of her paw and crawled towards the opening. Warm air kissed

her cheeks when she peered out. Sycamores towered around her with their trunks guarded by

huckleberry bushes, under the clutch of an early evening orange-magenta sky. She climbed out of the

log with awkward finesse and dropped down into soft soil smattered with leaves and pine needles. The

Song of the Harvest was but a whisper on the breath of the wind around her.

Regina noticed that the hollow log lay beneath a stretch of eroded ground that spanned over the

barren crossing, sloping down between the reach of trees on either side. As grogginess left her, Regina

realized the fallen trunk, rotted with time, had once been a culvert now at the bottom of a since dried-

up stream.

She gasped. “…It’s a road!”

Dwain had been right all along. He was sure they would eventually find a path if they followed the

wind’s direction – and sure enough…

But now, Dwain wasn’t anywhere in sight. Regina called out for him, but only the wind’s wails

answered. She called out again, but there was no reply. Sudden panic squeezed around Regina’s heart.

She sniffed for him around the trees and within the bushes, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Dwain, where are you?! Answer me – please!!” she cried out. “Where are you?! Where are

you?!”

It was then that Regina heard the echo of distant clops. Slow, and steady, with all the patience of

the world. She whiffed the air in hopes to catch Dwain’s scent but instead the familiar smell of

duskroot filled her nostrils. It was a bittersweet musk upon the wind, a rich scent similar to that of hot

bonfire kindling – a scent Regina knew well from nights her father sat by the fireplace, sketching maps

for village council meetings. Many of the grownup villagers – most especially Elder Rombard – often

carried the smell with them, wherever they went.

Sudden hope filled Regina’s heart. She bounded over to the edge of the culvert and scurried up to

the expanse, using whatever rocks and roots she could find to aid her. She peered over the edge of the

road.

A grey-black blot appeared around a bend of trees in the distance. Regina struggled to make out

who exactly it was, though sure by the twitch of her nostrils that this was the source of the duskroot

scent. Dwain had clearly left Regina to go find help, so it only made sense he would return with aid. A

donkey brayed noisily as hooves clacked closer towards her. The smell of duskroot was so dense – it

couldn’t be anyone other than Elder Rombard! Dared by the hope in her heart, Regina pulled herself up

over the edge of the road and scuttled towards the blot.

As she neared, her weak eyes settled upon a strong and droopy-headed mule treading the middle of

the path. Upon its saddle slouched a mammal clad in a cloak as deep as the blue night. A wide-brimmed

hat with a heavy crooked point shielded his eyes from view. Rays of dying sunlight that spilled through

the tree tops revealed the wrinkled, liver-spotted flesh and a flat, wet snout of an age-old swine. He

chomped on the end of a long, downward-curved pipe that plumed thick smoke around his floppy ears.

“Steady now, Phalanx.” His voice was high and gravelly, worn with that of a long life. Regina

halted with shrill immediacy. This swine was not Elder Rombard, nor did Dwain’s face appear behind

him. Tail raised but a hair, Regina started to back away.

The unfamiliar rider came to a stop a few feet before her. He patted his mule’s mane and leaned

forward to gaze upon she who obstructed their path.

“You there! Is … is your name Regina Lepue?”

Regina’s ears perked instinctively, but she was too terrified to respond.

The swine ran cleft hooves across a full, faint-haired beard. Beneath his hat brim, deeply-wrinkled

knowing eyes that reflected stars and moons of distant worlds contemplated Regina.

“Why, you’re just a little thing!” He took a deep puff from his pipe, exhaled great and wondrous

clouds thick as fog. “Are you out here all alone? These woods are no place for such a little skunk.” He

patted a wheat scythe hooked to right side of his mule’s saddle. The swine then screwed his face up

with a look of realization. “Did you stray from your tribe? Are you lost? … My, that’s blood on your

gown! Are you hurt?”

“N … no. I’m not hurt,” said Regina. “Or lost. I – I haven’t a tribe. How … how did you know my

name?”

“How did I know your name? I know a great many things, my child. Truth be just, our meeting

today was foretold, aha!”

Regina’s eyes widened. Dwain. “Have you seen my friend?”

“Hmm? Your friend? Mm, that would depend on who your friend is, my dear,” said the swine. He

pushed back his hat brim to caress the wrinkles of his sweaty forehead. “You say you haven’t a tribe?

Why, this road leads to Altus Village, does it not?” He twisted in his saddle, looked up the road behind

him. “And that way, to Keeto Town.”

He wrenched himself back into a forward position, then clamped his teeth down upon the smoky

pipe stem with an audible click and took a deep and thoughtful puff. His mule brayed angrily, shaking

his ears to stave off the smoke.

“Oh – yes, yes, you hate the smell, Phalanx, I know,” said the swine with a sigh. He waved off two

sparring flies before his face. “Put a hoof in it. Such a moody ox, I may have well married you.”

The mule threw a nasty glare back at him and sent a swift swat of his tail across his rider’s ribs.

“Phalanx – ouuuch! I didn’t – didn’t mean it, you nasty old jackass! OUUCCH! STOP IT! Bruise

my bones why don’t you, and see what fares into your supper bucket tonight!” The swine brushed away

another attack and twisted his hat firmly to his crown before the wind had a chance to snatch off with

it. With an annoyed huff he looked to Regina once again, who quietly giggled with paws clamped over

her mouth and nose.

He snorted, incredulous. “Oh, that’s funny, is it? An old porcine, flayed mercilessly by the very

mule he rides. HAW! Indeed!”

“I – I’m sorry,” said Regina. She tried without avail to suppress her amusement. “I – I think he’s

more upset that you called him a … an ox…”

“Oh, bother.” The swine waved this off and started to dismount his mule, with some struggle.

“Wouldn’t – Oof! – Wouldn’t be the worst insult he’s endured along the way.” He trekked towards

Regina on wobbly hind hoofs, grunts escaping his lips with shallow snorts. “A – allow me to introduce

myself. My name is Astral Ages – master of the arcane teachings of Life and Mana; alchemical healing.

You’ve already met my, uh, my trusty, erm, steed, Phalanx Andromedon.”

With eyes closed, Phalanx bowed his head with great importance. He then farted and began to

graze.

Astral sighed.

“He can understand you?” Regina asked, amazed.

“Unfortunately. Phalanx is a special mount, unlike any other … if his majesty dares to

acknowledge you, I mean. But for as long as we’ve been bound by fate, he has grown to be an ally and

a scholar … erm … in his own right.”

Regina curtsied out of politeness, though wary eyes never left these strangers unchecked. When

Astral began to encircle her with a curious eye, she immediately cowered on the spot.

“How is it that you ended up in these woods, by the way?” he asked, caressing his beard and

inspecting her top to bottom. “No place for a skunk your tender age, not at all!”

When Regina didn’t answer, Astral stopped and awkwardly lowered himself to her height, snout to

nose. Her nostrils twitched against the smoky musk intermingled with the old hog’s natural body odour.

She flinched when he took her chin between his cloven grasp.

“There, there. Nothing to be afraid of,” he assured her. “I just want you to … lay your gaze upon

mine, only a moment.”

Regina wrinkled her nose, but relented. She looked deep into Astral’s knowing eyes, and found

herself transfixed by the stars and moons of the many worlds known only to him. There she saw fire,

and fear, and the oblivion of Altus.

She saw her meeting with Dwain, and their escape. She saw herself asleep as he carried her up the

blood hills. She saw herself awaken inside the semidarkness of the log culvert … she saw herself stand

before Astral and Phalanx as she did, this very moment.

Regina watched herself and was filled only with reawakened calmness, peace – as though this

strange traveler of the Keeton Woods extracted all that she had endured in the many hours until now for

his own study and her own solace.

Astral’s eyes focused. He jerked a bit with a snort, taken aback with a look of sickened horror. He

let Regina’s chin free and rose to a stand.

“Oh dear – oh dear, oh dear,” he murmured. “I see, I see, I see … My child, you’ve met with a

terrible fate, haven’t you.”

Regina rubbed her eyes, blinked back the stars that twinkled before her. She flinched again when

Astral shifted closer to console her confusion as to what had just taken place.

“Why – no harm will come to you while I am near,” he said. “Trust me, Regina Lepue – all will be

made right.”

“H – how do you know?” she asked as he picked her up under the arms.

Astral’s old hog face, wrinkled and weathered by time’s endless touch, melted into a gentle smile.

He placed her upon Phalanx’s saddle and chuckled.

“Why, it is destiny,” he said.

5. The Hollow

The woods were ominous with trees so high they staved away the rising of the mother moon. Phalanx

treaded along a winding path with tired, deliberate clops while Astral squinted into the shadows for

things he dared not speak of, with the aid of an active oil lamp fastened to his wheat scythe. The

flickering glow brought passing illumination upon the road. Leaves hissed like rattlesnakes. The night

wind, a host to shrieking banshees. This made the Keeton Woods all the more dark and fearsome, and

only added to poor Regina’s dismay.

“Mister Ages, please, we must go back!” she begged. “We must go back for Dwain!”

Astral snorted. “And why are you so certain he awaits your return? Nothing back there but donkey

droppings.”

“But—”

“Oh, bother. Trust, Regina Lepue. Have trust – and patience – of the wider world as it unfolds all

around you. All will be made right. Trust!”

Regina furrowed her brow, confused into silence. She nestled against the small of Astral’s back,

clinging to his robes so not to fall off of Phalanx’s saddle. With each screech and crack and shiver the

forest emitted, Regina’s stomach knotted into further trepidation.

She buried her face against Astral’s robes and started to hum the Song of the Harvest, like her

mama often did, to lull her to sleep. But the cackle of crows from somewhere out in the night

frightened Regina, breaking her concentration. She saw their beady eyes flash in the wooded darkness

of high-up sycamore branches, like malice-minded vandal-hearts in wait to strike.

“Nothing to fear, child,” said Astral. “Phalanx knows these lost roads as well as he does his feeding

trough.”

They rode further along the deep path until Phalanx nudged through a thicket off the main road.

Astral weaved his body around the poking, scratching, tendrils of sycamore branches in an almost

automatic manner, unknown even to him. He let out a great yawn, tapped the ashes of his duskroot pipe

out into the dirt as they passed along.

The sycamore branches parted to reveal a splintered field gate connected to frail wooden cross

fences that went the rest of the way up the hill. They were grey, weathered from the age of many

seasons passed. The gate itself was tied shut to a rickety frame with a simple manila rope knot.

“Hold steady a moment, Regina,” Astral said. He dismounted Phalanx and sauntered up towards

the gate, pushing the long, loose sleeves of his dark blue cloak up his sweaty hog arms. He untied the

rope, placed both cloven hooves upon the rickety wood, and pushed with all his might. The gate was

slow to move, but it bounced unsteady on creaky hinges and swung inward in a great arc. Astral

clapped his hooves of grit and splinters as he shambled back towards Regina.

They rode on through the gate just as it begun to swing back towards them. Regina prayed it

wouldn’t strike their flank, and as soon as they were completely through, the gate slapped shut with a

thunderous bang.

At the top of the hill, several dimly-glowing lights greeted them. Through the dense coverage of

sycamore trees, the rotten field fences led towards an old cabin. It was only a single story, with walls

made of planked chestnut wood just as grey and unkempt as the cross fences. The roof itself was made

with half logs and sagged with rot in places from improper care after many winters past. Several paper

wasp nests clung smattered beneath an ailing eaves trough. But great wide rectangular windows looked

in on a warmly-lit study under the throb of candlelight.

The smell of carrots and onions and other delicious root vegetables hooked Regina’s attention from

somewhere on the other side of the property. Fresh hunger pangs tore up her stomach.

Phalanx led them along a dirt path towards a rickety-looking hooded stall adjacent to the battered

cabin. Astral dismounted and helped Regina down with a laboured snort. When she touched ground, the

feel of the grass was a Goddess-send as it massaged her worn and aching heels. Her toe-digits

instinctively dug into the dirt.

Astral hung his oil lamp on a hook beside the stall’s gate and led Phalanx inside. Afterwards, he

took up an empty wood bucket and hobbled out of sight around the corner of the building.

Regina gazed around, quietly stroking her tail in both paws. The stall was lopsided and looked

defenceless against the earlier storm as collected rain droplets fell into various pails placed knowingly

beneath the ceiling’s problem areas.

She shivered.

“Dwain, where are you?...”

Phalanx bowed his head over the top of the gate and tenderly licked at a tuft of fur between

Regina’s ears, like an attempt to soothe her.

Regina offered him a weak smile, patting now damp fur back into place. “Th – thank you, mister

Andromedon.”

Phalanx wobbled his head proudly. Then, a errant raindrop the size of an olive splashed between

his eyes. He soured totally then, reeling into the safety of the stall before letting out a perturbed grunt.

Astral returned with the bucket bumping against his thighs, filled to the brim with oats. At this,

Phalanx promptly forgot his annoyance, squealing and braying with the vivacity of a decades-starved

ruler.

“Get back, Phalanx – Get back!” Astral nudged Regina out of harm’s way and banged a hoof

against the stable bars to ward off gnashing, grass-stained teeth. He reached over the top of the gate and

settled the bucket’s handle upon a hook just inside. Phalanx was upon it before Astral’s hoofs were

even safely away. “There! Feast, milord. Indulge!”

Phalanx chewed in silence for a time until sour reality jerked his head up. He shook his mane about

with severe displeasure, stuck his tongue out to showcase field mushrooms, rotted carrot peelings, and

muddy grass plastered amidst mashed oats.

“I told you! I told you to watch yourself!” Astral warned. “Swat the swine who feeds you! No –

No! I’ll have no whining from you, foul jackass! Eat up or starve! Those are your wretched options!”

~

When he finished feeding Phalanx, Astral shooed Regina inside his cabin so that she could find a

change of clothes and something to eat. The intoxicating aroma of vegetables and spices led her along a

dust-caked hardwood floor cluttered with tomes and journals stacked to great heights. She weaved

beyond two harvest tables strewn with scrolls and maps surrounded by stacks of textbooks that served

as wax-covered pedestals to the many pillar candles melted to their hard-backed covers. She headed

past a wicker rocker that swayed beneath the burden of haphazardly-stacked volumes. Finally, her nose

brought her towards a fireplace that crackled solemnity behind a wire shield, where a lidded stewing

pot found itself vulnerable to lapping flames just as starving as she.

“Oh, bother, don’t let all the warmth out, child!” The cabin door swung shut and Astral’s deep blue

garb appeared. To Regina, he was a giant against the candle-lit shadows as radiant eyes spied her

beneath his wide hat brim. He turned away to hang his wheat scythe on hooks above a bench

overflowing with hoods, ponchos, scarves, capes and various bags, sacks, and packs. He didn’t remove

his hat.

Regina watched him, too shy to speak or to even move from where she stood by the fireplace.

Astral threw a side-long glance at her, pulled free a hooded poncho from off a hook at his side. He

crossed the room to her on slow, unsteady hooves.

“Here.” He passed the poncho into her arms, nodded to the ruined nightgown that still clung to her

frail body. “Get out of that filthy, disgusting, thing that used to be sleepwear and put this on for now.”

The poncho was cool to the touch from the draft of the door. Regina lifted the material before her

to inspect its design. It was of white cotton with red trim all around the hem and hood – and seemed

about the size of somebody three times Regina’s own height. She carefully placed the poncho over

some books and peeled herself free of her ruined nightgown. It was then that her papa’s map fluttered

to the floor next to some open tomes piled nearby. She didn’t notice due to the clutter, and tossed the

nightgown on top of it.

“Say, what’s that brand upon your fur?” Astral asked. “That wasn’t by the paw of – of those

vandal-hearts, was it?”

Regina twisted and peered down past her right shoulder at a pale tuft of fur that looked almost like

a star within a crescent moon. “Huh? Oh, no, Mister Ages, it’s only a birthmark.”

“A birthmark, you say? Its design is familiar to me,” said Astral. He nodded with an air of almost

darkened knowing, then changed the subject: “How does the poncho fit, my dear?”

Regina shrugged into her new attire and felt like the weight of a thousand mile-long blankets

saddled her shoulders. She frowned, lifted her arms at her sides.

“I feel like a fruit bat.”

“Nonsense. You’re a skunk, not a winged rodent.” Astral picked up her nightgown off the dusty

hardwood floor. “Any case, you’ll grow into it, I’m sure. Hmm? What’s this, then?”

Astral found the folded sheet of parchment stuck to the underside of Regina’s nightgown. He

separated the items and unceremoniously tossed the nightgown over the fireplace screen. He shivered.

“The flames are healthy, the candles are lit … why is it still so frigid in this—oh, bother, the bloody

window’s open!”

He placed the parchment atop some other clutter strewn across the nearest harvest table. Regina

noticed this at once, and as soon as Astral hobbled away, she scurried up one of the stools and stuffed

her treasured map down the front of the poncho.

Astral didn’t even notice, too busy trying to yank down a high-up window frame by aid of an

errant cane. “Blasted thing – come on you stupid … Goddess, I never should have chased off that

roadside repair-cat – Aggh!!”

Regina decided to take the opportunity of sudden independence to explore the rest of the cabin.

She scuttled out of the study, into an adjacent kitchen off the opposite side of the fireplace. There, a

small round table housed a single seating, already set with a wooden bowl and spoon for the coming

supper.

Regina’s tummy rumbled to life. The stew smelled ready enough to eat, and Astral had sent her

inside with the purpose to eat. She licked her lips, took the bowl off the table, started to head back

towards the fireplace. But paused when another more familiar scent suddenly entered her nostrils.

She sniffed around until the scent brought her to a door off in the far corner of the kitchen. It had

been left ajar to let the deep shadows from within spill out.

Regina’s heart thudded with each step she took closer.

She knew this smell.

It couldn’t be … could it?

She slipped past the doorway. The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was the biggest bed

Regina had ever seen, even bigger than her parents’, adorned with a sturdy wood frame and ornately-

designed boards. A large patched quilt lay over the hay-stuffed mattress. She remembered the empty

bowl in her care and placed it on the hardwood floor so that she could climb up onto the edge of the

bed frame.

And as soon as she did, Regina gasped.

Dwain’s gentle hedgehog face glowed beneath the shine of the mother moon through a window

behind Regina. Wide strips of gauze looped around his forehead and doubled over one ear, pinned

beneath the other. Dark speckles of long-since dried blood glowed through the bandaging above his

brow. A sling around his shoulder bound his wounded paw safely to his heart. It was only the subtle rise

and fall of his chest that assured Regina that Dwain was in fact sleeping, and the wisdom of her nostrils

that declared he was actually real.

Trust. That was what the wizard of the Keeton Woods said for Regina to keep in mind. Trust and

patience. His promise that everything would be made right. This is what he meant.

~

Regina refused to leave Dwain’s side, as the evening crept on into night. It was a miracle in and of

itself that Astral had happened upon the both of them, lost and separated within the depths of the

woods. Such a thing had to have been the work of Mother Azna, Regina thought.

The protection of the wind sang true as Dwain predicted, and it was through the Paw of the

Goddess that they were reunited, safe and sound. It seemed that even though Alexia the Sage had failed

to come protect them, a force much greater than any number of mammals combined had whisked the

fates to align a happier course for these orphans.

Regina combed strands of stray fur away from Dwain’s brow, afraid they might tickle his eyes

awake. He slept so soundly, stirred so little. The sounds of his breath were subtle gusts, expanding his

little chest beneath the protection of heavy duvet blankets. But trepidation flashed for only a moment,

and with it a light grunt of fear, uncertainty – the threat of nightmares no doubt, or pain from his

injuries – but then he was again whisked into the deep comfort of warm and subconscious peace.

Regina, herself, was so tired and hungry but dared not to break away from Dwain’s side, not even

to eat. She pushed back the duvets and replaced the cold cloth on his belly, as per Astral’s instruction,

to help abate fever. It was a terrible balance she found, having to shift the blankets back and forth to

balance Dwain’s body temperature, as to beat back his fever, and make sure chills didn’t set in. But she

did so dutifully, without complaint. Dwain had used all the energy he had left to care for Regina; it was

her turn to do the same.

With a sigh, she nestled her cheek into folded elbows off the edge of Dwain’s pillow and watched

him sleep for a time. He looked so peaceful, his pale hedgehog face illuminated by the sweet healing

kisses of the mother moon’s rays that came in through the bedroom window.

“Why? … Why did you go away?” Regina whispered.

There wasn’t an answer to it. No logical explanation in her little skull. There was only the pain in

her heart that it happened. And there was nothing she could do, except watch her new friend succumb

to the folds of regenerative sleep.

She wiped away fresh tears. All they had was each other, it seemed, and their journey was still so

far from over. Keeto Town lay somewhere beyond the stretch of the woods, and without Dwain’s

wistfulness of the world, Regina wasn’t sure how she would be able to make it there on her own.

Drowsiness settled over Regina, much like the heavy duvet that kept Dwain warm and safe. She

nestled in against his cheek, using the edge of the wooden bed frame to kneel on for support. The

fatigue of their journey, the stressors of the living nightmare that was the destruction of Altus Village,

simply weighed too much on her shoulders to try and fight off. Regina closed her eyes and let her mind

begin to drift away.

“Don’t go away again,” she said. “Please, promise we’ll stay together, now on – okay, Dwain?”

Something brushed against her nose. Then, soft, warm, breaths hit her cheek in a way that let her

imagination stew up a sight of a lone seagull, beating its wings against the glint of sun-kissed summer

skies.

…Woosh…

Ahhh

…Woosh…

Ahhh…

“I won’t leave you,” she mumbled sleepily against the crook of her elbows. “Just get better …

okay?"

Regina balanced on the razor’s edge of wakefulness, so dangerously close to a deep dive from a

seagull’s wings, and into a headlong splash of an awaiting velvety slumber. The waters opened up for

her waning consciousness. A heavy sigh tousled the fur on her face; it was the summer’s kisses, a

blessing of Galheist’s winds.

…Reggie…

The waters whispered for her. The sound of their waves lapping, tumbling together were so loud in

her ears. Dark waves sloshed against each other, like in a battle of which would aim to catch her.

Regina closed her eyes and awaited the embrace of the sea.

Reggie … I’m sorry…

6. Guardians of the Harvest

Regina awoke with a start. It was a jolt from lucid nightmare that left her breaching consciousness

piercing past the oily surface of deep and choking darkness, gasping for breath. Warm, safe, linens and

downy pillows embraced her little body now. She found the edge of the blankets and rolled onto one

side, pulling the heavy sheets tight around herself, and pretended the embrace was that of her mother’s.

Wakefulness grew into heavy sadness in the pit of her heart. Regina sniffled. She could almost feel

her mother’s body snuggled up against her. Could almost hear the gust of breaths, feel the slow and

subtle expansion of lungs against her backside. Hear the gentle song of the Harvest in her ear.

“Mama…”

She buried her face into the blankets and did her best to block out the rest of the world. But behind

closed eyelids awaited loss and destruction, canines and the deaths of loved ones.

Regina’s eyes opened and focused on where bright morning rays cast a deep silhouette of the

window’s decorative bars against the wall on the other side of the bed. It took a moment for her to

remember where she was: Astral’s cabin – the bedroom. He’d brought her to his little cabin in the

woods after she’d gotten separated from Dwain.

…Dwain.

“Dwain!” Regina shot up, throwing the blankets off of her completely. He wasn’t in the bed with

her, where she’d left him the night before. His scent was faint – no thanks to the light wind that came in

through the open window. Instead, the smell of dewy summertime filled her nostrils as the sounds of

distant bird-song over cicada buzzing filled her twitching ears. She glanced about the sparsely-cluttered

bedroom and found no sight of her injured friend.

“Dwain…! Mister Ages! Dwain!!”

But no one answered.

Regina sat there amidst the pile of linens, frozen in place with her gaze locked past a wide-open

bedroom door that gave view into the centre of the kitchen. But her eyes refused to focus on anything

past the foot of the bed.

Where are they? Did – did the canines come, and—?

Regina stifled a cry of horror and immediately threw the covers away. She dropped to the

floorboards with a dense thud and rushed out into an empty kitchen. The table was bare, its seats tucked

neatly into place. Atop the kitchen counter, a lone tin cup rested by the sink, with a teabag string matted

and tangled round the handle. Little puffs of steam rose from the rim, barely noticeable except for the

catch of the sunlight past the window directly above.

Regina spun around, threw herself into the study, and was greeted only by a mess of musty-

smelling books and harvest tables home to shrines of pillar candles, a darkened fireplace, and the

sounds of summer through the other open window.

She rushed back into the kitchen, took one of the table chairs, and skidded it across the hardwood

floor until its unpadded backrest bumped against the edge of the countertop. She scurried up onto the

chair and threw a searching glare out the window, scanning the Hollow’s property for Dwain and

Mister Ages, for anybody. A muffled donkey bray brought her attention to the hooded stall, peeking out

the edge of the windowpane. Regina crawled across the counter, nearly knocking over the tin cup of

tea, and pushed her nose and paw pads against the glass to see if she could get a better look.

Phalanx was there making a racket, neck stretched past the bars of the stall door, swaying his head

back and forth in a grand address to whatever wildlife scuttled or flitted by.

“Oh, give it a rest, old boy.” Regina’s ears perked just as Astral shuffled into view from around the

corner of the stall. He carried a gardening hoe, his dark blue robes splattered with mud.

Regina pushed away from the window, nearly toppled to the floor as she leapt off the chair. In a

mad dash through the study, she threw herself out the cabin door, causing a crowd of chickadees to

explode into the air from their feast of mustard seeds at the dirt path adjacent the porch.

“Mister Ages! Mister Ages!”

Astral turned in Regina’s direction as she bounded along the dirt road towards the hooded stall. He

set the garden hoe against a lone nearby barrel and caught her in both arms before she could topple

them both to the dirt.

“Oof! Child, there you are!” Astral brushed back her matted headfur, smiling into her gaze. “You

were up most of the night, didn’t feel right to wake you just yet – oh, did you see? There’s a ginger tea

steeping in the kitchen for you.”

“Reggie!”

Regina’s heart thumped against her ribcage. She looked back at the cabin as the touch of Astral’s

hooves slid away from her body. Her eyes widened.

There he was, whole and alive, safe and sound, hobbling on a single crutch towards her from the

edge of the cabin. Dwain Spikeclaw broke out into a grin brighter than the golden sun that hung above

the Hollow. He offered her a favouring nod.

“Dwain!” Regina bounded across the property as he stabbed his crutch into the soft ground in

attempts to hasten his broken pace towards her. When they were near enough, she threw herself at him

with arms wide open.

“Whoa, careful then!” Dwain braced himself before Regina could knock them both to the grass.

She didn’t care if they had. She didn’t care that Astral was now shouting at her, a distant voice on the

wind. She didn’t care that they were safe and sound in the Hollow, nor that her long-lost friend looked

little more banged up than before, thanks to the bandages around his head and the sling that secured his

injured arm to his chest.

None of it mattered.

He was here. He was alive. He was in her arms, and the only thing that mattered in the world right

in that moment was that the horror of Altus hadn’t separated them, after all.

They were together again, at long last.

~

“Mister Ages, then, so that’s his name,” Dwain said with cheeks stuffed with stew and bread. “He

knows our plight, then! Tell me, yeah, that he helped others to escape!”

Regina didn’t know. And at this moment in time, thought there was a more immediate question that

needed to be addressed. Despite her relief for her friend’s well-being, just looking at Dwain now sent

ripples of betrayal through her.

So instead of making wild guesses about their saviour’s role in the fall of Altus, Regina instead

looked away into her stew bowl, sad and contemplative. Carrots swam amidst bergs of cubed poultry. A

hardy breakfast for sure, but any lingering hunger that had clawed Regina’s stomach to ribbons was but

an empty sickness now.

She pushed the bowl away and gazed over into the study, where Astral was entrenched in a fortress

made of thick leather textbooks at the farthest of the two harvest tables. Nearby candlelight illuminated

his sweaty porcine face as he pored over his work.

With a hard swallow, Regina found the strength to finally ask the question that had needled and

raked hot coals across her heart since waking up alone the day before:

“Why did you go away?”

Faint alarm flashed across Dwain’s face, chewing slower as he took some time to process the

sudden inquiry. He hesitated, surprised and gaping at Regina like she’d talked to him in some strange,

ancient, language – though he probably should have expected the question. To Regina’s dismay, when

he went to speak, strange noises tumbled off of his tongue that indicated there was no substantial

answer for her. “Uhh … ah … well…”

“I woke up – and you – you weren’t there.” Regina fought to keep brimming tears away, to no

avail. “And I was so scared that you had gotten lost or eaten, or – or – or…”

A sober expression stiffened Dwain’s face.

“Listen,” he said, using a half dinner roll to sop up broth from his own bowl. “I didn’t mean t’

leave ye there for very long. I—”

“I thought you were dead!” Regina shrieked at him.

This caused Dwain to put down his spoon and avert his gaze from her.

“…Don’t be like that,” he murmured, almost embarrassed, then continued in a tone that

progressively sounded more annoyed as he went on: “I ain’t dead, and I ain’t about to leave ye lost and

alone. Listen, I found the old field boar o’r there, and he saved ye, didn’t he? Didn’t he? Don’t go

blamin’ me for droppin’s I ain’t done no harm about. Now hush and take yer meal.”

“Dwain—”

“I said drop it and eat up. Ye need yer strength for Keeto Town, yeah?”

Regina fell quiet, burying her chin into elbows folded over the table. She turned her gaze away

from the meal.

“Reggie, please,” Dwain said, gentler. “I appreciate all ye done fer me. Really, I do. But ye need t’

focus on y’self now. Ye want t’ fall comatose, yeah?”

“He’s right, my dear.” Astral’s shadow appeared against the flicker of the fireplace. “Your Life and

Mana pools must replenish – only rest and nutrition will allow for that.”

Regina ignored these words, not familiar with any pools of water or life or whatever it was Astral

was talking about. She peered into her bowl of stew and found a sad, rippling, reflection of a war-torn

skunk orphan sighing in unison with her.

Astral sat down at the table and regarded Dwain. He withdrew his pipe from within his robes and

readied some duskroot into it. “When I discovered you, you were left for dead beneath a huckleberry

bush to the side of the road – a long ways from the culvert where you hid Regina.”

This got Dwain’s attention. He produced a vicious sneer.

But Astral continued: “When she awoke after your trek through the ruins of Altus, you weren’t

there to protect her, as your pact would have suggested. Do you not believe the lass has earned a

genuine explanation for this hypocrisy?”

“Hippo-cras – Why am I on trial, then, yeah? Bash me head on some rocks and as soon as I wake

I’m bein’ prodded at both ends by flamin’ skewers!”

“No one at this table is judging you,” said Astral. “You need not explain your motives to me – I

know already and understand. However, Regina merely asks an honest question. You saved her life

once, and she looks up to you. Questioning your sudden disappearance is justified – as a lad on the

verge of adulthood, do you not agree?”

Regina lifted her chin, gazed at Dwain with a forlorn expression.

Dwain chewed on this awhile, then gave a deep nod, doing his best to hide a trembling scowl.

Astral clucked his tongue and gestured his attention back to Regina, who now sat upright and alert –

ready for the truth.

Dwain sighed and offered a helpless shrug. “Okay. Well. I thought it best when I woke to scout

ahead and see if’n I couldn’t find where that road went to. Forage some, since Goddess knew the last

time we had eaten, yeah, and we’d need all the strength Azna willin’ to make it to Keeto Town.”

“Oh,” said Regina, unconvinced.

Dwain let a smirk flash. “But what I tell ye though? Follow the wind and she will guide ye to

where ye need to get. Ma ain’t no goof, she weren’t.”

“Guess so.” Regina shrugged, settled her chin back into the crooks of her elbows, and said no more

of the incident except for a quiet and uncertain, “Okay.”

Astral stared at Dwain with a disbelieving frown, but dared not press the subject further. For now,

the answer was what it needed to be for Dwain: plausible. Deep down, lies were likely better tablets for

Regina to swallow…

Deep down, it seemed Regina knew this, too.

It was then that Dwain changed the subject to matters of greater importance, shovelling spoonfuls

of broth and poultry down his gullet: “In any case, Mister Ages, I take it we’ll be settin’ out for Keeto

Town by afternoon, no doubt.”

“Perhaps,” said Astral. “I haven’t yet decided.”

Regina lifted her head completely at this, confused.

Dwain slowed his feast and stared at the old swine with a raised brow, also befuddled by the

vagueness of Astral’s answer. “What do you mean you haven’t yet decided?”

Astral squinted at him between puffs off his pipe. “I mean I haven’t yet decided.”

“We got family waitin’ for us there, yeah!”

“Do you know this for sure, lad?”

“O’course I’s sure!” said Dwain in disbelief. “A good lot of us were wise to heed the words of

Alexia the Sage—”

“Oh, bother!” Astral snorted in a fit of knowing giggles. “Alexia Garbonde is no sage, lad. Trust in

an old hog who has seen this war from all sides, and wants nothing to do with it. I know of her, and as

far as I am concerned, your precious Alexia the Sage is no better than any quick-witted con artist. It

would not be wise to invest your fields in a mammal whose sole view of her loyal followers is that of

corpses stacked upon each other to form a bridge towards supremacy.”

“Half of Altus is grouped at Keeto Town right now,” Dwain shot back, “with Alexia the Sage’s

wise preachin’ to rally the reclamation of our crops and destruction of our enemies!”

“Do you know this for sure?” Astral dared him. “Has she come to Altus to discuss her platform

with you? Was there a great feast where her presence and promise were celebrated? Hmm?”

“No, but—”

“Is there any proof she actually exists outside of what’s been passed down among your poor little

village? Have you actually met the mammal, lad? Either of you?”

Regina looked to Dwain. He met her eyes, chewing on his tongue. They returned their gazes back

to Astral, and in unison, shook their heads no.

“Well then, there we have it.” Astral snorted indifference; pungent smoke plumed out from his

large wet nostrils. “The Zuut, as flawed as he is, means to keep these lands safe and free. But so long as

my Hollow is protected from this mess of a war, nothing else of either faction’s hypocritical rhetoric

really matters to me.”

Dwain started to protest. “But my Da’ said Alexia—”

Astral interrupted with another loud round of snorting, ragged, laughter. “Oh, come now. Be

realistic, Dwain Spikeclaw. Your father’s well-meaning, though naïve, opinions on policy is what

helped get your family slaughtered, not rogue canines – which are the least of your long-term concerns,

might I add…”

“Alexia is a great leader!” Dwain blared at him. “She is a true hero for all that is right and just in

these lands! She’ll come to our aide against those dogs who sought our devastation!”

“You’re not listening.” Astral leaned over the table and leered deeply into Dwain’s trembling glare.

“Tell me, boy – if you are so convinced of Alexia’s servitude to these lands, tell me then where was she

when your mother and father were cut open where they stood? Where was she, when your brothers and

sister were trampled alive by your very neighbours under a hail of flaming arrows? Where was she,

when your village fell and left you dying in the basement of a tavern?”

Dwain erupted from the table in a volcanic rage. Little black eyes shone with flames of absolute

hatred against the gleam of kitchen table candlelight. Balled fists clenched and flexed spastically, as

though they debated telepathically which would strike Astral first – even if one of them needed to break

free from a particular sling.

“Oh, bother, sit down.” Astral waved him off with a sigh. “Hate me all you’d like for saying it, but

I’d never lie to you, nor would I ever have reason to. A hermit in the woods bears no threat to any

greater order of the world. ”

“Take it back,” said Dwain.

“Take back what? The truth? Don’t slay the messenger, et cetera, lad. Sit down, and eat your stew.”

“Take it back first, you guffin’ boar.”

Astral paused, blinked. A wry smirk formed beneath his snout. He took another long puff off his

pipe and asked, “Do you wish to strike me – in front of the girl? Is that what you’ve been taught to do?

Is that how your people faced true diversity of thought and worldly differences from your own?

Freedom of expression, so to speak?”

Dwain shifted on his heels, scowling.

“Are you going to strike me, or not?” Astral pressed him.

“Maybe.”

“And … what resolution would that bring, Dwain Spikeclaw?”

“It would make me feel better.”

“Would it? And would that help your cause to reach Keeto Town? Remember now, you both are

strangers to these woods. If you wish to be forever lost and exposed to danger, go ahead and do what

your wild emotions command.” Astral pointed to his glistening snout. “Go ahead, boy. Make an old

hog, just trying to help, bleed.”

“Dwain…” Regina’s wavering voice took his attention off of Astral for just a moment. She shook

her head no at him, staving off the threat of fresh tears. “Please…”

The violence in Dwain’s eyes cooled, but an ever present snarl bloomed across his lips. He slowly

lowered himself back into his seat. “You can’t hold us prisoner here.”

“I don’t plan to,” said Astral, astounded. “As stated before, you’re nearly an adult. Goodness, not

all the world is out to get you, Dwain Spikeclaw. Now, eat up. Not much will break you completely if

you decide to leave my Hollow so soon.”

The trio fell into silence for a little while, their minds heavy with deep, burning, reflection. Regina

gazed sadly into her bowl as she listened to the clink of Dwain’s spoon while he ate. The broth’s steam

in her nose was rich with black peppercorn, oregano, and cooked vegetables. Her sad reflection rippled

back into view amidst a swath of colliding carrots and poultry chunks. But nourishment was the last

thing her body craved.

Astral reclined in his chair and filled the already dense air with thick smoke rings that smelled of

sweet bonfire kindling. “All right, Dwain Spikeclaw: Say we go to Keeto Town. Say no one is there to

greet you, after all. What, then?”

“Reggie and I can make it on our own, yeah.”

Astral snorted with knowing doubt and tapped the rim of Regina’s neglected bowl to direct her

attention. “Eat up, my dear. You will need your strength. When was the last time you’ve broken fast?

You must be starving. Go on, then.”

She offered a single obedient nod, brushed the last of the tears from her eyes with the back of a

paw and found a wooden spoon to eat with. She scooped broth and softened chunks of food into her

mouth with an unsteady grip. The stew wasn’t a good stew, but it was edible, at least.

Heavy thoughts of Altus stayed with her. She thought of her mama in the garden, humming the

Song of the Harvest like Mama always did. How Regina missed her voice … the tenderness in her soul.

Astral’s never-ending bond to his duskroot pipe didn’t make things better. The smell was too much

like the smell of her papa. Regina closed her eyes, took in great whiffs of burning duskroot. The

nostalgic scent churned her mind to conjure up memories of watching Papa patiently ink and chart new

territory, bent over his drafting table by the fire in the living space like nothing else in the world

mattered, his smoking pipe hanging loose at the corner of his muzzle – semi-forgotten, save for a few

idle puffs.

Sharp pain tightened around Regina’s heart, where the last map Thomas Lepue would ever make

now crinkled against her chest, the greatest lost treasure in all the world.

7. A Bond Unbroken

“Reggie. Reggie – wake up—”

Regina awoke to find Dwain hovering over her. She squinted, rubbing sleep dust from her eyes.

“Dwain? What…?”

“We’re going,” he whispered.

The words barely made sense. Shaking her head, Regina struggled to sit upright amidst the heavy

blankets that had kept the both of them warm and safe against the cold night wind that blew in through

the open bedroom window. She squinted at him again to find that he was on the edge of the bed frame,

forced to clutch to the headboard for balance with his injured paw, out of its sling.

“Dwain, your arm–” she started, throat dull and scratchy from a dehydrated slumber.

“Me arm’s dandy. Fit as a fritter,” he said in a hushed tone. “Come on, grab yer poncho. The

mother moon is full tonight and she’ll guide us all the way to Keeto Town – come on, get up, before he

hears us!”

Dwain threw a nervous glance to the bedroom door, open ajar to let the air circulate. Dim

candlelight throbbed between the narrow gap between the portal frame. He threw the heavy downy

covers off of Regina and pulled at her groggy body by the arm.

“Dwain, stop it – Stop!”

“Shhhht! Reggie—”

“We can’t leave,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “You’re not yet healed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m an uncracked arrow, yeah. Right as a rainstorm o’r the moors.” Dwain

hopped off the frame to let Regina sit up on her own. She swung around, her little skunk legs dangling

off the edge of the bed. She rubbed at her eyes and watched him scoop her poncho off the nearest

wicker seat cushion.

“You said Keeto Town?” she asked behind a hearty yawn.

“Aye.”

“But Mister Ages said—”

“Mister Ages is a schemin’ ol’ nutter. Ye heard what he said at the table, yeah? The mammal’s a

blasphemer, spoutin’ off like he did about Alexia the Sage.” Dwain tossed Regina her poncho.

“But he saved us.” She readied herself to catch the garment, but it hit her in the chin and fell in a

heap in her lap. Regina shook off the thud of the hit, and pulled the poncho up over her arms and head.

“Which I’m grateful for, yeah,” said Dwain as he hopped about on one leg, attempting to get a

pair of trousers on. “But he got his own idea at large. He don’t care nothin’ ‘bout us and our salvation.

What are we to him, farmhands? Slaves? No better than how the canines did to our kin?”

Regina didn’t know what Dwain was talking about and watched in silence as he shrugged into his

ruined tunic. He grabbed the chair that Regina’s poncho had slept on and started to push it across the

floor. But stopped at once, when shrill squeals of the legs scratching against hardwood sounded. He

flexed his injured paw for a moment. Regina blinked. Just like Dwain said, it seemed good as new, all

healed.

But how?

Dwain didn’t seem to think much of it, however. He picked the chair up by both ends of the seat

and hobbled towards the window, huffing and grunting under the weight and unsteadiness of the thing.

“Rain’s in the air. Can feel it between me ears. It’s gonna be a soggy trek to Keeto Town, but we don’t

have much of a choice, yeah.”

“But – but Mister Ages—”

“I tole you, Mister Ages is a liar, and we’re ne’er safer with him than we is out in those woods.”

Dwain climbed up onto the chair cushion. Its seat shivered beneath his footpads. He pushed the

window shutter wider open and gestured Regina to get a move on.

But she hesitated. Could it be true? They barely knew Astral. But he saved them both from certain

doom – or so she’d thought. But it was Dwain who pulled them from the tavern cellar. It was Dwain

who carried her up the Blood Hills…

And, when it came right down to brass tacks, it was Dwain she trusted most of all, out of anyone.

What cause did he have to lie to her, to put her in any danger?

Regina swallowed hard. She hopped down off the bed and flattened the wrinkles in her poncho,

before rushing towards their escape.

“Oh, wait!” She paused in mid stride and circled back around towards the bed.

“What? Reggie, c’mon!” Dwain frantically waved her forward as he straddled the window frame.

Regina scrambled up the edge of the mattress and plucked her father’s ruined map out from under

the safety of her pillow. She held the parchment to her heart for a moment, then stuffed it down the

front of her poncho. She rushed back towards the window, and as soon as Dwain saw that she was on

her way, he slid outside and vanished beneath the sill.

Regina climbed the chair and started to mount the window frame when a distant, ragged, cough

brought her attention back to the ajar bedroom door.

She couldn’t see anything past the waver of candlelight glow, but it sounded like Astral was deep

in conversation with himself. Muttering away, the sound of pages turning, a quill tip clinking against

inkpot so clear, yet so far away.

Regret panged in her heart. Regret for Astral, for the yearning in Regina’s soul for homeness, for

safety and all that the kind old wizard had offered them.

It was a strangely adult feeling, considering how much she truly missed Altus, and her parents, and

playing in the streets with her friends while the grownups worked and tinkered away outside their

shops and homes and shouted hullo and good-day back and forth…

“Reggie, get a move on!”

Regina shook the thoughts away and buried the regret deep, deep, down under her belly. She wiped

away a single tear and turned her back on the bedroom door and what may have been.

The Harvest isn’t coming. And never will it come, again.

The night air was cold against her face. Dwain waited for her on the grass directly beneath the

window frame, scanning the area to make sure all was good and clear.

Regina swallowed hard. The uneven ground seemed a thousand feet below her. The sheer thought

of it reminded her of the nasty fall she took back in the basement of the Scythe and Stone. Fear was

tight around her like an iron vice.

“What are ye waiting for?” Dwain urged her. “Jump and I’ll catch ye.”

“But … but, it’s so far down…”

“I’ll catch ye! Come on, then, it’s not that far, just a li’l bit, yeah!”

Regina found the strength to swing her legs out over the edge of the window. She clutched the

frame with both paws, and jerked her body forward – but hesitated before weightlessness could take

her.

“Is … are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked.

“What ye mean is it a good idea? I’s dropped down and I’s fine. C’mon now, we’re half way there,

where do ye mean to get outside, sneak about between the tables and books like vandal-hearts, hopin’

he’s blind enough to not notice? That’s foolish thinkin’. Now, let’s get a move on, lass! The longer we

wait around, hummin’ and hawin’, the shorter our night gets!”

Regina shook her head. “I mean away from here.”

The acquisition pounded at the forefront of her throat, tried desperately to push past the edge of her

tongue: After all Mister Ages has done for us, is running away like this really the right thing to do? But

fear of being wrong, and the deep trust in Dwain’s own intuition as a hedgehog near adulthood, kept

her at a loss of how to properly express her concern.

“Why … why don’t we just wait until the father sun comes up and—”

“And let the canines see us in full view? Reggie—” Dwain paused, took a deep breath. He nodded

and looked her in the eye. “Regina Lepue, I promise on me very heart, nothing bad will e’er happen to

ye while we stay astride.”

Regina didn’t budge. A dull ache throbbed in her heart. “…You said that before.”

Evident pain raked across Dwain’s face. He looked away and said nothing.

“…Is it true? What you said?” Regina asked him. “That you left to gather food, and hit your head

on rocks? Like you said during breakfast?”

Dwain looked back into Regina’s eyes and held a sturdy gaze. His lips trembled hesitation, as

though he were trying to work the words out in his brain for himself.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I made a promise to ye and I intend to keep it.”

Still, she hesitated.

Dwain closed his eyes, sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left ye behind like that. It was a droppings thing t’do, and … and…” He

shook his head. “No more excuses. I won’t leave ye again.”

“You promise?” Regina asked.

“Under any circumstance, no matter where we are, what happens, good or bad, I promise ye a vow

– a bond, unbroken,” Dwain stated, firmly. “The two of us, yeah, wherever we go, we’ll be forever at

the hip.”

“Promise?” Regina urged him.

“I promise, cross me heart and hope t’ croak,” Dwain said.

“…Okay.” Regina nodded and pushed off the frame.

Dwain caught her in an instant. They shared a brief smile. Regina nuzzled her nose into his cheek

before he set her down.

“C’mon,” Dwain said, gently.

He led her by the paw over to the hooded stall, where Phalanx’s wild brays carried over the

Hollow. Just as Dwain had predicted, thunder rumbled overhead. A distant flash of lightning clawed

across the purple skies and the blustery hilltop pine trees that lay far beyond the Hollow’s borders.

“We’re taking Phalanx?” Regina asked.

“How else is we t’ make it t’ Keeto?” Dwain found Phalanx’s saddle and a bridle neglected in a

heap overtop a nearby wooden barrel. “The mud will swallow us up if we try t’ make it bare footpad.”

“He can understand us, you know,” Regina said.

“He can understand carrots on strings, is what he can understand.”

“No, it’s true. I saw it! Phalanx is smarter than any donkey. Maybe if we ask nicely, he’ll take us.”

Dwain gave her a flat stare.

“It’s true!” Regina pressed. “Let me talk to him. He likes me!”

“Fine. I’ll give ye a boost, then, yeah. Flies n’ honey, n’ all that…”

With some effort, Regina climbed up onto Dwain’s shoulders. He was just tall enough that she

could peek up through the bars in Phalanx’s stable door, with the edge of the frame aligned with her

chin.

Phalanx’s face appeared amidst the darkness between the stable bars. He brayed out at Regina, and

flashed her perfectly-set mule teeth, black gums all gunked up with grass and oats.

“Hullo!” Regina said in a happy whisper. “Remember me? We met on the culvert in the woods

yesterday!”

Phalanx Andromedon considered Regina with narrowed eyes, chewing slow and silent on whatever

remnants of a mule’s meal remained on his tongue. Without warning, he snorted hot air into her face.

The stench of donkey breath was almost more nauseating than anything Regina had ever endured.

She fought back the urge to gag, and pushed on: “Phalanx, can you take us to Keeto Town? We need to

get there, but … but we don’t really know the way, like you do.”

Phalanx snorted, shaking his ears with a look of total disapproval at her. He then dove shoulders-

deep into that night’s supper bucket.

“Please,” Regina begged.

Phalanx let out a haughty bray. His neck craned back up to level gazes with Regina, shaking his

head a definitive No. Just then, the hooded stall quaked under another boom of thunder that sent the

mule screeching back into the safety of the bucket.

“Please, Phalanx,” Regina begged him. “You are the only one who can help us now.”

“This ain’t no good,” said Dwain and lowered her to the grass. “Look see, the ol’ codger’s even got

his stable padlocked, anyhow.”

He found Astral’s oil lantern neglected on the ground by the barrel of oats. He patted down his

pockets for a book of matches and struck one alight. He brought a dim glow to the lantern and passed it

off to Regina.

“Here. The only way this ol’ mule’ll move is if we goad him enough. Go to the garden and get

some carrots, yeah? I’mma try to crack open this here lock…”

“Okay. I’ll be back. Don’t hurt yourself.” Regina took the lantern and retreated into the night. The

nasty jeers of her contemporaries at each other carried over the wind as she crossed the property under

the bobbling aid of oil lamplight.

Astral’s vegetable garden was at the far end of the Hollow, tucked away in the corner opposite the

cabin. She could just barely see that the path ahead led straight between the wishing well and the porch.

As she hedged closer, Regina spotted the bedroom window at the side of the house, its shutters still

wide open with pitch darkness seeping from within. She half expected to see Astral there, looking out

at them in disbelief, but there was only the image in her imagination, nothing else.

Dwain swore something indecipherable on the wind.

Regina ignored him and turned her attention back towards the path. She veered away from the

cabin, nervous of passing by the front window where Astral’s study was. Candlelight flickered within.

As she drew closer towards the vegetable garden, the night tricked her gaze upon a dark mass

within the crops. The light off of the lantern then caught against piercing wide eyes semi-hidden

amongst breezy cornstalks. Menacing razor-teeth jutted forward into a frozen snarl and leapt out at

Regina.

The lantern fell from her grasp, shattered against the ground, and extinguished. Her screams of

terror echoed over the whole of the Hollow.

Dwain started towards Regina as soon as she scrambled back towards the safety of the hooded

stall. “Reggie, what in the blazin’ whiskers—” Her yips of fright alerted Phalanx, the natural coward,

who began to whine and kick at the stable walls that still confined him.

“It’s a canine!” she sobbed. “Th – there’s a canine in the garden!”

This surprised Dwain. His eyes then hardened. He grabbed a pitchfork about twice his size off its

hooks, nearby. “Point the way.”

“No!” Regina shrieked. “No, you mustn’t! Dwain, please, we have to escape! We have to warn—”

But he wouldn’t yield. With newfound duty to protect the one sacred thing left to him – the little

skunk tugging at his tunic and spines – Dwain Spikeclaw marched across the pitch darkness of the

rainy property, wielding the pitchfork like a mighty canine-slaying trident blessed by the Goddess,

herself.

But the nearer they drew towards the vegetable garden, the more Regina saw before them a world

of flame-licked rooftops, glazed and empty eyes – the smell of blood – and the burning of the Harvest.

Her papa lying in the mud, covered with a windblown canvas sheet – Westley Horne, begging for help

beneath the crushing weight of his dying grandpapa. “I don’t want to die!” she sobbed. “I don’t want to

die! I don’t want to die! I don’t want to—”

“Reggie, look…”

“No!” she bawled.

“Regina! Open yer eyes, ye foolish thing, and see what I see, yeah!”

Her eyes shot wide open. There were cornstalks. There were turnips and bean sprouts – There was

the canine, crouched low to the rain-absorbed soil on all fours. It did not move. It did not even look

their way. It instead remained a waiting hunter, ready to pounce upon the staked tomatoes before it.

Regina hiccupped through fresh tears as she gazed dumbfounded upon a monster sewn together

with cassowary hide and held aloft with dowel and string to ward off unwanted scavengers and thieves.

Its black pelt was greasy from rainfall, wooden footclaws old and gray and stained with dirt, with glass

eyes and aluminum teeth that gleamed against the light of the moon.

“A crop guardian,” she said. “It – it’s a crop guardian…”

Dwain drew Regina into an embrace that was warm, and gentle, that protected her from the icy wet

of the rainstorm that boomed and crackled, overhead. Though she fought back the fearful and

embarrassed tremors that rippled through her limbs, it was no use.

Regina felt Dwain’s cheek against the top of her head.

And then despite herself, she started to cry.

8. A Light at the Edge of the Woods

Dwain and Regina travelled on foot for most of the night, stumbling and pushing through an endless

rain-drenched forest that refused to let them leave its mazelike gaze. The Keeton Woods were not kind

to strangers, it seemed, with its many dirt paths that led to nowhere and streams that led only to ponds.

“The wind will guide us,” Dwain kept repeating. But the wind itself was weak here, obstructed by

the treetops that loomed devilishly overhead, strangling any breeze into a thin hiss between the long

and scratching twigs that clawed for the kits at every step. Not even the Mother Moon could penetrate

the Keeton treetops, and without Her all-seeing eye, it was near impossible to tell which direction led

West.

As the night stretched on into plummeting temperatures, the warnings Astral had heeded about the

Keeton Woods – about wandering it alone as strangers, about getting so easily lost in its labyrinthine

embrace – seemed to be a more accurate description from a hermit just trying to help, oppose to a

schemer trying to keep orphans from finding the remnants of their frayed lives.

Fearful skunken intuition urged Regina to find her way back to the Hollow. But Dwain’s stubborn

hedgehog blood would keep him from admitting falsehood against Astral Ages, in a push to prove

himself right – in a push to keep going until their destination was sought.

Even if they could go back, would the Keeton Woods let them?

Regina shivered.

These woods were so dense, unending. She knew of the Keeton Woods only from the maps her

father charted, and the Woods themselves didn’t even seem all that encompassing on paper, compared

to the wide scope of the Altusian Moors. It were as though this dark and horrid place were a sentient

thing, desperate to keep whatever secrets lay within it safe from wheda who wished to come or go

through its deep brush.

“Are ye getting’ tired?” Regina’s ears twitched at Dwain’s sudden question. “Do ye need a carry?”

“No.” Regina shook her head and squeezed his paw firm in hers. But it was true: she was tired, and

at Dwain’s urgent pace, it probably felt like he was dragging her along like a little stitched doll.

“Aye, don’t be brave.” He could read her like a book it seemed, and in one fell swoop, Dwain

scooped the little skunk up over his head, and into a swift piggy-back. His pace hastened with

immediate ease.

Regina tucked her chin into Dwain’s shoulder and gazed longingly into the forest as she bounced

against his spiny backside. Drifting sleepiness led to thoughts of Keeto Town: what it must be like, and

who all would be waiting for them there, rushing forward and singing psalms of reunion.

She then thought of her mother, imagined her waiting for their arrival at Keeto Town’s gates, with

arms open wide. The smell of orchids lingered in Regina’s nostrils despite that of rain in the air. The

scent was a ghostly apparition, as was Mama’s rendition of the Song of the Harvest that now played in

her ears.

These bloomed a lost warmth in Regina’s heart that eased the tension of their current meandering

plight. She pulled her poncho’s hood overhead, nestled her cheek against Dwain’s spines, and felt the

graze of sleep comb over her.

For all the wandering the kits had done that night, they had to be close, she thought.

~

The mist of a grey and hopeless dawn seeped between the trees, akin to the choking mud that clung to

Dwain’s footclaws, sucking his toes and heels deeper and deeper into the ground with each exhausted

step he took.

His body ached from relentless exertion, shoulders especially burdened by the weight of a

snoozing rain-soaked skunk. A sheen of sleep-deprived tingliness raked across his skin, as though it

were covered with a an excitable familial reunion of fleas. Slow blinks became semi-induced micro-

naps that he used to trick a numbing mind into believing that restfulness was accumulated in quickly-

gathered increments.

And as much as he probably should have, Dwain dared not stop for rest. He needed to keep a

steady trek forward, strained eyes so focused on the path ahead, that barely anything he set a gaze upon

made actual physical sense anymore. That is, except for the end goal that projected from his mind’s

eye: Keeto Town.

Every step forward meant a step closer there.

Droplets pattered the foliage around him. It’d been a few hours since the rain ceased its descent

over the Woods, but what it left was a messy, fog-laden, pilgrimage not ideal for wayward wanderers.

Dwain winced as he stepped shin-deep into a thick pocket of mud unaccounted for.

Truth be told, he probably should have found respite inside a hollowed log until the warmth of the

Father Sun returned to dry everything out. But Dwain knew that the forest could not go on forever.

Stopping to rest would mean spending more time unwillingly here.

Stopping to rest would mean greater risk of crossing canine marauders, also.

Thinking of shelter brought mental images of the old culvert. The one he’d hid Regina within

when he became to weak to go on, before.

Why did you go away? … I thought you were dead!

Dwain’s heart swelled with a pain greater than the aches that racked his body now. He let out a

grunt of weariness and pushed onward along a turn in the path that swooped wide around a jut of

cedars.

The old swine’s rickety voice suddenly haunted his thoughts: …You weren’t there to protect her, as

your pact would have suggested. Do you not believe the lass has earned a genuine explanation for

this?

Dwain barely remembered anything except for the intent of his leaving Regina behind. He’d

known nothing of Astral Ages by that point – knew nothing of the Hollow, until he woke up there the

previous morning. Coincidence was the paw who’d guided their paths to cross. And yet this total

intrusive swine of a “saviour” somehow knew Dwain inside and out, without even a gentlemammal’s

introduction.

Dwain hated him.

All right, Dwain Spikeclaw: Say we go to Keeto Town. Say no one is there to greet you, after all.

What, then?

He hated how Astral had condescended him through words that implied insignificance and

weakness, despite the strength that burned in his very hedgehog heart. He hated how Astral had nursed

after Reggie like she were his own daughter, a precious little dainty thing, whose own radiant strength

went extinguished the moment she awoke alone and confused that day before last.

That was your doing, though, yeah.

Dwain fully knew it. The decision to abandon Regina was not an decision to make – nor was it one

that any grown wheda could properly explain to a kit so young. That stinking swine should have known

this, above all else.

And now that Dwain had healed and found nourishment, such explanations weren’t important now.

For he and Reggie had pledged a new bond, which could never be broken.

And it was Dwain’s vow to this bond that now drove him to find Keeto Town – more so than any

grand assumptions presumed by the grownups who’d proclaimed trust in Alexia the Sage.

Revenge and retribution were a lovely thing – but down to brass tacks, it didn’t really matter in the

end if anybody was there to greet the kits at Keeto’s gates.

…Where was she when your mother and father were cut open where they stood? Where was she,

when your brothers and sister were trampled alive by your very neighbours under a hail of flaming

arrows?

He shuddered. The guffing f’horra knew. But how? How could Astral Ages have known such

details? The revelation sent the invisible fleas across Dwain’s skin leaping to their deaths by way for a

quake of gooseflesh.

… I know of her … your precious Alexia the Sage is no better than any quick-witted con artist. It

would not be wise to invest your fields in a mammal whose sole view of her loyal followers is that of

corpses stacked upon each other to form a bridge towards supremacy.

If it were true, if the fallacy of Alexia the Sage was accurate by Astral’s declaration, then Dwain

damned the old field boar into eternity. The sooner they were away from this awful place, the better.

~

Something caught Dwain’s peripheral. Instinct forced his heels leftward like a moth to flame, and that’s

when he realized a dim glow struggled to remain illuminated within the mist. The only answer could be

the strain of the Father Sun, so he followed it with slight rejuvenation rushing through his limbs.

The dew-kissed grass at Dwain’s heels sloped upwards, warding away the fog like an unwanted

cloak off the lad’s backside. The hill was only slight in nature, but it brought further pained exertion to

his already over-strained leg muscles.

It was on this upward trek that the forest parted of its own volition, giving way to rocky plains that

spanned off into the obscurity of the fog-dense morning. Warm wind blustered around Dwain’s face

and limbs, now free of the clawing scrutiny of the Keeton Woods. He continued onward.

A cluster of low buildings appeared in the distance, encapsulated by cross-fences that spanned their

perimeter in a near-perfect circular shape. The glow off the fog hadn’t come from the Father Sun at all

– instead, from torches tied to the little commune’s arching entryway.

Dwain’s chest tightened. He could almost hear Ma’s voice whisper: Follow the wind, me spine-

headed love. Let her breathy kisses lead ye homeward…

Vigour for this new place restored Dwain of his weariness. He bolted across the Altusian Moors

like a jackal on the chase, until the strain of his ankles forced him to slow to a trot just inside the

hamlet’s main square. His ears twitched alert, honed in on the dense sound of axe-chopping somewhere

in the distance.

Dwain surveyed the area just as fresh rain started to pelt the lands again. The buildings in this

hamlet were made of field rock and thatched roofs – near exact to the construction of Altus Village.

There was a small, peak-roofed livery nearby that he decided to duck inside for shelter. Within, the

worn little hedgehog was greeted by a lazily-grazing pony that was hitched to an emptied wooden cart.

“Reggie, wake up. C’mon, yeah.” Dwain gently lowered her to the grass, nudged her awake until

she was yawning, clinging groggily to his tunic with a balled fist at one eye.

“Ohh … where are we?”

“Keeto Town,” Dwain announced. He straightened and thumped his chest a few times with the

blunt end of a balled fist. “We need t’ find the others, before we do anything else, yeah. The place is so

deathly quiet.”

Elder Rombard’s porcine face wavered before Regina’s mind’s eye.

“What about the Elder’s house?” she asked. “Maybe everyone’s there!”

“The Elder’s house?” Dwain scratched at the spines on the top of his head. “Does Keeto Town

have an Elder?”

“I don’t know.”

“They must, if Altus did. One way to find out.” His scanning gaze found a lone wheda chopping

firewood over by a hut a fair distance from where he and Regina hid for shelter from the rain. “Oi,

there!”

The wheda paused in mid axe-swing and regarded the kits with a steel glare.

“Stay here,” Dwain said. “I’ll be righ’ back, yeah.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just across the way, there, see?”

Regina frowned at him. “No.”

Dwain pointed her direction over to a small water well close by, just off-centre of the hamlet’s

main gate. “Ye see that well, yeah? I’m just beyond that. No further, promise – Okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Keep a tight chin, yeah?” he ruffled her headfur gently. “I’ll be just beyond that waterin’ well,

talkin’ to a fella choppin wood, yeah? Be back right soon. Count the seconds.”

Regina watched Dwain’s body become a disfigured, unrecognizable, blur as he went off to seek

information. She then noticed the grazing pony beside her. “H-hullo. Do you know a donkey named

Phalanx?”

Unlike the Almighty Majesty Andromedon, this pony considered Regina with a blank stare, a gaze

that lacked total understanding of itself and of the world it inhabited. This was a simple pack animal,

like any other typical pack animal Regina had met before Phalanx. The pony slowly gyrated the wet

grass between its teeth and let a brisk snort and a swift tail swish pass.

Regina sighed, disappointed.

Exactly one-hundred-and-twenty-three seconds later, Dwain scampered back inside the livery with

excitement glinting in his dark little eyes. A sight Regina was unused to, considering all they’d been

through together up to now. Dwain wore a bounding look of awe and wonder, as if the Harvest Festival

was surely upon them, after all.

Regina’s heart swelled. “Did you find them? Did you find Mama?!”

Dwain nodded with such enthusiasm, his head could have dislodged from his spine and flung

across the sky. “I know where the Elder lives, yeah!”

He took Regina by the paw and made a dash into the street with such lustre that her footpads

touched air, blooming the poncho she wore like a wind-struck kite.

This was it, Regina realized. Their horrible journey had finally ended. Hopefully it was time to

now gather whatever scattered pieces of their old life remained…

9. A Visit to the Elder’s House

Back in Altus Village, Elder Rombard lived on a court-shaped street near the centre of town. His home

wasn’t large, nor fancy – in fact you couldn’t much tell it apart from any other house in Altus. This was

because the teachings of Mother Azna declared that no mammal was greater than another mammal; all

mammals were made equal, and no mammal should fail to provide equity to others in need. Elder

Rombard lived by these teachings like they were his sworn duty, and seemed to pride himself on being

surrounded by that of friends and relatives.

The place where this hamlet’s Elder lived was dark and rotting, tucked away within a shady

alleyway. A pawful of grownups loitered here, some of whom squatted against the shoddy-built field

rock walls as they smoked rolled cigarettes. Others huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with murmured

secrets, dashing wary eyes in the directions where trust could not be afforded.

Regina met the bloodshot gaze of a sullen feline drawing towards them, puffing away on a

cigarette with paws jammed into his trouser pockets. He knocked past the kits without even excusing

himself.

What sort of Elder could live in such a horrid place, she wondered, where foul-smelling wheda

hung about, no better than a shameful blight to the Altusian Moors? The only thing that made sense

was that this hamlet’s Elder took Mother Azna’s laws of humility to extremes – more so than Elder

Rombard, a thousand-fold.

“This is it, methinks.” Dwain led Regina up a set of stairs where wide-open double doors awaited.

They entered into a dimly-lit hall, where a broad archway appeared at the opposite end. Silver daylight

seeped across the bottom edge of the threshold, out towards the kits.

Regina squinted until the muscles around her eyes ached as she tried to make out the garbled

details of what lay beyond the arch at the end of the hall. “Where are we going?”

“I see a real long table, like,” Dwain said. “Lots o’ stools. Dunno, mebbe this is his meetin’ room,

yeah. There’s more folk ahead, I can smell ‘em fierce.”

Regina sniffed the air and sifted through a mix of reeking odours similar to that of the mammals

out in the alleyway. Flexing nostrils gave way to the choking scent of duskroot; foods like salt-covered

nuts, pickled eggs; as well as that of rich oak, thick with dust. In total, there were five or six other

mammals in her nose. The clean scent of felines, the unmistakable wretchedness of a single raccoon.

There was the sweet smell of skunk, and also of that a stinky, sickly, pig.

“You smell the pig?” Dwain asked. “That’s got t’ be him, yeah.”

Regina swallowed hard and hoped that was the Elder they could smell. She squeezed her clasp

around Dwain’s claw. He squeezed back on her paw.

They passed through the archway. Regina’s vision solidified on a long serving bar that curved

against the back wall in a sort of semi-circular shape. Behind it, a tall and slender tabby cat stepped into

view. Regina couldn’t help but notice that she had orange headfur like a frizzy dandelion. The tabby

folded twig-like arms across her apron-clad chest as she regarded the kits with a confused, speculative,

expression.

“Why – allo there, loves,” she said. “Not seen you around. Lost, are ye?”

Somebody coughed. Regina looked past Dwain and saw that they were being stared at by two

other felines sitting at the bar down a ways, hunched over their glasses. The burlier of the two wore a

thick coat and a toque. Regina wondered if he was a fishermammal. He sneered at her and took a deep

sip from his drink. He smelled dangerous.

Her eyes skipped across the passage of silver daylight that seeped in through what she could only

guess was a narrow window high up on the wall at the far end of the room. A cluster of about five

round tables held the further wary stares of a raccoon, whose back initially faced the children – and the

sickly old pig who sat in the back-most corner. He spluttered over a fresh coughing fit, spilling the

contents of his raised drink all down his arm and the tabletop.

They had entered a tavern, Regina realized. A tavern not unlike the Scythe and Stone, where

wheda who stank more so of ale and wine than they did of their natural musk met her gaze at every

pace.

She shivered, tugged on the elbow of Dwain’s tunic. But he ignored her, semi frozen to the spot.

The smell of fear permeated off his pores like summer sweat.

“We’s uh – we’s lookin’ fer the Elder, yeah.”

“But, you’re already here, love,” said the tabby behind the bar.

Regina tugged harder on Dwain’s elbow. This time he snapped out of whatever baffled trance held

his focus and looked down at her. “Wot, Reggie?”

“I want to go back to Astral and Phalanx. I don’t like it here.”

“Don’t be saying that,” he said with a sharp hiss. “It’ll be fine, lass. Trust me.”

But the tremble in Dwain’s uncertain tone betrayed him.

“Oi, you stinkin’ lot! These sods belong to any of you?” asked the tabby to the room. A low rumble

filled the air from each of the patrons – all uttering low-voiced No’s. A door by the window, semi-

hidden by the shoulder of the other felines, creaked open as a great big grizzly bear stomped through

with a quiver of arrows and a composite bow hanging off one shoulder. The tabby yelled to him:

“Jonas, there! You know these kits?”

“Nuh, Muriel. Never seen ‘em before in me loif,” he said without even looking at them. He settled

down at the curve of the bar and tossed his cap aside. “Gimme a whisky, then. Oi, Francis, how ye

been, ol’ bugger?”

The burly feline snorted into his glass with disdain. “Buggerin’ yer sister, that’s how, mate.”

Muriel wrinkled her nose with disgust at them. She glanced to Dwain and Regina, a twinge of

lostness at her lip, and then called into a window over her shoulder that looked into the kitchen. “Oi,

Danny-boy! Fetch us some milk, yeah – two glasses!”

“We serving minors now, yeah?” rumbled the raccoon from where he sat. “When this place

become an orphanage?”

Muriel glared at him. “Quiet down, Hansel. Drink your mead and mind your business. Shan’t turn

away a pair o’ lost little lambs, shall we? What sort of mother would I be, then?”

“As long as I’m payin’, I’ll say what I please.”

“Then consider yourself cut off.” That silenced him. Muriel patted the surface of the bar. “Come

on, pips, hop up an’ have a seat. Be with you in just’a tick.” She turned away to pour the new patron’s

drink, and vanished out of sight to go serve him.

Regina gave Dwain a disapproving look. But he, seemingly feeling less afraid than before,

gestured her to follow his lead. They climbed up onto the bar stools, just as two skunk paws carrying

tall glasses of goats milk appeared by the window into the kitchen, clacking them down onto the sill

with care. The paws withdrew, followed by a hoarse fit of coughing. A bell jangled from within.

This cued Muriel to return to Dwain and Regina. She served them their glasses of milk with a

bright smile. “Drink up, then, loves. It’s morning fresh.”

The milk was warm and refreshing to Regina – who didn’t realize just how thirsty she actually

was. Her eyes grew heavy with easing comfort.

Dwain guzzled down the last of his glass and slapped it onto the bar with an audible gasp of

satisfaction. He wiped milky residue from his muzzle with the back of his sleeve, and nestled into his

seat, sitting upright and confident, now.

Muriel seemed amused by this, leaning into the both of them with her cheek nestled against a fist.

“Ye say ye were lookin’ for here, and here ye found us. Welcome to the Tavern of the Fallen Alder.

Now, where are ye parents at, yeah?”

Regina felt all eyes on them. She dared a peek and found the two felines and their grizzly friend

watching them from the end of the bar. They seemed filled with suspicion, as they quietly drank their

concoctions and ate from an available bowl of shelled nuts. The burly cat, in particular, seemed darkly

interested the children. Regina looked behind her and found that the raccoon and pig had gone back to

their own business, sulking in the silent depths of drunkenness.

“Canines attacked our village,” Dwain told Muriel. “Reggie and I made it out okay, but we no idea

‘bout anyone else. We’s lookin’ fer those who survived, yeah.”

Shock befell Muriel. “Bless me stars, you poor things…! Where ye from, then, yeah?

Hewittstown? Places all over the map be goin’ up in flame these past few months…” She grasped for

his paw in both of hers.

“Ain’t no damned canines in Galheist, boy.” It was the burly feline, Francis. “Sure it ain’t one o’

yer dumb lot, set a firework in a back shed, yeah? Coverin’ up wit lies, ye are.”

“It’s not a lie!” Regina snapped at him.

The sharp of her tongue surprised Dwain. It surprised even Regina, herself, but she remained

steadfast in the declaration. “It’s not a lie,” she said again – quieter this time – and brought the tall glass

of goats milk to her lips with both paws.

“I’m sorry to hear your plight then, loves,” said Muriel. She shook her head. “But Francis is right,

there ain’t ever been no canines in Galheist.”

“That old Ages tol’ us the same thing,” Dwain said with a scowl.

Muriel blinked at him. “Who then, love?”

“Astral Ages. He save’ me n’ Reggie when we came up the Blood Hills, yeah. Led from a tunnel

straight out the Scythe ‘n Stone’s celler there! He tol’ us in no way did canines swim alla cross the

ocean jus’ to attack Altus Village. But they set our homes ablaze! Came into the streets from the moors,

totin’ torches an’ fiery arrows – we know who we saw then, yeah! So we’s left that ol’ Ages and come

this way to find our families. If’n possible, under the guidin’ justice of Alexia the Sage, we’ll—”

Mere mention of the name chilled the room. All of the patrons, even Muriel, seemingly froze in

mid-sip, mid-chew, mid-sentence. That is, except for the old porcine in the very back corner, still

focused on fruitless attempts to sip his drink without a spilling it all over himself. For the most part, all

eyes were on the kits now. Even the kitchen cook narrowed his eyes at them from the window behind

Muriel.

Dwain faltered, visibly nervous, now. “—reclaim … what was taken from us, yeah.”

Dwain continued.“—But we saw ‘em. Reggie and me, we - we saw ‘em canines, with our own…”

The sense of unease was so thick that Dwain found himself stumbling over words. He glanced about as

syllable after syllable slowly became less possible to form on his tongue. Finally, he too became quiet,

though through confusion. He swallowed hard.

“…Alexia the Sage, ye say?” Muriel retracted her paws from his claw. She stepped back, rigid and

frozen, eyes wide with semi-cognizant fright. “Ye lot worship that killer’s scripture?”

“She wants to tear up these lands, ye know,” spouted the raccoon cook from his window. “Wants to

wreck all the Zuut has worked so hard to build, yeah. The whole world’s under siege, no thanks t’her!”

“So the rumours about Altus Village were true, then.” It was Francis who’d piped up. “That little

commune of cultists, frontin’ like a happy li’l farming hamlet. Where Retainers plotted against all the

good of the Goddess’ Son?”

“Wot?” Dwain blinked. He was too shocked by these statements, too confused by these grown

wheda’s reactions to realize that Regina tugged relentlessly at his elbow. “But … but – the canines…”

“Listen, ye stupid sod,” stated Francis’s feline counterpart, “wot part of Canines ain’t in Galheist

got ye thick in the brains? Musta been bandit raiders who got t’ yeah! Vandal-hearts, who – bless ‘em if

you don’t mind me sayin’ – razed yer stinkin’ Retainer village all nice and good!”

“Don’t try to reason with the kits of terrorists none, Merrick,” murmured Jonas, the grizzly bear.

“They’re easiest to indoctrinate, yeah.”

“And the toughest to cure of fanaticism, at that.” Francis pushed out of his barstool. His footpads

touched the stone tile with a solid clack. His feline tail swished darkly to one side.

“Francis, I want no trouble in me tavern, hear?” Muriel warned him. “I don’t care where they’re

from, or wo ye say, they’re still children, for Goddess’s sake, yeah.”

“Mind yer stock, love. I’m just havin’ words,” he said with a sickly growl in his throat. “Altus

traded with Keeto Town, yeah? So easy to turn an eye blind when commerce is dependent on it, yeah?

Hey, well they might not mind doing trade with terrorists, but the less of you alive in my world, the

sooner this war ends, yeah?”

“Makes sense to me,” someone uttered.

Regina’s stomach screamed danger at her, clanged her nerves about like pots and pans, until she

started to shake. But she couldn’t move. Her own fear of what may happen glued her seat right to the

barstool.

Dwain sought resolution from Muriel the kindly barkeep, but she’d backed off completely now,

scanning her patrons for hints of what was about to come down upon these kits. She glanced their way.

Confliction flashed across her features – Surprise. Maternal worry. Horror. Regret.

And finally, disgust.

“Wot’s the matter with you lot?!” Dwain demanded. “Ye’ve all gone infected with the madness, ye

have!”

The tavern rumbled like falling rocks under the snide chuckles of the other patrons. Francis,

however, grinned and licked his chops hungrily, as hard-set feline eyes still feasted so heartily on

Regina and Dwain.

“He’s a brave one, that,” giggled the raccoon stupidly from across the room.

“Shut up, Hansel,” said Francis. He used the back of his sleeve to wipe away stray drops of whisky

from the corner of his muzzle. He gripped the edge of the serving bar so tight, his claws seeped out

from the soft, plump, tips of his paws and dug deep into the wood. His tail swished darkly once more.

“A brave one, indeed. Not like his kin. Not like his scum-sucking coward kin.”

Merrick, the other feline, rose from his seat as well. Jonas the grizzly bear shouldered into a

composite bow he’d left leaning against the bar. Hansel gripped his chair’s backrest and pushed up to

stand, but fell back into his seat, too drunk to move. He shook his head and waited to try again, ready to

spring into action, if need be.

“Get out of here,” Muriel said to Dwain and Regina. “A mother as I am, yeah, the both of you, get

out of my tavern, and don’t ye dare look back, lest I whip ye hides to ribbons, m’self, hear? The Alder

don’t want ye, and ne’er does the rest of the world, for all that it matters!”

“Not so fast, Muriel, love.” Francis started to wobble towards Dwain and Regina on slow steps, all

the while using the edge of the bar as a guiding balance beam. He was so much taller than Regina had

anticipated. He came towards them on slow heels, a fiery glare burning behind his flexing feline eyes.

“Believe it’s time we clear out the last of Altus’s little vermin nest...”

10. Traitors to Peace

Dwain climbed to a stand upon his bar stool in an attempt to meet Francis and his oncoming militia

mammal-to-mammal. “Oi, then. Wot’s this all about, yeah? Don’t believe us, do ye? Canines did come,

and Reggie and I barely made it here alive. Got m’self trampled and near death, forced to hide out in

—”

Francis grabbed Dwain by the throat with a single fat paw and laid him flat across the serving bar

in an instant. Dwain’s lungs expelled from the impact, and he found himself pinned to the spot with his

little hedgehog legs dangling over the edge.

“Get the skunk before she sprays us all,” he growled to Merrick, who stumbled past on hasty

drunken heels. But Jonas was sober and faster, and grabbed hold of Regina in a pincer grip around her

arms and waist before she could even get the tip of her tail up.

“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go, let me go!”

Merrick appeared suddenly before her, wearing a devil’s grin. He wasted no time in stuffing a used

napkin into her mouth. “Ahh, that’ll shut her up good, yeah.”

“Can’t stand screamers,” Jonas rumbled under breath.

“l-leave her alone…!” The words strangled themselves out of Dwain’s pinched airway.

Francis found great amusement in this. “Just a couple of lost little lambs…” He purred darkly as he

glared with gleeful malice into Dwain’s frightened face. “Traitorous lambs. Black sheep who’ve

abandoned their flock…”

“please—” Dwain choked out. “a-alexia—”

“Alexia, the traitor to peace. Alexia, the leader of terrorists. Alexia, the fear-mongering.” Francis

sneered down at him, his other paw looming next to Dwain’s cheek, ready to carve through fur and

flesh with glinting, readied, claws. “Garbonde is no sage. You’d be wise to heed this warning, lad:

Chew your tongue and never mention the name Alexia Garbonde, or Altus Village, ever again. Your

precious vermin nest is a pile of ash, and so to are you, if the right folk catch whiff of your traitorous

Retainer hides.”

“Folks, like us,” giggled Merrick.

“What are we gonna do, Francis?” Jonas asked. “Kill ‘em, or what?”

“Killing?! Ye ain’t killin’ ‘em here, in my tavern, you lot,” Muriel said heatedly. She plucked the

balled up napkin out of Regina’s mouth and swatted Merrick on the cheek for it. “They’re children for

Azna’s sake. Let ‘em go into the wilderness, where they belong. The Moor stretches on for days,

unending – what threat are they to us?”

“Kits or not, they’re a blight on mammality!” said Hansel from where he sat, drinking.

“Shut up, Hansel,” grunted Jonas. “Nobody asked you.”

“Muriel’s right, I think,” said Francis. “Whedakind is better off without the stench of their lot

reeking corruption all throughout the place, but here’s not the place to do it...” He licked the edge of his

jagged teeth and sneered between Dwain and Regina again. “Were I a not good mammal, I’d drag you

out back and slit yer throats, m’self.”

“Maybe y’should,” Merrick dared him.

Muriel started to protest again when Regina suddenly bit down hard Jonas’s arm, clenched her

jaws on him firm until the taste of copper filled her nose and her mouth. When he reeled with agony,

she wasted no time to wrangle free from the bear’s giant grizzly clutches and sprayed the room with all

she could muster.

Dwain shouted for her attention amidst the retching confusion of what just happened. She looked

up to see her friend back on his footpads, just in time to plough balled fists into the side of Francis’s

gagging face, like a wrecking ball. He hopped down from the bar and called Regina to follow him.

The kits swathed blindly straight through the screeches and writhing of the other patrons, weaving

and shoving through whomever stood between them and wherever their little footpads frantically

stamped. The kits ducked around the curve of the bar; Dwain bashed straight through the exit without

daring a glance back at the ruckus they’d caused.

Regina followed at his heels, splashing through the rain-soaked ground, back towards the small

livery. Her frantic gaze found the cart-drawn pony from before, still grazing within.

Dwain got there first and began to struggle undoing whatever ropes kept the pony tied to its post.

He flashed a quick nod Regina’s way: “Go on, help me unhitch ‘er straps!”

“Why—”

“Don’t ask questions! Ye want t’ get t’ Keeto Town in a single slice, don’che?!”

But hesitation froze Regina to the spot. What was the point of this? Stealing a pony was a total

waste of time right now! Why not just leave, and go back to the Hollow, where safety was guaranteed?

Astral would be waiting for them.

He must have been so worried, she thought.

Thwwp!

It was Dwain’s sudden yelp of pain that brought Regina back to her senses. He cringed at her with

his brow knitted. “Ahh – Reg—” He hissed back agony, desperately patting at his backside, like for an

unreachable itch.

Regina blinked at him, confused. “…Dwain?”

“Get the little guffer again, Jonas!” A sloshing voice echoed across the wind with giggled mixed

with hiccups.

“Shut up, Merrick.”

Regina threw a look beyond her friend’s shoulder and found the cat named Merrick and the grizzly

bear named Jonas rolling through the open village square, headed directly towards the livery. The

grizzly bear lumbered behind Merrick, lowering what looked like his composite bow.

Dwain winced another flash of pain. And as he turned to face the lot of drunkards, Regina noticed

a feathered shaft sticking out of his shoulder blade.

“Dwain!” she gasped. “You ... you’re…”

A shiver ripped across his spines. And then before Dwain could stop himself, his legs gave out and

he slid from sight beneath the pony’s flank.

“Dwain!” Regina dove across the cart’s bench to go after him, when suddenly someone grabbed

her by the tail. She swung around with a sharp yelp, and fell hard onto her backside. Frances towered

over her, grinning down with wild, feral, eyes.

“Allo, love.” Drool rolled down his chin in thin strands that pattered against the wooden bench as

he drew Regina closer with another hard yank on her tail. “That was a nasty thing you did, stinking up

poor Muriel’s tavern!”

“Let me go!” Regina kicked and thrashed, but the burly feline only found dark amusement in this.

He wrangled Regina by the front of the poncho and dragged her completely off the bench seat, despite

the rich scent of new skunk fear she let loose on the wind.

He leaned out the side of the cart in a sweeping arc, with Regina squirming and screaming for help

in his clutches. “Lookie here, fellas! She is a feisty little one! Should I be surprised, for such Retainer

scum?”

“How old, ya think?” asked Merrick, when he and Jonas caught up. “Wonder if the underground

will take her!”

“They won’t take her so long as she reeks like that,” said Jonas. “It’s a gland, I think, that’s how it

happens. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”

Frances pulled Regina in close and grinned deep into her terrified gaze. “Well then … we’ll just

have to cut it out of you, won’t we?”

“Don’t – don’t ye dare touch her…!” Dwain reached at Frances from where he lay in the dirt, but

Merrick took great amusement in this pained effort and spared no hesitation to kick the downed kit

square in the chest.

“Please, no! Let us go! We’re just trying to get to Keeto Town!” Regina sobbed.

Frances snorted. “It would be Keeto, in all its corruptness, that would protect the likes of you.”

“What with him, then?” Jonas stepped over Dwain’s body and notched his bow with a fresh arrow.

He levelled the weapon with his spiny forehead. “Don’t need this one, do we?”

Frances frowned. “Kill the hedgehog, Jonas, I don’t care much either way.”

“Please!” Regina shrieked. “Please, don’t hurt him anymore!”

A distant voice carried into the livery from somewhere outside. “These are Alliance-sanctioned

lands, need I remind you. Slay those kits and the Altusian Moors won’t hide your treachery for long.”

Frances, Merrick, and Jonas turned away from the kits, their fiendish grins and gazes melting into

a slack-jawed predatory scan of the village landscape for the fool who dared interrupt their inebriated

lynching of Retainer pestilence.

Close by, just inside the hamlet’s gates, they found a mammal semi-hidden by his dark-blue robes

and crooked, wide-brimmed, hat. He challenged the murderous trio atop a haughty looking mule, the

tips of his cloven hoofs tapping idle against a wheat scythe that rested across his lap.

“Mister Ages!” Fear and joy swelled intermingled in Regina’s heart.

“Let’s go, old boy.” Astral rode Phalanx towards the livery on slow and cautious trots. His

penetrative, all-knowing, gaze refused to unlevel with that of the blood-thirsty trio.

Frances bared his fangs under a low growl. He hoisted Regina towards him like she were no better

than an already-bagged trophy kill. “Stay back, swine. Let justice run its course today.” At his flanks,

Jonas and Merrick readied themselves for whatever this old porcine of the woods may try to throw at

them.

The wizard and his mule slowed to a halt a few paces just outside the livery, where the drunken

killers greeted him with disdain. Astral dismounted Phalanx with some struggle, taking longer than

typical, in a pained attempt to accommodate joints wracked with arthritis.

Once to the ground, Astral hesitated to proceed, the only sound on the wind that of a lone

woodcutter minding his own business. He then left a tender pat of reassurance upon Phalanx’s neck,

and started towards the group on slow hoofs, using the wheat scythe like a walking staff. “Why are you

threatening children, anyhow? Have you nothing better to do with your day?”

He’d started to reach inside his robe when Jonas suddenly aimed his loaded composite bow. “Don’t

guffin’ move. Not even your little curly tail.”

Astral snorted, and with it, came a plume of tucked-away duskroot smoke from inside his nostrils.

“Threaten me all you like, I’ve lived in these woods longer than any of you’ve even drawn breath. I am

but humble a hermit of the forest.”

“Don’t care,” said Jonas. “Take your hoof out of your robes. Slowly.”

“We mean you no trouble, and are only passing through,” Astral stated, firm. He obliged, tossing a

small sack at the drunken lot. It burst open against the ground between them, revealing a small

collection of rare trinkets and amulets. “Let my niece and her friend go, and we will forget today ever

took place, yes?”

“Your niece?” This interested Frances a great deal, instead of the sack of potential wealth of

rarities Astral had tossed them. He grinned Regina’s way as she squirmed and whined, dangling in his

claws. “This your niece? Never have I seen a pig that looks so much like a skunk before! Though, pigs

and skunks stink of droppings all the same, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter then – does it?”

“Wait,” said Jonas, “You might not be her blood kin. But if she’s yours, that must mean you a

Retainer, also!”

“My, what a lucky day to be alive,” said Merrick behind a drunken giggle. He clashed blades

together with gleeful malice.

Astral squinted at him. “What? On the contrary—”

But it was too late for explanations.

Thwwip!

The confusion in Astral’s eyes turned to sudden shock. He stumbled back a few paces and looked

down at himself to find an arrow shaft sticking out of his chest.

“Mister Ages!” Regina screamed.

A shaky hoof dared to touch the bodily intrusion like it were a strange, foreign, appendage. Astral

wobbled in place, inspected the blood that now dripped from his hoof tips. He then collapsed into a

lifeless heap, splashing against the rain-soaked ground beside his open sack of rarities.

In a flash, Dwain lunged at Frances from behind, sinking his teeth deep into the feline’s neck like a

maddened mammal. They fell to the dirt, and Regina flew out of Frances’s grasp, hitting the ground

with such force, the wind blew right out of her lungs like a great bellows.

She pushed up onto her paws. The world was spinning. The sound of feral scuffling sounded

somewhere beyond. Heavy footfalls thudded towards her, but Regina retained enough sense to

scramble beneath the wagon, where safety awaited.

But a sharp pain ripped her backwards through the dirt. Someone had her by the tail again.

Screaming and crying for help, Regina dug her claws into the earth, but the sheer force was enough to

break her digits off at the wick.

“Let go of me!!” She unleashed the wrath of her skunken fear upon the assailant then, and

scrambled further beneath the safety of the wagon. She turned, saw with what turned out to be Jonas

the grizzly bear cursing up a storm.

“Augh, droppings, she got me in the eyes!”

Beyond him was Dwain rolling on the ground with Frances in a heated battle of bites and kicks.

The stench of copper was thick on the air. Out another end of the wagon, she saw Astral lay in the

dirt not facing her. He was motionless. Lifeless. The old porcine who had gone through all the trouble

to save Regina and Dwain from the certain doom of canines, had now landed himself a ticket to the

Afterworld, no thanks to carnage...

…caused by wheda.

Wheda, who kill other wheda.

How did such a thing make any sense to the Mother Goddess? How could She have let such an

impossible thing come to pass?

Astral lay there in the dirt as dark ruby Life Energy pooled under him, just like Regina’s father.

Blood trickled down a pebble-guided track from Astral’s body, towards Regina’s nose. The wind off the

Altusian Moors tugged at the loose ends of his ruined robes.

A thunderous thump! sounded overhead as Jonas knocked sidelong into the wagon. The sheer force

of his weight slamming down against the frame sent the hitched pony screaming. Agony pierced

Regina’s ears then, and sunlight suddenly drew overhead as clouds of dirt and grit billowed into her

mouth and up her nose.

“Merrick! Get him! Get – No, get out of the way!”

Regina looked up just in time to witness the rear of the cart fade into the sheen of the blurred

horizon. Merrick let out a shrill cry, and the cart thumped up on one side for a brief moment, before

completely vanishing into the nothingness of unforgiving skunk vision.

Dwain … Dwain!

Where’s Dwain..?

Regina tried to cry out to him, but her voice was short with choking coughs. She struggled up onto

her paws and knees and glanced back in the direction of scuffle, where Dwain and Frances rolled

around in the dirt. Dwain seemed to have the upper hand now – every time Frances went to grapple

him, he grabbed a fistful of quills. There was a knife in the fight now, wielded desperately by Frances.

But Dwain clung around the hilt, pushing with all his might to force the weapon away from his face.

With a hearty bite to the arm, Frances’s paw digits sprung wide open, granting access to his knife.

And that’s when Regina heard it.

Agu … na’fraata …

Ghin …

Mohchta … na …

Soft words on the trail of the wind. They were barely there, invisible like the hot winds that rushed

all around them. The words were low, so quiet. Regina looked up. The thin trail of blood before her

now trickled between her dusty paw digits. She followed the trail all the way back to Astral.

It was his voice.

Those were his words.

Regina gasped, pulled herself through the dirt towards him. “Mister Ages…”

“Hey now, where do you think you’re going, little stinking wretch?!” A shadow spilled over the

earth before Regina’s eyes. She rolled onto her side, squinting into a the glinting eyes of a towering

black bear.

Jonas came at her on swift heels that swallowed any chance Regina had at escape in storming

shadow. She had just enough time to scramble up onto her paws and knees before pain like no other

struck her in the ribs – a force like a whirling sack of concrete, a dervish in the wind – sent her

tumbling to the other side of lot with all the air in her now-deflated lungs, gushing past the little

skunk’s silent-screaming lips like another hard pump off a fireplace bellows.

Regina strained to breathe, but there was nothing to take in. Each breath was cut short with a

stabbing pain that left her gasping in shallow, sobbing, desperate beats for air.

Agu … na’fraata …

Ghin …Mohchta …na’fraata …

Astral came into view, his body swam in Regina’s poor vision, dancing around and around with a

thousand blinking stars. She shook her head, and the muddled sight solidified a bit. He moved,

struggled to roll onto his back, muttering away a litany of unknown words. But all Regina could think

of was how through all of this, Astral’s hat somehow dared not to detach from his head.

Thump ... Thump …

Jonas drew into sight, each footfall a deafening crack upon the earth. Regina struggled with all her

might to shout at Astral, to warn him – but another sharp jab to the ribs sent her reeling, twisting in

agony.

All time slowed. Jonas snarled Regina’s way before furious eyes dropped to the sight of Astral,

hovering between the frays of life and death. Jonas produced his bow once more. The creak of a fresh

arrow in the yew was loud, jarring, like claws on ceramic.

Regina could only watch, trembling in a little helpless heap at the side of the road, as Astral finally

flopped onto his back, only to find himself snout-to-flint with finality.

He pushed up on one arm. A trembling hoof raised towards Jonas – a silent plead for mercy.

And then the air rippled before Astral with an audible wub-wub-wub-wub, and a wavering force of

energy enveloped Jonas like a fierce wind that blew his clothes, fur, even his flesh and all other living

tissue off his bones like fire pit ash. All that was left of the grizzly bear was a towering scarlet skeleton,

standing with its jaws hanging loose in awe of agony.

11. The Essence of Life and Mana

A moment passed. And then the skeleton crumbled, leaving only red ash to blow spirals in the wind.

The sight was impossible. Nothing in Regina’s little life had prepared her for such a horrific thing. Not

even the wickedness of the canines had prepared her for such an impossible...

“R – Regina … Regina…”

Her harrowed gaze flicked back to Astral. He fell onto the flat of his back, his hoof still raised. The

arrow in his chest stuck straight up like a lone tree upon a heaving hill. His chin tilted skyward until

their eyes met. “…Regina … take – take my hoof…”

She hesitated, more so from icy fear than any pain or wariness that racked her body in that

moment. Shivers of fully-sobered realization rippled through Regina’s body.

“Mister Ages … you – you’re dying…”

“Yes. S-seems that way.” Blood-spittle flecked the air from Astral’s porcine mouth as he struggled

to speak. “But … as Muh…Mana flows … so too does Life. Everlasting Life. Infinite Mana … Only

you can … do it … Take my hoof, child … None … none of us has to s-suffer…”

Regina whimpered with pain, fear, and shook her head no. “I don’t understand…”

Astral cringed in visible pain. He tried to suck back fresh air, but let out a silent yelp of agony,

instead. His body relaxed, panting shallow breaths.

“Regina, there is nothing to understand – You only have to take my word. You have to. For both

our sakes.” His eyes glinted at her with deep knowing. With a grimace, he stretched an arm out across

the dirt road towards her. “If you want to survive this day, if you want to forget all of this horror – if

you ever want to get to Keeto Town alive, you have to.”

Despite the beads of sweat that rolled across his brow, despite the chill that crept over his bones, it

was the firm, knowing, stare of Astral Ages’ deep and starry eyes that pierced Regina’s wholeness.

The fear in her heart loosened into light vapour on the wind. She beat back the guilt in her heart for

the immediacy of the bigger situation at hand, and rolled onto her stomach with a cry of pain. Then

folding her elbows beneath her body, Regina used whatever strength there was left in her muscles to

pull across the road like a creeping, beach-bound crustacean. Astral’s heavy eyes rolled back in his

head, squinted shut for a long moment, reopened. His gaze found her again, and hardened with

awareness once again. He bit back his own agony and stretched his arm taut towards her, his large

black scuffed hoof flexed against the air that craved for Regina’s little paw grip.

She slapped her palm down upon Astral’s hoof.

He squeezed around her little grasp. “Regina…”

Regina met his gaze and, almost at once, felt like her very core was sucked forward into a swirling

vortex. She didn’t know if it was the mental whirlwind from being kicked in the ribs, or the emotional

trauma, but it was like an inescapable vacuum swallowed her up – not her body, per se, but Regina’s

very essence of Self. The glimmering stars and universes that shone within Astral’s pupils drew her

towards him until their noses almost touched – and then Regina some how passed through Astral’s firm

gaze, and found herself within the eye of a storm, face to face with swirling images, and feelings that

were not hers, but that she could embody, like they were her very own.

Great pain enveloped Regina, sharp agony deep within her core, alongside indeterminate urgency.

Incoherent thoughts – Astral’s own words, words from other people – Regina thought she could even

hear things she and Dwain had said only hours before – and then in the din she saw images through the

perspective of somebody not of her own body.

This person was bigger than her, and frailer, and ached with every movement. Ached with every

utterance that scratched its way up their vocal chords, the threat of dense-clinging copper, an ever

present pool in the pit of their throat. There was the smell of duskroot and blood. Everything Regina

saw before her, the upper edge of sight shadowed over by the wide brim of a pointed hat.

She stared back at herself. Laying on her stomach in the dirt. The sound of Dwain shouting

something, sounds of scuffling in the far distance. She stared into an empty-eyed visage of herself, the

reflection’s little skunk jaw hanging loose. A string of drool had formed at her bottom lip. But she

wasn’t dead. The Regina that Regina gazed upon now was alive – it was clear that she was breathing –

but she wasn’t there, wasn’t present in her own body – somehow, someway, she knew this.

The sight of herself drew away into a vacuum of its own, leaving only swirling stars and thoughts

and moving pictures, spoken and written words through eyes that were not her own – and yet somehow

were. And then the cluster of thoughts and memories became sucked away into far nothingness of the

subconscious as well.

There was only darkness then.

But there was the pounding of focused thought. Sharp, all-encompassing, tremors that shook

Regina with such force, that each word uttered in her presence maintained the strength to fault the

world of Vida into pieces.

Eydra … Machlavi

Runes appeared before Regina. They were white with edges that glowed like lamplight. In her own

body, Regina didn’t know the first thing about reading. Had no idea how to tell one rune from another.

But here, in the Storm of Conscious – the runes made all the sense in the world to her.

Then something quieter sounded in the darkness.

“…no… not it…”

The latter rune fell away like shadow. Again, focused thought boomed around Regina as a new

rune appeared, taking the vanished rune’s place.

Eydra … Machsova

“no … deeper down … regina … go … farther forward…”

Both runes disappeared, and Regina felt herself pulled towards a new vacuum of the mind’s eye.

New moving images – memories – as well as the buzzing of thousands of thoughts and voices

pervaded Regina at every inch of realization. An overwhelming amount of sights and sounds flashed

before her, passed her by like she was wandering through a crowded street of Astral Ages’s mind. The

memories were drawing deeper into the past.

They’re mine now. So young. Helpless. … Canines devastated Altus Village. … Goodness, not all

the world is out to get you … A birthmark, you say? Its design is familiar … There! Feast, milord.

Indulge … Bruise my bones why don’t you, and see what fares into your supper bucket tonight ... Why,

you’re just a little thing …

Deeper and deeper she went into Astral’s thoughts and memories. She watched Astral come across

her, a speck in the path – a trembling, unsure little child, wary and alone of the new world around her.

And then the memory was swallowed up amidst a swath of new memories, recalled thoughts and

emotions, all flowing through Regina, clinging to her consciousness in ways that would rend any

mammal to states of madness, if not guided by sheer force of will to survive.

“… fading…”

Regina swam deeper within the folds of Astral’s dying consciousness. She saw through his point of

view, riding Phalanx through the woods. She saw through his eyes, the realization of something in the

shrubs ahead, at the side of the road. She saw Astral dismount and find Dwain, unconscious and near

death beneath a huckleberry bush. She felt the weight of her friend as Astral pulled his little body into

his arms. She saw Astral’s hoof reach out and touch her friend’s forehead, and felt the exchange of

energies, of memories, and learn to know all that there was to know.

And that’s when she knew.

The truth.

Why Dwain had left her alone in the culvert.

Because in that moment – that dire moment, between the balance of life and death, deep-rooted

memories from Astral’s history flooded past her in great waves of thundering realization that drowned

and swept away all other insignificant thought and memory.

Regina was then pulled backwards, away from the memory itself, away from all other

recollections. The thoughts and memories passed by her in the opposite direction now, playing out

before her in true order:

Why, you’re just a little thing … Bruise my bones why don’t you, and see what fares into your

supper bucket tonight ... There! Feast, milord. Indulge … A birthmark, you say? Its design is familiar

… Goodness, not all the world is out to get you … Canines devastated Altus Village. … They’re mine

now. So young. Helpless …

And on and on the memories flowed, until Regina watched today’s attack through Astral’s eyes,

and the shock and agony of an arrow strike amidst fear and hopelessness. Numbness, distortion, and

commotion, and then finally Regina’s terrified little eyes as he called out to her. Then, Regina

swallowing her fear, pulling her little body towards him despite the amount of pain she herself was in.

Regina grabbing for his hoof – and then –

The memory pulled back, and so too did the eye of the storm. Regina found herself face to face

with stars, and moons, and galaxies of another universe, which retracted further to reveal dilated pupils,

the bloodshot whites of a desperate stare. The intermingled stench of porcine, duskroot, and blood.

Then Astral’s face came into view, and Regina drew further and further away from his body until

suddenly she felt her own limbs and thoughts and memories and pain and numbness envelop her again.

“Eydra Mey’rhossoh!”

The words somehow tumbled off of her tongue at the exact moment that Astral strained utterance

of them. A last remnant of the connection they shared – the words that Regina had found, that Astral

knew were locked away, unable to attain on his own, from desperation.

He squeezed her little paw tight between his hoof, and at once, a duvet of icy warmth enveloped

Regina in glittering streams of wavering ivy. The streams slithered around her limbs and face like

loose, translucent coils, and she watched as Astral reclined peacefully amidst a similar envelopment as

the arrow in his chest wiggled free from his torso, and clattered to the dirt. All pain vanished from

Regina’s body, leaving only tingling warmth crawling across her paw digits, and toes, and nose, and

ears, and flesh, and fur. Fear became peace. She took in a deep breath of air, and let out a deep sigh of

reprieve.

Regina watched Astral rise, and instinctively reached up at him. He took Regina under the arms

and helped her up to stand. She hugged him tightly, her mind still a punch-drunken whirlwind of

everything that had just happened. Love for Astral bloomed in her heart, and as she started to utter the

words, it was Astral who beat her to the punch.

“Thank you, Regina. You have no idea … thank you.”

His arms squeezed tight around her little body. She nestled her cheek against Astral’s portly belly

and snuggled deep into his mud-spattered robes, taking in great whiffs of his essence, of the Life and

Mana Energies that flowed within and all around their bodies. Regina could sense the Energies, could

feel them flowing through her veins and between her ears.

Something deep within her soul had sparked from this event. Something she had never known

before had now awakened within her. Maybe it was the connection Astral shared with her. Maybe it

was everything. But it was from this moment on that the universe had declared that never, ever, would

Regina Lepue be the same little skunk again.

“…Die! Die! … Die!!”

Regina crushed her cheek against Astral’s stomach. Her hazy eyes aligned with the horizon, blurry

and mashed all together like the acrylics of a painter’s tray. She blinked.

Things focused a little. Something appeared in the grass, close by. A small mound of moving

limbs, thrusting up and down. Up and down. Dwain’s voice cried out over and over.

“Die! … Die!!!”

Astral’s embrace slacked around her. And then everything became clear. The blood in Regina’s

cheeks drained to the tips of her toes. She drew away from Astral’s embrace.

“Regina, don’t…”

But she ignored him, pulled completely away, stumbling forward on numb limbs. With each step

forward, the commotion slowly solidified before her very eyes. Spines. Crouching. Arms, gripping

around something. Something sharp. Glinting. Bloody. Raising. Stabbing down. Raising. Stabbing

down. A limp arm splayed in the dirt, feline paws curled open skyward, bloodied with broken-off

hedgehog quills. Legs and tail splayed in opposite directions, like a star-shape.

“Die! Die! Die!”

Regina’s eyes focused completely. Dwain was straddled over Francis, thrusting into his body with

a mindless storm of knife strokes.

Trepidation grew within Regina with each cautious step she took towards Dwain. He was lost in a

blind rage, each downward motion more hastened and hate-filled than the last.

No, this wasn’t Dwain, though. In this moment, Dwain no longer existed. For what appeared

before Regina, even though she didn’t quite understand it, was a creature made of emotionally raw

desolation. What she was seeing – this was pure agony of a thousand injustices, a pure volcanic

outpour. The need to let the demons free in a way that no wheda should ever succumb to.

“Dwain…?”

He hesitated. In that very moment, as the knife started to come down for maybe the hundredth

time, the sound of Regina’s voice, the quiet fright in her tone, caused Dwain Spikeclaw to freeze in

mid-drop. His shoulders sagged forward, trembling.

“Dwain…!”

Regina rushed forward and slid her arms around his body in a great big hug. She found his paw. It

was hot and sticky with blood … Life Energy … that was not his. Dwain dropped the knife and slid his

other paw against Regina’s.

He melted into her embrace then, as the volcano in his heart subsided to great torrents of agony.

His head tilted back as he let out a long groan of pain, and as Regina did her best to rock him, to try to

ensure that the nightmare was now finally over, he clutched at her paws, let his chin drop as the agony

in his heart superseded rage. All of the sadness he’d pushed way down for the sake of stoic bravery had

erupted to the surface, at last.

Regina held him close, crushed her skunken cheek against his hedgehog spines. She wanted to tell

him everything was okay. She wanted to take away the anguish that now wracked his body in violent

tremors.

But she closed her eyes to the urge and let Dwain howl for the deaths of his loved ones, weep for

the destruction of all they’d ever known.

For these children, for their parents, and for all those they’d known and loved, there was no place

in the world safer than Altus Village. But not even it was shielded from brutal reality.

Altus was gone, and everything Regina and Dwain knew and loved was gone, with it.

What remained was the wider world. The wider world was not safe, nor guarded by the laws of the

Mother Azna, where the invisible threat of power-starved canines kept children up at night, and

grownups whispering in secret.

In the wider world, wheda killed other wheda. In the wider world, danger lurked around every

corner. In the wider world, the blessing of the wind was a thing of pure luck. Because the truth of the

matter was that the wider world was a feral world.

And in a feral world, all that mattered for mammal’s livelihood was survival.

Pure and fearful survival.

End of

Volume 1

Thank you so much for supporting Regina of the Wind through the downloading of this digital sampler.

To keep up with Regina's adventures, please consider supporting Millie Blackwood and her writing

over on Patreon, where Regina of the Wind is exclusively published on a chapter-by-chapter basis.

There, Patrons have access to other bonuses, such as series concept art, deleted and alternative scenes,

and the opportunity to provide feedback for upcoming releases before they are set for publication.

~ More titles by Millie Blackwood ~

Eri, the Monster Sealer

The Master of Monsters, Vol. 1

Tales of the Abysmal

Killing Sabrina

Hunger Pangs

Parker Cohen's Rotten Day

Short Stories

Shadow Mamba

Megan Duffy's Coming Home: A Transgender Story

Walk With Me, Judah Starling

An Elevator to Independence

Bunkie

~ About the Author ~

Millie Blackwood has backgrounds in journalism, psychology, and pop-culture analysis. In addition,

she is an honours graduate of journalism from Humber College in Toronto. When she is not hunched

over her keyboard writing, Millie enjoys playing old Nintendo games, sobbing over fan arts of Toriel

being a mother to Frisk, and consuming endless cups of black tea.

Millie encourages readers to connect with her via Patreon and Instagram.