Heavy thoughts of Altus, and all that Regina and Dwain had lost, stayed with her. She thought of her mama in the garden, humming the Song of the Harvest like she always did. How she missed Mama’s 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, safe and sound, and hidden from sight like the greatest lost treasure in all the world.
“Regina.” Astral tapped the rim of her 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.”
Regina looked at him, silent and wary as she hiccupped through tears that fell anyway, despite herself.
“Eat up, my dear,” Astral gently urged her. “I’m sorry we caused you such alarm. It’s all right. You need your strength.”
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 left a mildly spicy taste on her tongue. It wasn’t a good stew, but it was edible.
The only thing that mattered was that it was edible.
Astral reclined in his chair and filled the already dense air with thick smoke rings that smelled of sweet bonfire kindling. “I’ve been thinking. So long as our destinies have crossed paths, it wouldn’t hurt to put fate to good use.”
“What do you mean?” Dwain asked, glowering up from his own bowl.
“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.
Dwain’s little nose twitched against a subtle sneer. “Wotsit you suggest, then, yeah?”
“Well … this Hollow has stood for many a great years under my care,” said Astral. “But the fences are rotted with age. His Majesty the almighty Andomedon sleeps in the equivalent to an oversized leaking water pail. My garden can only defend itself so much from the threat of crows, never mind the grubs and blight…”
Regina looked up from her bowl and found Dwain staring darkly at Astral’s babbling nonsense. Dwain then glanced her way, turned his head to acknowledge her with a tense gaze. He gave Regina a slow, reassuring, nod. Everything will be all right.
Although she didn’t really understand what Astral was going on about, or what the intensity behind Dwain’s gaze meant, the smell of fear was too thick in the air to ignore. It was clear to Regina that Dwain had caught on to something – something Regina didn’t quite understand, but something so clear and cut dry to Dwain, that he was more afraid than she had ever known so far in their journey together.
Astral prattled on: “My cabin is caked floor-to-ceiling with dust, dirt, grit, and I can’t even remember the last time I’ve ironed these robes. In fact, the sheer difficulty of manning such a tool with hoofs…! The Goddess must have a laugh riot when any mammal with such affliction attempts to do so! Not to mention, this stew here was meant to last me a month before I’d have to cook another dreadful meal again. Oh, bother. Not that – not that you both are imposing. That’s hardly the case. I just hate to cook.”
Dwain placed his spoon down next to his bowl, sat upright and spoke in as calm and diplomatic a tone he could muster, despite a trembling tone. “So, we is your prisoners, after all, then, yeah?”
Regina’s blood turned to ice. She threw an alarmed look Astral’s way.
The old wizard blinked. “What? Oh, bother. Good heavens, no!”
“Shore sounds like it,” Dwain said. He reached for a stack of sliced bread between him and Regina. When he went for the butter plate, Regina caught sight as her friend took a firm grip around the knife that rested against it.
Astral sighed, shook his head no.
“I am old,” he said. “And you are without shelter.”
“So we’re t’be yer servants then, yeah—” Dwain cut some butter free and started to spread it across some bread with slow, methodical strokes. Regina swallowed hard as she watched him do this. “—But yer to be takin’ us to Keeto soon, once we’re all better then, yeah? You mean to pay us in some way, for helpin’ ‘round this place, yeah?”
“Riches beyond your wildest imagination, Dwain Spikeclaw,” Astral declared. “Tools that will help you to survive. Treasures that will last a life time. It’s not every day two tenacious-spirited children of the crop fields wander into my care.”
Dwain finished buttering the two slices of bread he’d taken, and proceeded to place the knife back upon the plate between them all. Regina let out an inaudible sigh of relief. With all well and safe, she scooped another spoonful of stew past her lips and grabbed for some bread, herself.
“What lays in wait for you in Keeto Town is not guaranteed,” Astral said to the both of them, “but, if you are going to survive in the wider world, you will need the greatest tools any mammal has ever known.”
“And those are?” Dwain asked behind a mouthful of bread.
“Knowledge and wisdom,” said Astral. He gestured the kits’ attention over to the mess of the study, directly behind him. “Both of which, I offer ad nauseam.”
Dwain burst into a fit of laughter. “Wot? Ye can’t be serious, then.”
“Quite so,” Astral said gravely.
Regina gazed upon the many stacks of books that cluttered the room. Her exhausted thoughts instantly went to the fear of struggling to tread above the grappling currents of a sea of pages.
She shuddered. “But – I don’t know how to read.”
“At one time or another, neither did I,” said Astral.
“These are the riches you’ll pay us with, to clean up yer yard and cook yer meals, for,” Dwain asked, his tone as flat as the expression on his face. “Wizardy tricks, then.”
“Yes!” Astral chirped, as though Dwain’s response were irrational in some way. “Basic comprehension of the universal language of Sas’uiden is hardly a wizardy trick, lad. It will help you survive. Better than throwing punches, or trying to subtly steal a knife to stab me with.”
Dwain went beet red and averted his gaze, scowling.
“But – I don’t want to read…” Regina looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I – I just want to go home.”
Astral let out a sigh of resignation. With a pat of Regina’s paw, he gave a nod and gently said, “I know, sweet skunk. For now, this will need to be your home, I’m sorry to say. You both may stay for as long as you need to. Let your minds and bodies rest and heal. I will feed you. I will shelter you. In return, you do your part. Cook, clean, maintain the Hollow and take care of Phalanx. I will teach you the ways of the world, and how to survive within it. All I ask is that you let me help you.”
8. The Canine Empire
Canines had devastated Altus Village. There was no denying the fact. That’s what the kits had said, and that’s what the pools of their memories had shown – unfiltered and honest like a child’s mind is. Astral had seen for himself the razing of the crop field and the destruction in the streets. He had been consumed by the thick smell of burning hay intermingled with fear and confusion. He had been trampled under footpad, buried beneath a pile of the dead and dying. He’d seen it all, felt it all, as though he himself had been there midst the carnage, fleeing for his very life. But still, the question remained:
Why?
Astral stoked to life the glowing embers of his study’s fireplace while
the answer alluded him. Canines had devastated Altus Village. That’s what the children had told him, and that’s what he had seen through their memories.
But it was impossible.
Canines were a peaceful species now. Lowly, kept to themselves for the most part, no longer a foundational danger to all who were not canines – those who were common wheda. In all of Astral’s seventy-one years, such a threat was only ever a piglet’s tale. A lost merchant was more likely to stumble over the fleeting backside of a rodent bandit than to ever cross paths with any rogue canine.
Not with the forces in Doblah Province at work, with the Zuut heralding a time of global unification, at least…
Though Astral was convinced of this, something sinister tugged at his soul: stories passed down through the generations, of when the world of Vida was in its infancy and the hierarchy of mammals was strictly defined. Stories of how the wilds ran red with chaos and ferality, where only the fittest and smartest survived – even among kin.
Stories of an age when canines ruled the world.
Astral shook his head, shuffled into the kitchen to brew some tea. But that was so long ago. Eons. Their dynasty had since crumbled. Tribes once segregated by species had unified under a pact of peace through the teachings of the Aznain faith. It was by the hand of the Goddess that the wolves, the hounds, the coyotes, and the foxes were pulled down from their thrones, pillaged of their power, and made inferior to those they once ruled and devoured.
Canines had devastated Altus Village. Don’t deny the truth you know within the fibres of the universe.
Astral closed his eyes. But, how could such a thing happen?
And most important – why?
The wise old hog strode out of the kitchen, kettle and tea-bag still in his hoofs, and searched the study high and low until what he was looking for appeared wedged between other leather tomes stacked upon the wicker rocking chair by the dormant fireplace. He set down everything on the nearest table, carefully wriggled the book free, and wiped a hoof across the perfect line of dust that coated its previously exposed edge. The runic lettering melted into the cover glinted in the dim glow of the study’s candlelight.
A History of the Canine Empire
Compiled by Edwin Goodrich and Ingrid H. Dunham
Forward by Professor Ulric Eavesmount, Ph. D
Published by
Mecia Collegiate
Department of Historical Preservation
Astral slowly cracked the book open to the middle and carried it over to one of his tables, flipping through until something of value decided to gleam off the page. He rubbed an itch under his snout and plopped the book down on a harvest table adorned with a shrine of wax candles, where he did all of his research – the only clear spot in the whole cabin.
He read from a passage: After the execution of the Wolfen Emperor Nahon Gaumont, the canines were exiled from their indigenous provinces to the northern Icelands of Zeeph Territory. There, the canines had no influence over matters of wheda – a canine term meaning “weak mammal; herbivore or lesser carnivore; not canine.” The term has since been repurposed as a symbol of strength and perseverance against the Canine Oppressor.
Astral clucked his tongue, regarding the passage with slight scrutiny. It had been more than 200 years since canines ravaged the countryside and ruled every corner of the map. Even if the Zuut was well-intentioned, jagged remnants of the Old World remained in minority. The current use of the term wheda was proof of this. That’s just how societal evolution worked. Historical evil may be vanquished – but the ghosts never truly dissipate.
A thoughtful revelation sparked. Without the aide of the Zuut and his new empire, Astral wondered if the canines would still find themselves locked away from the rest of the world. It was by the Zuut’s gospel that renewed ideals of tribal peace and unity became absolute law across the Gabriel Sea – taken from the very Aznain teachings desecrated by the Retainers in lieu of bloodshed. The Zuut’s Vidian Civil Alliance pardoned the canines of their empirical atrocities, accepted all those who were exiled into its folds, arms open and without question.
But the facts remained. Altus Village had fallen – but at the paw of rogue canines?
Impossible.
But if those of Altus believed in the strength of a legend of anti-Alliance propaganda such as Alexia the Sage, and the Alliance had a new force willing to prove their loyalty to those who pardoned their exile … could it have been … the Alliance who was behind the slaughter?
No. Astral shook his head. That doesn’t make any sense.
But there were the Retainers – the very antithesis to what the Zuut and his Vidian Civil Alliance aimed to strive for. That’s why the world was at war, to begin with. It was the Retainers – a fanatical group of wheda, bent on the preservation of tradition – who saw the Zuut as a threat to global peace and structure. The peace treaty he wished to introduce, his act of reinstating canines as members of society … the Retainers fought tooth and nail against this, and all that the Zuut stood for. Even if what the Zuut stood for meant global peace – all mammals, united under a single banner.
The world was at war between the Alliance and the Retainers, all because of a simple peace treaty – the alleged and frankly illogical idea of the erasure of centuries of peace against the threat of canines. Because of this, the Retainers were considered terrorists – and the statement was true. They plotted assassinations, slaughtered hundreds of Alliance supporters by the shadow of night. They allegedly used the arcane forces of Mana to somehow weild the raw elements of the world like weapons against all those who opposed them – against the Zuut’s own rabble of militant supporters.
But Altus Village was a rural farming community. Innocuous, tucked away within the moors, sheltered from the feral realities of the world. Canines had no reason to exist in Galhiest, unless they were there by order of their Zuut.
But … why would the Zuut, who declared world peace and unification of all mammal-kind, corrupt his own treaty? Why go to so much trouble to send exiled canines halfway across the world, just to eradicate an insignificant little farming village?
Suddenly, something Dwain said at supper suddenly panged at the forefront of Astral’s memories:“Alexia the Sage will come and lead us all to the Mountains in the South – and there, she will wash truth and justice across all of Vidian soil with the blood of our canine enemies, and the vile wheda who anchor with ‘em.”
Astral gasped.
Perhaps because it was … to wipe out the threat of…
“…terrorists,” he whispered, horrified.
9. 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. As for us, we’re going,” Dwain said again 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 un
cracked 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? Maybe he’ll help us, but only if we pledge our freedom to him? 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? Who’s t’ say he won’t fancy an eye on ye one of these days, yeah? What then, yeah?”
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.
The Book of Wind: (The Quest for the Crystals #1) Page 6