The Quest for the Crystals
The Book of Wind
E.E. Blackwood
The Quest for the Crystals: The Book of Wind
Copyright © Sterile Dirt Press, 2012, 2017
Cover image © Sterile Dirt Press, 2018
Published in Canada by
Sterile Dirt Press
www.steriledirt.com
isbn: 9780987787170
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyright may be reproduced, transcribed, or used in any form or by any 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.
Find these additional titles by E.E. Blackwood
Novels:
The Master of Monsters
Short stories:
A Blaze of Glory
The Princess & The Peasant
March of the Androgynous
Shadow Mamba: A Short Story of the Pulp Variety
Walk with Me, Judah Starling
Hunger Pangs
Anthologies:
The Aurora Storyalis III (“A Blaze of Glory” – E.E. Blake)
The Human Condition (“March of the Androgynous” - E.E. Blake)
Comics:
Rule of the Playground
The War of the Retainers: A Prelude to The Quest for the Crystals
Upcoming Titles:
Heart of the Beast
Helm’s Edge
The Quest for the Crystals: The Book of Earth
E.E. Blackwood’s Book of the Abysmal
The Quest for the Crystals
The Book of Wind
E.E. Blackwood
“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 Light Chapter
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 u
se. She and her mama were swallowed up into a sea of moles, skunks, hedgehogs, hares, and rodents in an instant.
~
Early morning rays spilled across the Altusian Moor as it wept forenoon dew before broken perimeter fences. Beyond a breached wall of burnt evergreens lay dead fields, corrupt by smouldering crops before the wreckage of a small farming village. Thick black smoke plumed into great dark clouds that ruined the clear sky.
Winds from off the open wetlands shrieked through lifeless roads and alleyways. Homes that once brimmed with song were now silent. Meagre field rock walls stood crumbling, etched black by sulphur. Hay roofs lay collapsed within or were burned totally away. Window shutters, streaked by flame and smoke, creaked free with no one to lock them shut. In the streets, water buckets thumped bone-dry across cobblestones forever stained with the blood of those who fought and those who fled.
Regina sat alone and shivering upon the lip of the village square’s stone water well. A filthy nightgown clung to her body, smeared with grime and mud, blood that wasn’t hers. The chill of a new day stung her tear-stained cheeks. The stench of death and burnt crops hung inside her nostrils.
Fifty paces ahead, her papa laid among those who swore to protect the village gate. Mama was still missing. They’d been separated in the night, fleeing to safety with the others towards a place of scythes and stones.
They’d been pushed, pulled, thrown in all directions. All around, thatched rooftops burst into flames, fleeing townsfolk were felled by rogue fire-arrows – Regina remembered the begging eyes of Westley Horne, a little rat boy crushed beneath the great weight of his dying grandpapa…
And then the canines had spilled into the street, hewing their way through everyone with sabres and halberds. In one fell swoop, Regina and her mama were pulled beneath the commotion, and…
Regina shuddered.
Now, the farming tribe of Altus Village was but an open grave. There was no trace left of the canines that wrought the tribe’s destruction. Their retreat had been as swift as their assault.
The grieving wind howled. Regina wiped her eyes, leapt down from the well, and took hollow steps towards her papa. He lay on one side, arms outstretched as though to embrace her. His sword lay chipped and stained in the dirt at his shins. Regina fell to her knees, placed her little skunk nose upon his parted lips. They were so cold, breathless.
“Papa...” She nudged him gently, but he didn’t react. She shook him, hard. He didn’t grunt, nor did his faded eyes squint at her. She slapped his shoulders and pinched his ears, but he didn’t flinch, nor scold her. “Papa … Papa – please, get up … Get up!!”
But he did not. And though Regina continued to shake and scream for his reaction, only her echoes upon the wind replied.
Regina shivered, laid herself down against her papa’s body. For awhile she simply remained with him. And as the father sun stretched midday shadows across the village, Regina found herself in a state of haze between unsettled rest and frightened wakefulness.
The fierce wind finally relented. Soon, thunder boomed. Regina closed her eyes against the pelt of raindrops between her ears. Spittle darkened the cobblestone streets. The little skunk whined against her papa’s ruined tunic, but not even he could keep her dry and safe now.
Nearby, layers of canvas used to cover firewood flapped in the breeze, trapped beneath a pile of fallen latticework. Regina hesitantly climbed to her footpads and went over to it. She pushed aside the rubble of splintered wood and gathered up as much canvas as her little arms could carry. It would make for a suitable blanket against the storm. She headed back to her papa, bent down and placed a loving kiss upon his damp brow, then lay the canvas over him.
Regina went back to the pile and bit through a larger piece and wrapped it about herself like an oversized rain shawl. She then gathered her tail into her arms for a semblance of warmth and began to wander through the village ruins in search of her mama.
Skunks by nature have terrible eyesight. It was difficult for Regina to see much of anything too clearly past what any mammal might consider a few feet in normal situations. Her vision was made worse off due to the heavy rain that caused thick grey smoke to plume the streets.
Bodies of those Regina knew and loved surrounded her at every step. Only hours before had they been at peace and asleep, impatiently awaiting the coming of the Harvest Festival that would now never arrive. It was to be a celebration of a summer’s-long hard work, a testimony to the bounty and blessings of Mother Azna upon the village. And the final verses of the Song of the Harvest, proclaimed by all during preparation, would ring high even above the greatest of mountain peaks:
…For Harvest marks Our Lives’ good work … For Harvest marks Our Lives’ good work…
Regina felt ill. She stopped to rest inside the pony livery outside of Mr. Griswold Spikeclaw’s general store and watched heavy rainfall splash into overflowing puddles in the street.
Regina sniffed away fresh tears, when a faint but familiar aroma swathed through the stench of corruption, into her nostrils. It was the smell of roses and orchids – a fragrance Regina knew so well.
Mama!
Hope swelled into her heart. She pulled the makeshift canvas hood overhead and ventured back out along the road towards the place of scythes and stones, where she had become lost from her mama.
She followed the fragrance, sniffing the air with such force her nostrils could have bled. Though she was blind along the smoggy streets, she was no longer afraid, no longer alone. Her mama’s smell brought only love and the memory of song. Ghosting bonds of tender paw pads stroked along Regina’s arms like gooseflesh.
The smoke engulfed her, though despite her poor vision, Regina recognized blotches and shadows of buildings and roadways as the western route at the edge of the village. This had been where they had been separated in the night. She searched through the din, calling out over and over, but there was no response despite how strong her mother’s fragrance was here.
Regina pushed onward, determined. The dense vapour that clung to the village ruins parted. A silhouette appeared in the distance – the outline of a standing figure.
Regina’s glazed eyes focused. She slowed to a halt. Heavy downpour kept the figure’s identity secret, but the familiar aroma was at its strongest here. Regina’s lips bloomed into a relieved smile. Filled with renewed vigour, she raced towards the silhouette.
“Mama!”
Whomever it was hidden by the rain noticed her immediately, but pulled away within the embrace of dense fog that rolled in around them. A voice called out to her: … Reggie … Go back … Go and find yer father …
Regina gasped. “Mama! Mama! Wait!”
The shawl of canvas became loose around her body with every rapid footfall upon the ruined cobblestones. It soon fell away at Regina’s heels, but she ignored her nakedness to the rain and threw herself into the smokescreen that had swallowed up her mama, safe and well after all.
“Mama! Mama! Wait for me!”
But nobody greeted Regina within the fog. She threw desperate glances all around. She called out to the howling wind, over and over – “Mama! Mama!!” – But nobody was there to answer her.
Regina heard the creak of wood on chain, faint against the hiss of the rain. She drew towards a new shadow that hung high up in the air, not too far away from where she stood. Her wet eyes barely made out what became a wooden scythe sealed in wooden stone.
The sign was attached to the eaves of a long two-storey building made with cubed stone walls and curved stone shingles – far sturdier than the homes made from mud-packed field rock and hay-thatched roofs that now lay in ruins throughout the remnants of the village. It was the only building of its kind in Altus. Not even Elder Rombard lived in such luxury.
Regina didn’t know much of this place, other than it was the place she was not allowed to go, but she did know grownups came here for food and drink. She knew it best as the place where her parents met often with the Elder and others in t
he 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.
The Book of Wind: Page 1
