Part 1
Rain patters down through the greenery. A dragonette sleeps in the lap of a wolfen.
Quiet tranquility.
Fhaolan looks up, "Many cultures ha' stories abou' tha wild-child. A person brough' up by animals, who turns ou' tae be noble an' more human tha' those who claim tae be. Romulus an' Remus, Tarzan, Mowgli, Oisin son o' Fionn, an' others all follow this pattern."
He grins, "Some stories ha' a slightly differen' pattern. This is one o' them."
The Nathair Sith stirs in his sleep.
"Storytime."
***
When Conan and Morag had a child, they were well pleased. The boy was healthy and happy and all the things a noble child should be. Even the druid that gave the child his first name was delighted, and gifted the baby with an amulet, a protective charm.
It was a few months later that the troubles started.
Conan was a leader of men, a king of sorts, though that word doesn't truly reflect his position. A warlord might be more accurate, but again, the phrase has something lacking. He presided over his lands, defended his people, and they praised him for it.
The prosperity of this kingdom offended the great wizard Caradoc. For he was raised a poor and destitute soul, and saw no reason for others to prosper without the great suffering he had endured.
And so he strode into Conan's great hall, and proclaimed his disgust over the decadent lives the people were living. For the even poorest serf had both meat and bread to eat, and this horrified the wizard. "How can the people grow strong, if they are pampered in this way?" he asked.
"Shall I take their food away, wizard?" replied Conan, "Shall I tax the people, and grind them underfoot as a tyrant? How long would I lead them then?"
"You are not fit to lead, for you are weak like all the others!" Caradoc shouts, "Life should not be a pleasure, but a punishment. To scourge your spirit for the crimes of your past lives, and for the benefit of your futures."
Now, offended wizards tend to be very touchy. As might be expected, Caradoc drew himself to his full sorcerous height and proclaimed a curse upon all. "If you will not punish yourself, it will be done for you!"
The court screamed in pain as their bodies twisted under this curse. The wizard laughed and strode out. Whimpering, the members of the court looked at each other and saw the wizard's will. The evil spell had transformed them all into beasts. Conan stared at his hooves, his antlers brushing the ceiling. Morag flutters her feathers, and shudders in horror.
As one, they rush to the crib, to see their child.
The amulet lies broken, shattered by the strain of the magic brought against it. And yet, the child gurgles happily, unaffected.
Until he opens his eyes.
His yellow eyes.
Part 2
Raising a child is a difficult task. It would have been easier if Conan and Morag had simply abandoned their human ways and brought the boy up as an animal. But then, both parents knew little of how animals raised their children, their only experience with domesticated beasts or hunted game.
It did not help that he was a stag, and she an owl.
The first obstacle was the baby's smallclothes, or to be more precise, the changing of the smallclothes. Hooves were useless, and half the court had been inflicted with them. A raptor's talons were impressively sharp, but against a baby's skin? Luckily, the court's resident bard, Sean, had become a weasel, and as affronted he was with the task, he was the best suited. For this reason, and this reason alone, did Sean become the guardian of the child. For all his other skills were as naught, like all the other animals, bar the druid rook, he had lost the power of speech.
The second obstacle was that it was discovered that not only the court was transformed, but the entire countryside. This meant that rival clans and tribes now had no hindrance in marching to the castle, and gaining entry. Sean had just enough time to tie the baby to Conan's back, and clamber up himself, before the attackers burst into the hall. The animals scattered into the woods, fleeing the arrows of men's bows, and the bullets of boy's slings.
The clan who first reached the castle was the Watts. But they did not have time to fortify before the Cambers arrived, and their king, Fergus, took to the throne with the leader of the Watts' head placed on a spear behind him. He wondered as to where Conan and his court had gone, but he was not an imaginative man. At least, not as imaginative as would be needed to guess the truth.
Once in the forest, the court gathered once again. As one they realized the greatest danger yet awaited them. For the baby had not yet been named before the curse had been proclaimed. All looked to the rook, for he alone retained his voice.
Tradition was that only a druid could tell the true name of a child, all other names being merely labels of no more moment than nickname. Without a true name, the child would be open to the spirits, and few of them would pass up the chance for a new life.
Desperate, the rook hopped around the bundle on Conan's back. Relief washed over him, as he learned the child's true name. One that he could say with his new voice.
"Kkkkkai"
And so Kai was true named.
Part 3
Sean was worried. It was five years after Kai was true named, and being raised in the forest was not good for the child. He hadn't dealt with people in that time, other than being bundled up and dragged away from any hunters that might chance near.
Conan, Morag, and the rest of the court had become lost in their animal selves, so they were of no help. The only ones who remembered their humanity was Sean and the druid Gwain. Kai needed to be with people, to get used to them, and also he needed better protection than a weasel and a rook.
Which meant the clan of Fergus.
***
Fergus was unsatisfied with his conquest of this new land. Mainly because there had been little resistance, providing you excluded the other would-be conquerors. There were no people, no warriors, no king! What had happened? The answer 'magic' simply didn't occur to him.
Fergus was an honest, if greedy, man. He had no truck with druids and priests and witches and the like. Except for one, and that only because they were related.
Mother was a practical kind of witch. Herbs, potions and poultices were her stock. She did not pretend to read the future in the entrails of swallows or other nonsense, but she had uncanny insight into people and what moves them.
When she walked into the courtroom, she frowned at her son, "Fergus, that idiot woman is confusing your nobles again."
"I'm beginning to loose count, " Fergus said, "and have already lost hope that my housecarls would marry for something other than a warm bed."
Mother shrugged, "You were the one who wanted to marry off your sisters."
"I made a mistake. I should have sent them to marry princes in far away lands."
Which brought a laugh, "I don't think there are any lands far enough away. Or princes stupid enough to accept."
Grinning to his mother, Fergus asked, "Which reminds me, which idiot woman?"
"The one that calls herself Caili." Mother spat with exasperation, "She's convinced them that she is a witch, and can change into a cat."
Fergus closed his eyes and bowed his head, "Should I ask how?"
"She puts on black trousers with a length of cloth as a tail and wanders around the room on all fours, rubbing herself against their legs, purring the whole time."
Taking a moment to picture this, Fergus shuddered, "I'm beginning to understand why she gets an audience for this trick. What is your advice?"
"Unfortunately," she said, "I can think of nothing simple that will stop her. If you banish or kill her, the nobles will think we were afraid of her 'power'. If you leave her alone, the same. We'll have to do something crafty."
Fergus looked up again, "Craft. Now there's an idea. She wishes to be a witch, let's challenge her to prove it. But she shall play our game, not us hers."
***
"I am to what?" Caili looked stunned.
"I need new stock for my hounds, and I decided that with your powers, you would find it a simple task." Fergus wasn't a nice person, really.
"But, the forest...."
Mother leaned forward, "A single wolf will do, Witch Caili. A bitch would be too troublesome, I think. The male is only needed for a few moments, while a bitch would require much more care."
"But I...."
Fergus nodded, "Bring the wolf to the kennels, and then we'll talk of how you will join my inner court of advisors."
"Your majesty..."
"You may go now."
"...."
"Now, Caili."
***
Which is how the witch Caili ended up in the middle of the forest.
Just in time.
Part 4
Relying on one's wits and one's face is usually not a good bet. Especially when one tries to fly in the upper reaches of society. Caili was quite pretty, as such things are measured, and could even be called clever. Clever enough to fool a bunch of imbecile nobles into thinking she's a turnskin witch. Pity the king and his mother weren't as stupid.
Which is why Caili was now in the middle of the forest, looking for a wolf to mate with the king's hounds. A pointless endeavor, as Caili was not a witch at all. She didn't believe in magic, except as tricks and illusions.
Pity, as magic could have told her about the pitfall.
***
Nobody hunted in these woods, as it was the preserve of the king. Only he was allowed to stalk game there. As in every case of preventing the common folk from doing something legally, illegality became commonplace.
In other words, poaching.
This was the origin of the pitfall. One of many such things throughout the forest. For the last year or so, however, no-one had been tending the traps. The common folk were afraid to enter the forest, not because of king's law, but because of rumors of a great evil that will kill any who dare.
Not that this has anything to do with a certain weasel and rook.
***
"Help!"
"Somebody help me!"
Caili sat in the mud, looking up to the edge of the pitfall, shouting as hard as she could. It was growing dark.
"Khelp?"
Caili frowned at the reply. Although she was anxious to be rescued, anything that mispronounced 'help', was something to be wary of.
"Kkkkk.....khelp?"
It was then that she noticed the rook sitting on a branch overlooking the pit. It was the bird that was echoing back her cries for help.
Sighing, she called up to the bird, "Could you go get khelp... I mean, help?"
The bird shakes it's head, "Khelp... khere."
That produced another frown. It almost sounded like the bird actually understood...
The branch moved, bending down. Astonished, Caili reached up to grab the branch. Under her weight, it bent even more, until it was little more than a rope with which she was able to haul herself out of the pit.
Once at the top, she stared at the rook, and out of ingrained politeness said, "Thank you." The rook merely bobs his head at her.
Thinking about it a bit more, Caili realized that it was impossible for the bird to have bent the branch. The rook simply does not have the weight to do such a thing. Which brought her eyes to the trunk of the branch's tree, and to the small figure hiding in the foliage. She smiles at the figure, "Did you do that? Thank you, then."
The figure just growls at her, and strokes the weasel in his small lap. The boy could be no more than seven, no less than five years old. Caili steps forward, and the boy drops the weasel to leap to the ground. He lands on all fours and snarls viciously. His eyes, a pale yellow, bore into Caili, making her take a step back.
Amongst the other thoughts competing for her attention, the one that declared 'He has wolf eyes.' won.
And another scheme is born.
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