A
HUNDRED YEARS AGO
and more, before our current line of kings was founded, long before King Davit or his grandfather or his, the animal magic was thought of as no more or less than a gift of growing corn higher than others or having a way with a needle to make a fine dress. Those who had animal magic spoke to animals and learned from them where water was polluted or which caves were filled with blood-sucking worms. They were good at training horses in particular. And they were prized for their use in a hunt, for they knew how to kill animals swiftly and kindly.

But there was one hunter who would have none of those with the animal magic. He was proud, young King Richon, who hunted on horseback or on foot, in the great forest in the south or in the smaller, quieter woods around the castle and to the north, by Sarrey. Best of all,
he loved to hunt on the plains, where a wild animal could be set loose to the sounds of horns and chased to exhaustion in plain view, with no place to hide or find respite. The terror of the animal’s screams was part of King Richon’s pleasure, and for all his skill with a spear, ax, or knife, he would let a beast go free if the chase had not been sporting or long enough.

Yet when the beast was dead, King Richon did not even bring the meat back to the cook, for flesh from wild animals was always tougher and less flavorful than that from the animals kept soft and quiet in the castle yards. Now and again, if the head was large and impressive enough, he would cut it off and have it stuffed and mounted, to impress visitors to his hall. But that was all the use he made of his hunts.

Those with animal magic kept away from King Richon naturally, and so in time King Richon was surrounded only by those who encouraged his penchant for cruelty. They had discovered that the king was generous at the end of a particularly long and exciting hunt. To those who had hunted with him, King Richon offered fewer taxes and other favors, such as a gentler sentence on judgment day or the promise of an advantageous marriage.

Even those who had no animal magic, but who disliked the king’s hunting, found themselves cut off from his attention. Some complained loudly of this. Others kept their dissatisfaction quiet. Still others began to save
a certain amount each month and pool it together, in search of a hero to offer it to, someone who might have the power to change the king.

But they did not use their money, after all. Their hero came of his own will, though he was not at all what they had expected. He was small and thin, with a long, dirty beard, and he smelled of animals and forest and walked as if he had learned natural grace from the animals themselves. Yet even those with their own animal magic stepped back when they saw him, for his power was far beyond anything they had ever wielded themselves. It was boundless, uncontrolled, wild, a raging river in comparison to a trickling mountain stream.

As he made his way north through the kingdom, the wild man did not ask for assistance but accepted the food or drink that was offered and listened to the tales of King Richon as if he could recite them from memory himself. He had heard them all, it seemed, and more. Then he was on his way, and those who watched him shivered as he passed and felt a little sorry for their king, despite all.

When the wild man reached the castle gates at last, he called out in a loud voice and demanded an audience with King Richon. The king was busy preparing for a hunt. He told his guards to take the man to the kitchen for a good meal of fresh bread and soup and send him on his way.

But the wild man would not take the soup, nor
would he leave the castle willingly. The guards set him out at sword point.

By evening he was back with his own guard, a hawk whose claws were closed about the bare arm of the wild man, who showed no signs of pain. And this time when the wild man was stopped, the hawk flew from his arm and attacked. Four of King Richon’s guards were blinded by the time one of them made it to the throne and begged for assistance.

“It is a trick of the animal magic, no more,” said King Richon. But he did agree to see the wild man—if the hawk remained in the open air, where it belonged.

The wild man sent the hawk away and went into the palace. He did not bow before the king. Instead, he spoke as if he commanded an army at his back. And he demanded from King Richon the promise that he would cease hunting forever.

King Richon laughed at the boldness of the wild man. Why should he make such a promise? Why should he not hunt? The animals belonged to him after all, as did the woods they lived in, the grass they fed on, even the air they breathed.

At that, the wild man walked out of the gates without a backward glance. King Richon thought that would be the last of him, but he was wrong.

Soon there was a royal parade through the town of Wilbey, which surrounded the castle. King Richon was dressed spectacularly in the green and black of the king
dom and mounted on his favorite horse, a gelding named Crown, who was large and strong, and well trained.

Suddenly Crown took off on a wild canter through the streets, and nothing King Richon did could stop his course. He galloped past the familiar woods, toward the dark southern forest. There he stopped short and threw King Richon overhead. Then he galloped away, back to the castle stables.

King Richon wandered in that strange forest a week before he was found at last by his fearful guards. They brought back a much thinner and quieter king. Those with the animal magic thought the king must have learned his lesson. But when the wild man returned that evening, a wolf striding at his side, King Richon still would not promise to abandon the hunt.

Instead, he offered a bag full of ten thousand golden talers. “If you leave here today and never return, it is yours.”

The wild man spat on the ground and told the king, “Your third lesson will not be so painless.” Then he strode out of the court.

For a few weeks King Richon was cautious and remained inside the castle, in case the wild man dared appear again. But then it was summer, and so fair that a hunt had to be made, and besides, what could such a small man do against a king and all his court? So he sent out his call, and his greedy nobles came to him for the hunt, fearing the result as little as he did.

This time King Richon went in search of a bear he had caught a glimpse of in the dark southern forest itself. It was larger than any he had seen before. He intended to make a rug of it and to keep the head as a trophy above his throne, in case the wild man dared come again. His confidence great, he slew the bear in one motion, with a spear through the head. Jubilant over the kill, he returned to the castle to celebrate.

A bear dance was presented for his amusement, and minstrels sang new songs of his hunting prowess. But the celebration was cut short by the cries of sentries stationed atop the castle walls. In the dawn light they saw in the distance signs of a great army approaching. King Richon came out with his men, drunken and swaying, and saw the army for what it was, an army of animals.

Bears, wolves, stags, bobcats, foxes, wild horses and hounds, eagles, hawks, and smaller creatures of every kind: raccoons, possums, mice, sparrows and robins, deer, and bees. Together they stood at the top of the hill overlooking the castle. And slowly, out of their midst, came the wild man himself.

King Richon felt a chill in his heart, yet he was still too stubborn to offer the promise he knew the wild man wanted. After all, what could animals do to his well-trained men?

“Attack!” he shouted.

They did their best. Footmen loped forward with swords and spears. Archers loosed their arrows. There
were dead animals everywhere in a few minutes’ time, but it seemed there was an unending supply to take their place. Meanwhile the king’s soldiers lost ears, eyes, and limbs. They stumbled or became confused. They threw spears at their own kind or ran away in terror.

By the end of the day the battle had been lost. King Richon, defeated, stepped forward in the dying light and held up his hands in surrender to the wild man. Then he knelt and bowed his head.

“I will make the promise now if you will take it,” he said.

But it was no use. The wild man laid his hands on the king’s shoulders, and a few of the wounded then saw the plain and terrible workings of the most powerful animal magic of all. They saw King Richon transformed from a man to a beast, a huge, towering black bear like the one he had killed that very morning.

“You will live as a bear until you understand what it is to be hunted,” the wild man proclaimed. “But there is hope. I promise that much. If only you will ask.”

And so it was. King Richon was never seen again as a man, but there are those who claim to have seen a certain bear on the outskirts of the dark southern forest, taller than others, with very black fur and a human look to his eyes. A bear that will stand if you speak to it and cock its head to one side, as if it were asking a question and listening for an answer.

As for the wild man, he has never been seen again.
His army disappeared that day, melting back into the uncanny forest from which it came.

Some say his magic was an evil perversion, that it has nothing to do with the other, smaller animal magic. But there are few who believe this. And so now all those with animal magic are burned when they are discovered, no matter what their age. It is a kindness perhaps. For what man or woman would choose to live stretched between those two worlds?

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