Part One: The Fox Trickster
The trees were speaking with one another, groaning out a lengthy conversation in a shift of creaking branches and fluttering leaves. They whispered in hushed tones high above Merlin's head as he picked his way through the forest floor, his leather satchel slung crosswise over his chest. His head was bent in concentration though he would raise his chin and glance around at his surroundings every now and then, as if to reassure himself that he was going in the right direction. On all sides of him, the forest continued to murmur.
The sorcerer glanced down at the object in his hands and wet his lips nervously before slipping it back into his bag. Here, this deep into the woods, he experienced the sensation of something old and something powerful settling deeply into his bones. It warned him of things not to be trifled with and of things that were best left undisturbed. Of course Merlin wouldn't pay any heed to the warnings - he was here for Arthur and when it came to him it was proven that he would move the sun and the stars if he could.
He had long ceased to think this was just because it was his "destiny". He would do anything for Arthur for something far greater than destiny. He would do anything for Arthur because he loved him.
It didn't take Merlin long to reach his destination. As he stepped past the ring of stones into the secluded grove, he felt the tang of magick strongly upon his tongue; he could practically taste it. It spoke to his blood and it made his own magick hum excitedly through his veins. The power of the grove hit him like a fine red wine. It warmed him; a soothing heat that radiated out from his chest and flowed into his limbs until he could practically feel it drip from his fingers and toes. It sang to him in a language which sounded as old as the earth, beckoning him forward, forward, forward...forward towards the Mound.
The power dizzied him. He stumbled and fell to his knees not halfway across the clearing, overcome with the sensation. The grass beneath his palms was soft, as inviting as clean sheets and a bug-free mattress at the close of a trying day. He could feel the magick surge upwards from the earth itself and it seeped through his palms and turned his eyes a deep golden color. It filled him, clogging his senses until all that Merlin could feel was it surrounding him, encompassing him in a comfortable womb.
"This isn't so bad," he thought, and felt himself grow heavy and sluggish, drunk with the rush of magick surging through him, "I could stay here for just a little while..." He lowered his head until his cheek was nearly touching the damp loam of the forest floor, when he felt something shift and fall from his satchel. It landed next to him with a soft thump and drew Merlin's eyes towards the sound.
A hunting horn, as basic as one could ever be, lay in the grass beside him. It was brown like the skin of a tree and made from a stag's curved antler. The tapered mouth was fitted with a brass piece, but it was otherwise unadorned.
Merlin reached out and closed his fingers over the horn and his head felt suddenly clear. His eyes lost their golden colour and he remembered his purpose: Arthur. He had come here for Arthur. The sorcerer clamored back to his feet and raised the horn to his lips. Then he blew and a single, eerie note cut through the air.
***
Deep beneath the warlock's feet, something turned and paused, as if gently roused from its sleep by the call of a rooster in the early morn. A deep sigh reverberated through the ground, traveling the length of the clearing in a perfect circle. In response, the ring of stones vibrated, oscillating in time with the pulse of the earth.
Something within the Mound shifted and in response to the fading sound of the horn's call, there came a rich, feminine chuckle. The Mound split, opening like a boil which had been punctured, and from its center a woman unfolded. Merlin's mouth fell open. Compared to this woman even Morgana could not hold a candle to her beauty.
The woman stood tall and naturally lithe, her body curved and feminine yet with distinctly hard edge. Her hair was a wild mane of fox-fur colored strands; deep red one moment, the color of flame the next. Her lips were dark crimson, stained the color of fresh blood on a wide and sensuous mouth. And her eyes - oh her eyes! The were slanted and large, fringed by sable black and colored the same fox-fur hue as her hair.
The woman placed a hand on her hip and Merlin was surprised to see that her skin was not smooth at all but rather covered in very fine fur, as white as snow and as soft-looking as mink. He wanted to run his fingers over that fur, feel it, and feel the woman's hard curves beneath his palms. Instead he clutched the stag horn to him and stood very still.
This wasn't an ordinary woman, after all. This was a forest goddess or perhaps just a powerful spirit. Either way, he would have to tread carefully. Nevertheless he was rather pleased that something had at least answered the horn's call.
"Tell me little warlock, why have you woken me from my sleep?" asked the woman. "I was having the loveliest dream of tracking a defiler through the forest and spilling his blood with the hounds at my heels. You interrupted that." She frowned and took a step towards him. Merlin did his best not to flinch back. "I was dreaming of a time," she continued, her flame-colored gaze looking straight through him, "when the old magick - the wild magick - ran rampant and free throughout all of the land. I dreamed of a time when the Amadan na Briona would summon us with that horn in your hands and call us to the Wild Hunt." She looked profoundly sad for a moment and her melancholy washed over Merlin like a palpable force. "The Amadan has gone deep into the womb of the land and will not return unless the old ways are restored. I myself prefer to slumber." A note of anger. Merlin swallowed past the lump in his throat.
"I have come to ask a favor of you," he said, recoiling a little as the woman came very near and walked in a tight circle around him. "I, err, I am the manservant to Arthur Pendragon," he continued and was interrupted when the woman snorted and gave him a toothy smile.
"The one who is destined to return magick to the land?" she asked with an arch of her brow, "how very interesting it is you who comes to me now. Tell me, does Uther Pendragon still keep his life?" Merlin nodded in response, watching the woman with a careful gaze. She frowned. "Pity that."
"I've come to realize," he went on, "that I cannot always be there to protect Arthur." A dark look of remembrance rippled across his features as the thought about the Questing Beast and how truly close he had come to losing his beloved. "Balance will never be restored if I can't protect him." He sighed running his long fingers through his dark hair. "For a prince and an accomplished warrior, he is quite hard to keep alive."
The woman laughed then, a deep, throaty laugh that came from her belly. "Indeed little warlock," she said, stepping back from him. "And you wear his stink infused into your essence as if you two were one." She looked thoughtful for a minute, studying his tall, thin frame critically. "What is it you want from me? Do not deny it - one does not try to call the Wild Hunt without a deeper purpose."
"It is Arthur's birthday tomorrow," said Merlin a tad desperately, his blue eyes pleading, "and I want to give him something that I can trust to protect him when I cannot be there. I've come to ask for one of the hounds of the Hunt."
A surprised look overcame the woman's features. She pursed her lips and it looked like she didn't know whether or not to be angry or be frightfully amused.
"A bold request," she finally replied, her tone suddenly grave. "The hounds are just as much our equals in the Hunt....and as dangerous as any of those who ride behind the Pack." She paused then said with emphasis, "They are very precious to us. They are like our children and are far worthier than any mere dog - nay, any mere human - that you will ever find. Each and every one has been blessed by the Amadan, the Lord of the Briar himself. Pray tell me just why your Arthur Pendragon deserves one?"
"He is going to be a great king one day," said the sorcerer, "and he truly is nothing like his father." He smiled unconsciously as he thought about the blonde prince. "He is learning to be more compassionate every day and has proven himself to open-minded, just, and kind. He is meant to do great things for this land and its inhabitants," he paused, "all of its inhabitants," he added.
The woman looked unconvinced. "Why do you risk so much to come here to this place of magick? If you were ever caught, little one, you would be put to death. Our worlde would mourn the loss of one such as you."
"There is no length I wouldn't go to, to keep him alive," exclaimed Merlin passionately. "After this last time," he began in a voice thick with fear he hadn't quite shaken, "I can't bear to lose him. I can't risk it...he...he was so close to death..."
"You are not telling me what your reason is," she replied pointedly, her fox-fur colored eyes glinting dangerously. "I warn you against trying to trick me."
"I love him," stated Merlin simply. "I love him more than I love myself sometimes. It frightens me, but I...I couldn't bear having to live without him."
"A very selfish admission," said the woman thoughtfully, "but a very honest one at that." She nodded. "Very well, little warlock, I shall fulfill your request and your Arthur will have his hound." Joy flooded him upon hearing her words and he fought the urge to jump up and whoop. "But," said the woman in a low, dangerous voice, "remember this: the hound he is given will be loyal unto death to the one it serves. Be sure that your prince loves and cherishes it as we would. Otherwise you will find that our hounds are capable of biting the hand that feeds them."
Merlin nodded seriously. "I promise. You have my word."
"Good."
The woman returned to the Mound and reached deep into the split in the earth. She pulled something from the hole and cradled it to her, whispering to it in a low, rhythmic cadence in an ancient language that Merlin did not understand. When she turned back to him and in her arms was the largest, handsomest looking puppy he had ever laid eyes on. Its ears were floppy and its eyes were dark as pitch, though it's coat was white as hoarfrost. Its paws were too big for its body and the sorcerer felt his mouth twitch upwards when he saw its tail begin to wag uncontrollably at the sight of him.
He gathered the hound into his arms and marveled at the softness of its fur.
"He is excited to meet his new master so take him to Arthur with haste."
With that the woman turned away once more and began to walk into the forest, past the mound, and past the ring of stones.
"Wait!" called Merlin, taking a step in pursuit. She turned back to him, glancing over her shoulder. She waited, her eyes dancing with something close to puckish mirth. "Who are you?" he asked.
The woman grinned widely and her white teeth glinted. "I am named Amarice ap'Nudd, though those who know the lore of the forest have called me the Fox Trickster."
Then she was gone, swallowed by the trees which seemed to close around her like a protective cloak.
Merlin stared after her for awhile and then turned in wonderment, holding within his arms a famed hound of the Hunt.
He knew Arthur would love the hound for he was a strong and fine specimen, larger than any other puppy he had ever seen.
"Now don't worry if your new master is a prat sometimes," murmured Merlin to the pup as he began to wend his way back through the forest, "you just have to look past that. He's not half bad, really, once he realizes he's being a royal arse."
Merlin couldn't be sure but he thought that as he made his way through the woods, a large fox was trailing them. Occasionally he would see a glimpse of a tail disappearing behind a bush or a tree, and each time he felt the weight of eyes upon him. When he emerged from the treeline he felt the tingle of somebody watching and whirled, turning back towards the forest suddenly.
There, sitting in plain sight, was not a fox at all but a large owl, sitting on a low branch. It's unblinking yellow eyes were trained unfailingly upon him, and Merlin couldn't be sure but it appeared as if the owl bore a distinctly irascible expression. After watching him for several long minutes, the owl began to groom its feathers, apparently disinterested in whatever it was Merlin was doing. Feeling very much like he had just been dismissed, the sorcerer turned again and continued back towards Camelot.
(To be continued…)