Raian, deep in a secondary forest of tall Geillari men, heard from somewhere, maybe out at the edge, the yelp of a nervy man startled, then a scream of pain, a roar, and another scream. And a madness seized the band.

Before he could move, an elbow or spear-butt rocked his brains for him and his light collapsed. More screams, running feet, bronze thunking into flesh.

“Demonwood!” someone shrieked, the first who had given it the name, maybe. “It wants blood! Give it blood! Drink, damn you!”

Wolf tripped over Raian; Raian seized him and made another light, just in time to see someone rip his axe back out of another man’s chest. Bloodspattered, Raian rolled wildly away, and found his feet, his boot-knives in his hands and Wolf at his back with his own bronze fangs bared.

“Just like—Bottom Street!” Wolf panted, fending off someone’s wild backstroke.

Raian grinned, though the warriors about him were no rival boy-gang. Still, in this madness they were only bigger, battling without plan or point. He kicked the back of someone’s knees, and brought his dagger-butt down solidly on the man’s head.

And saw Deorgard—

—turning from a late assailant, his own sword entangled in the dead man’s ribs—

—to see a short sword in mid-arc towards the royal throat—

Raian stabbed into the shadow beside him, burying both daggers in the assailant’s armpit. The swordsman screamed, his grip broke, his blade rang on the king’s thick golden torque and cut a little neck skin. The man fell to his knees, and then Maglad’s spear pinned him dead to the earth. Deorgard speared Raian with a quick, queer glare, freed his own blade at last and turned away while Raian tried to wrest free his own.

As sudden as its flow, the madness ebbed. Men stood or knelt, or bent puking, aghast. And in the silence a laugh went up, a strange, fey chuckle. Everyone who could looked about for its author, though every last man knew he did not want to see.

At the edge of their light, a red fox trotted briskly past. His pink tongue lolled out between sharp white teeth, giving him a laughing leer, and then he tossed his head lightly and sprang away out of sight.

The band huddled together, apart from their carnage; sat quiet as weary children and made no murmur when Raian, and the one or two others magelight-gifted, let the darkness return. Only their own rough breathing could be heard as they sat and waited to learn if ever they would know a dawn again. And when at last, at last, dim forms emerged and did not fade as fancy shifted, some wept, and were rather envied than scorned.

One night, the younger Fox came to the hall of Andras the warrior. He pretended to go for the chickens, but when the man and his dogs rushed out to protect the coop, Fox darted into the house and stole the fire from the hearth. He tried to hide it in his fur, as his elder brother carried the fog in his, but the light of it shone out anyway. Andras saw him go, but Grey Fox let loose the fog and soon Red Fox was lost into the wild land again.

“But I shall find him!” vowed Andras in a thunder of rage. “He cannot hide long with his coat so bright!” And he gathered his retainers, and picked six of the most skillful at arms, and with swords and bows they marched out at dawn to take back their fire. And evening came, and morning again, but the seven warriors did not return.

The next night, Red Fox came to the hall of Carastwyth. He pretended to be dead, and the maidservants of Carastwyth brought him in, intending to take his fine thick fur to wrap the baby. But when they turned to find the skinning-knife, up he leaped and stole the fire from the hearth. He hid it in his fur, and again he was seen, and again his elder brother hid him in fog, and he laughed as he ran.

Then Carastwyth went to her altar, and poured sweet oils (for she had no fire for incense), and chanted the chants to Maolin the Foundation and Mór of Art. “How can I punish Fox, who has stolen my fire?” she asked, but They said, “Fox is of the House-that-is-no-house, a retainer of Dagn. Ask of Dagn how his servant is to recompense you!”

Angry, Carastwyth summoned all her plowmen and woodcutters out to destroy the forest that bordered her home, but she and all her people vanished, and their tools rusted under the twining vines. And still neither had Andras returned.

The next night, Fox came to the hall of Lostforth. He sat on the threshold with his sharp ears pointed up, and his bright eyes glittered as he considered the youth bent over his book. Lostforth looked up and saw Fox. Then Fox grew greatly daring, or he knew his man: boldly he walked into the hall to the hearth, with Lostforth watching his every step. He took the fire, hid it in his fur, and, his courage breaking at last, bolted for the door. But Lostforth snatched up a taper from his table and touched it to the fur as Red Fox scampered past. The candle lit at once, and Lostforth fixed it in place, took up his quill and began to write, “The gait of Red Fox resembleth. . . . “ and took no further heed.

The next night, Fox came to the hall of Gariel. A merry feast rang under the rafters, and Fox slipped in among the guests. He helped himself to a roasted dove and a mazer of mead before he stole the fire, tucking it into his fur, and he fled laughing.

The feast became a riot of angry, disappointed guests. Gariel in a rage did not wait for the dawn but charged into the night to avenge the insult to her hospitality. And a dawn came, and another, but she too did not return.

The next night, Fox came to the hall of Celtannan, but it was dark and he went away disappointed.

Then he went to the hall of Felindras, in disguise as a hunting hound. He lay among the hounds near the hearth and with them received a bone from the supper table, before he leaped up, stole the fire and ran away. His laughter rang over the hills. Then Felindras gathered her hunters, all who could be spared, and they studied the spoor of the Fox in the yard and when Dawn came, silently they crept after him, as relentless as a tide, and all their hounds among them too were angry at Fox’s trickery, and yearned to bite him. But evening came and another dawn, and Felindras did not return, and Gariel did not return, and Carastwyth was gone, and Andras too could not be found.

The next night Fox came to the hall of Ristover. Ristover saw him at once. “Ho, Fox! I know why you have come. Let us play at dice for my fire! I shall throw, and you shall throw, and whoever throws the highest shall have the fire.”

“Let it be so!” said Fox, and Ristover threw out her die.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Five! Well, Fox, beat that if you can!”

So Fox took the die, cupped it, rattled it, and blew upon it.

“Come, Fox!” Ristover commanded. “Throw, and be done with it!”

So Fox threw. But while he had held it so close, he had marked it with his claws and his sharp teeth. “Ha, ha! It is a six!” he laughed, and he took Ristover’s fire and ran into the wild. But Ristover picked up the die and saw the marks: all the sides had been made six! Then her rage blossomed, and in the morning she took her six cleverest woodsmen, and off they went after Fox. But evening came, and another dawn, and Ristover did not return.

And Felindras was lost, and hot-headed Gariel, and pious Carastwyth, and Andras the eldest.

Fox came next to the hall of Kinnaith. Again he disguised himself as a dog, but here he was recognized. Yet he was given a place, and bones from the table, meaty bones, for the hounds of Kinnaith eat well. He was sore puzzled, but he thought to himself, “This will prick their hides!” and he stole the fire. Kinnaith watched him run off, and he laughed louder than Fox. Then he held his wife close and said, “There are many ways to be warm. Let us make rugs and blankets for our walls! And as for light, are not some of us blind and yet make their way? Let not the rest of us prove less able in our few hours of darkness, than they in their endless night!” And then they made such games in the dark that Fox almost returned to play with them; it is said that, sometimes, he does.

Fox came next night to Morag in the north. Morag had built an elaborate hall, almost a maze: an enemy who stumbled upon the way in, would not find his way out in a hurry. Fox dipped his tail in water and dragged it behind him as he worked his way in. But the wet in his tail almost put out the fire when he hid it in his fur (this is why the tip of his tail is always white); worse, the first part of his path had already dried when he was but halfway to freedom, and every man, woman, child, dog and duck of Morag’s House was almost upon him when at last he burst out again. Even so, they had surely captured him, but Grey Fox his elder brother shrouded him in his fog again. And Red Fox laughed for glee.

Morag heard that laugh, and her anger turned to ice within her. Vowing revenge for her violated home, when dawn came she herself led forth her huntsmen, for never would she ask of another what she would not do. And upon evening, and another dawn, they returned not.

Fox went to Tregaron and, nipping and yipping among the feet of the horses, roused them to shake and shatter their stables. And while Tregaron rushed to soothe them, in slipped Fox to the hearth and stole the fire, and ran away laughing once more.

Now, some of the horses had hurt themselves in their fright, so it is hard to say which angered Tregaron more: the injury to his hall, or to his herd. But next morning, he and his stoutest men rode out to hunt the fox, and their mounts too were hot for revenge. But evening came, and morning, and men and horses all were gone into the wild.

Then Listas, the youngest and the most far-sighted, sought out her brother Rhyllandon, for his magic. “Listen, brother,” she said, “Fox has lured away our brothers and sisters, and taken them into the wild places. Surely they are become retainers in the House-that-is-no-house. Seek you them, and unspell them, I beg you!”

Rhyllandon of the dark thought yet loved his sister and he said, “I will do as you ask.” And he put on the shape of a serpent all green and gold. But he left about his neck a silver thread, so that he should always remember his true nature. And into the wilderness he went.

First he looked among the lions, till he saw one larger and stronger than all the rest. Gliding to this one, he struck with one fang and drew a little blood and cried aloud his brother’s name: “Andras!” And the lion shook off its form and became a man again, sitting in the dust. “Go home,” said Rhyllandon. “Go to our sister Listas. Get some fire from her.” And Andras, for once in his life meek as a babe, did as he was bidden. And the hearth of Andras blazed at his returning.

Rhyllandon looked next among the horned aurochs, for the proudest of them all. And he scored his sister Gariel with his serpent’s fang, and over her blood cried her name, “Gariel!”

And there she sat, blinking and bewildered, and meekly she went to Listas as the serpent Rhyllandon bade her, for fire to welcome her guests again.

He watched the hawks in their craggy home, till he saw the canniest hunter among them. Then he hid beside a rabbit he had charmed, till the hawk stooped for it. Twice the hawk was the swifter, but the third time the serpent Rhyllandon struck faster, and drew her blood and cried, “Felindras!” And the hawk shook off her form and would have fallen, but she remembered her magic and set herself gently down to hear his word. And she too went to Listas for fire.

Among the bears, he sought out the bravest, and struck his brother Tregaron with his fang and cried out his name. Tregaron wished to seek at once for his missing horses, but Rhyllandon told him not to be a fool, but to get his fire first. And so he went to Listas.

He lay out upon a rock in the sun and warmed himself near where the blackbirds sang in the reeds. They scolded him, and darted at him to drive him away from their nests, but he waited for the most daring, with the brightest red on her shoulders, to come near, and nearer still, and then in a flash of green he bit her with one fang and cried, “Ristover!” And he sent her to Listas the youngest for fire.

Long he crept among the setts of the badgers, seeking for the deepest, cleverest burrow. And then he drew the blood of Morag, but he slithered out above the ground while the angry badger pursued him, before he spoke her name.

And so were the children of Uralia freed from the roofless court of the Piper in the Wild, and returned to their cities. And Fox has never been tamed.

It was a Sferan tale, of course. Raian had never before wondered if the Geillari had any such lore. Perhaps they will now, he thought grimly, if ever we return to tell it!

The light grew, and men roused to the mournful task of naming, and somehow burying, the slain. But they cried aloud at a new horror and a wonder: not a corpse remained, nor so much as a smear of blood upon the mould. Only Hamlech’s Tree lay broken on the ground, dark sap—it must be sap—dripping from its cracked and shattered limbs. The grey light spread, but it was only grey, as though a vast storm-cloud lay above the trees, though the air smelled not of rain but of some acrid taint, like a smithy. And now there were but ten and a hundred of them.

Deorgard rose and made a show of tightening his sword-belt. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” yelped someone. “How, lord? Which way? Even if one of us dared to climb these accursed trees, there is no sun to guide us!”

Deorgard cocked his head. Then he shrugged, “We follow the stream.”

How their hearts leaped: of course! Swiftly they assembled in battle-form, all grief, and all wonderment, put off till they could be unburdened in peace. To the stream they marched and, assured of its safety from the night before, they drank deeply now, and refilled the waterskins, and ignored their rumbling bellies. Then a young Eftring, when all were done, pulled back his kilt and relieved himself into the hurrying water.

Not half a dozen paces from the king he pissed, and whether they were the gnarled roots of the alder across the stream or the fingers of a huge gray and ancient hand, Raian could never have said, but they rose from the flood and seized the youth by his member and dragged him under before any man else could blink.

He himself had scarcely time to squeak. Beyond all shock, no one else made a sound, though they moved well back from the edge. Raian scowled—there was no pool among the mossy rocks big enough to hide a child, much less a whole man, but not a hint of Dun Eftring’s bold red and white checks glimmered below the surface. Barely daring to draw breath, the host turned and followed their grim liege down the stony trough, desperate for home.