The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 17

 By Christopher Leeson




Epilogue 

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL

Triumphs pass, songs fade, good friends go their separate ways. 

It was with heavy heart that I parted from my family on the wharf of Nawcant in the kingdom of Sulidir.  Ceann, Gannon, and I had already agreed to journey inland, to a villa within a ride of three hours from the city of Tyary Graig and rejoined Lady Elekta.  Ceann had previously let me know of her desire to leave the Fyana; I supposed that this was her first half-step in that direction.

Of the months since then there is little to tell.

Late spring yields to summer, and summer ultimately assumes the golden crown of autumn.  Cefen M'Glywess, the Lady's husband, had established his family at a comfortable country house.  Here his wife Elekta has been busy for months creating a household out of an empty hall.  Understandably, she has not afforded me a great deal of time for the teaching of magic.  I have books, but their turgid discourses have left me stultified and uninformed.  I have more time in idleness than in study.  And idleness, alas, allows one to contemplate the depth and breadth of  his regrets.

When I think about Harouck, I seethe.  Is he the disease, or is he only the outward sign of a much deeper affliction?  Cawdour had been frank in his observation that the landed lords have been dwindling in both wealth and influence since well before the rise of the usurper.  Likewise, the patriotic yeoman have lost their own status and become debt-ridden, dispossessed, and -- in many cases -- shiftless.
  
It is to the energetic merchants and the burgers that a ruler looks to for support in these decadent days.  At the heart of the old warrior class is tradition, but among these new men tradition is oftentimes a very bad fit.  The old social order relegated them to the rear of the room, and they, perhaps, do not remember their former status kindly.

Those whom Cawdour called “new men” are not all bad, of course.  The M'Glywesses and the Oc'Raighnes, in fact, number among them.  Had I been brought up in the old days I never could have won my knightly spurs.  But where the old aristocracy was dedicated to the commonweal with an intensity that was akin to religion, these new-made men too often look at government as means to a personal end.  They flatter and bribe to win support for their, oftentimes, selfish aims, and those in power do their best to please them. 

The world is in a flux of change, some say, but change has assailed the warrior class like a brutal giant.  There was a time when the soldier quested far and made new discoveries; today it is the merchant, the trader, the sea captain.  The old aristocracy, though they bear the same titles, are not like their ancestors.  What has the scions of old nobility done lately to give credit to their progenitors?  I think of our king, Cathmor, and recognize how far the demoralization has spread. 

I, too, have passed my first summer of my new life in slothful melancholy.  If Chancellor Harouck typifies our future, I will live and I will die in opposition to such man and such a future.  Is there hope?  Sometimes a bush that is sheared off by the axe can return from its deep roots.  Can it be that way, too, with the stout oak which is men's traditions?  If men of worthy motives return to the fight, the battle, ultimately, may still be lost, but is not the worth of a man found in what he attempts, not in what Fate allows him to accomplish?  Failure is the most usual result of all endeavors.  It is easy to do evil; to attain a worthy cause and win immortal fame is difficult.
 
These thoughts are not light to bear and they wear me down.  I will speak of other matters.

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 16

 By Christopher Leeson

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
 
There was so much to think about, so much to regret. I lay awake though the long night, suffering the remorse of the damned, until the break of dawn took away even the hope of sleep.

Gannon, who had risen before the sun, joined me at first light, carrying a borrowed harp under his arm.

"Dyan," my friend said jauntily, "I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"That if this rebellion is ever going to catch fire, it has to have a hero."

"Cemion is the hero," I said indifferently.

Gannon shook his head. "No. Cemion isn't ready to inspire people yet."

“So what kind of hero do they expect?” I asked.

"A hero who can never be captured, never defeated, and never outwitted. A hero who only laughs at the worst threats of the enemy."

I frowned. "There is no such hero!"

"I'm talking about a dead hero."

"A dead hero?"

“Real heroes never die; they live in legend,” he clarified.

Thinking it over, I realized what Gannon was saying. Only the champions of saga never failed, and they died the sort of death that only served to put the seal of greatness on their triumphs. It was always the dead, never the living, who the generations looked up to.

"We have a hero," Gannon went on blandly, "if only we only give him what thing that every hero needs."

"What's that?"

"A good song."

I scowled.

"Yes," my friend persisted, "a song, like the one that I've just composed. Do you want to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

With a grin, Gannon put the harp to his shoulder. “I call it 'Rodin's Men.'


"Sing a song of Rodin brave,
Too elusive for the grave.
His arm so strong, his heart so good,
He made his foemen dread the wood.

"When assessors seized their tax
Rod gave their shoulders forty whacks.
When e'er a sellsword deighed to slay,
He made the rascal rue the day!

"Rod gave his life to save a mate,
Was struck by wounds that sealed his fate.
His soul flew to the Isles Blessed,
But the hero true refused to rest.

"The mage Harouck found out too late
Rod was back from Heaven's gate!
Again he ruled the hills and dell,
From the eye of God to the jaws of Hell!

"Saluted by those left behind
Rod helped them keep the mage in line.
They made their realm the woods and fen;
The gods protected Rodin's men!"

"Rod took a task with much to do,
With trouble great and helpers few.
But never daunted by a fight,
He lent our men his spirit bright!”

Gannon put down his instrument and grinned. “It's not quite finished yet.”

I frowned. “Write any more of that silly sing-song and I'll kick Rodin back to the Western Islands myself.”

But the words were hardly out before I heard cheers and clapping coming from behind us.

* * * *

Chapter Sixteen

From the Eye of God to the Jaws of Hell

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 15

By Christopher Leeson

 
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL

All my life I had been hearing stories about the Formoru, told in a way meant to frighten children. These bogies of nightmare were sometimes called the Dark Gods.  But except for the certainty that they were dangerous and exceptionally evil, no one had described in very much detail.  Going faithfully to ritual did not illuminate a child on the subject; the parish druids said not a word about these ancient ones. Yet, it was said that our gods, the Daanan, had defeated them, thereby giving their tribe its greatest victory.

Since those days that are lost to me, and which I cannot now claim as my own, I have learned much that only the high wizards and druids are permitted to know.  It is the kind of knowledge that I would cheerfully forget -- if only it were safe to do so.

“What are these Dark Gods?  Are they truly dead and gone?” Those were the inquiries that I once put to Cawdour when I was about seventeen.

He looked at me in an odd way.  I wondered if he was taking stock of me, trying to decide whether I was ready to receive an answer to the questions that I had asked.

“The Dark Gods are ancient creatures of immense power,” he said.

“So the stories tell us. But are they true gods, or are they monsters?” I asked.

“Both. Or neither. It is a matter of definitions.”

“How would you define those terms, Sire?”

The old wizard shrugged, as if I were being irrelevant.

“Most are colossal in size,” he stated. “Their memory lingers, though they were gone from the world before Mankind walked it.”

“How can that be?”

“Because they refuse to be forgotten. They mind-touch certain mad and half-mad persons in dreamtime.  From the visions reported by these mad savants, they Dark Ones continue to be worshiped by the most depraved of human cults. And not only human cults.”

“Sire?”

Some believe that those which lurk at the edges worship them also.”

“Edges?” I echoed.

“The edges of human habitation, the edges of the seasons, the edges of Time and Forever, the edges of dark and light, the edges of dreaming and wakefulness. The edges of life and death. A few of these are found in our folklore -- the undead, the lycanthropes, the beings of the sea. Others have been forgotten, or, in their remoteness, have never become known.”

I blinked. I knew of such creatures from hero stories, but was the wizard implying that they were real?  How could one so wise hold such an idea?  For myself, belief in monsters had slipped away from me along with with childhood.

“The Dark Gods are held in abeyance by forces even greater than they are,” my foster father continued. “But this power is not immense enough to snuff them out of existence, so they abide like prisoners awaiting their release. The stars say that their day shall come again, but this is not their day. No one can prognosticate the hour when they will rise again; let us hope that it shall not be ere Mankind has withered and turned to dust.

“Is it the Daanan who hold these demons in check?”

Cawdour shrugged. “Most believe that the Formaru were routed by the gods. Others hold that their banishment came about gradually, part of the natural progression of the Cycles.”

I could not help but frown. What were the cycles that he referred to?

“According to the first theory,” Cawdour pressed, “the Dark Gods held sway in realms where our gods hold sway now. There was a great war between the gods of the natual world, led by Nudens, and the Dark Ones. It is said that nearly all of the Formoru and gods were slain.

"But the Daanan, legend tells us, held a secret. They knew the way back from the Pit of Death, and so sacrificed themselves in wild attacks, so that the enemy could be driven into the deep darkness along with them. The Daanan returned by virtue of their secret wisdom, but Death's Hall still holds the Dark Gods captive in its bowels.”  He shrugged.  “This tale is only a metaphor, the truth, we must assume, was something that our ancestors could not conceivably understand.

“Be that as it may, the Dark Gods are not truly dead; instead, they await the time of their release, eager for revenge against those who discomforted them.”

This was, in the main, the same story that parents had been telling their children for centuries.

Now Cawdour frowned pensively. “The second supposition holds that the Old Gods are dormant only due to the effects of cycles, the universal order to which even the mightiest of gods must yield. To understand this, look at the seasons of the earth. Just as some animals hibernate through inclement winter, so too must the Old Gods slumber so long as the prevailing cosmic cycle endures.

"These cycles are like the magical clock in the famous story, the one which made a sound to awaken its master whenever the time came for him to rise. While the Dark Gods sleep, life as we know it go on.  But when they wake.....”

“When they wake, what happens?” I asked.

Cawdour drew a deep breath through grim lips. “By the time they rise, their thirst for destruction shall surely have grown as bottomless as the pit that had imprisoned them.”

I suddenly wondered if the savant was only trying to test me, to assess my canniness when told a false tale, even if by one whom I had always placed at the highest level of trust.  “Wherever they presently lay,” I began carefully, trying not to sound naive, “will the world of man be left in peace for the next thousand thousand years, or should we fear?”

Again he regarded me, his glance challenging.  Was it intended to admonish me -- not for my gullibility, but for my skeptical tone?

“We should fear,” he finally declared.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

The Dark Ones

Happy Valentine's Day!

After a somewhat rocky go of it the last couple of months, I'm pleased to see that Christopher Leeson has been posting new work here and it has made me feel good about the intent of this site.

It's still somewhat difficult to find TG work that is not CD/TV oriented.  What there is, is rather small but I present a couple of quick works I've found as a present to you all.

Knight of the Succubus by Cluedog!

The Sunglasses

The Monkey's Paw by Ed Miller

Or not...

Ah well, hope you like what I got up for you guys today to make up for it:)

PS:  E-mail Ed and let him know you like his stuff, he seems to be under the impression nobody likes his work these days!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a story involving explicitly described sex. If you think you
might be offended by it, or you aren't allowed by the laws of the place
in which you live to read such a story, don't. If you read past this
warning, any offense you take or laws you break are your problem. I've
warned you.

Permission is hereby given to archive this story anywhere on the
Internet, so long as I'm credited as the  author, it is reproduced in
its entirety (including this disclaimer!) and no fee is charged to
access it.

On the matter of fees: I wrote this story (and others) for free, and I
never expected to get anything out of it except the occasional response
or critique, either good or bad. Constructive criticism is welcome,
though please don't be abusive, and remember that this is primarily an
attempt at a wank-story, not something aimed at a Pulitzer Prize.

My point being: the only benefit I get from writing is feedback, and it
seems to be tapering off in recent years. If you like it, tell me! If
you don't, tell me why! Leave feedback on Fictionmania (that's best), or
send email to:

edmiller21@yahoo.com

Put "your stories" in the subject line, or I might miss it in all the
junk email I get.

Lastly: I am not retired.  I just seem to have fewer ideas for these
kinds of stories.  I HAVE been writing quite a few captioned images;
check them out at Freya's site if you haven't already.


The Monkey's Paw
By Ed Miller

I heard the echoes of my bare feet as I padded quietly over the tile
floor down to where we kept it.  It was past midnight, and I wasn't
worried about running into one of the others, but I wasn't taking
chances.  I hadn't turned on any lights, and I was walking as quietly as
possible.

My breath was coming quick and shallow.  I felt a warmth all over my
body.  My cock stood out straight and stiff, tenting the front of my
shorts, and my nipple were hard on my bare chest.  The thought of it
turned me on, made me horny.  I loved it and hated it.  I couldn't stop.

I turned from the wide hallway into the large, opulent room where we
kept it.  The size of the house was good for me; it made it that much
less likely that any of the others would happen to interrupt me.  It
wasn't like there was a time when I could be sure of being alone in the
house.  None of us worked anymore, since we'd found the Monkey's Paw.

Tonisha by bobby

Here's one that's from back back back in 1999!

This is from bobby, best known for his AP works, but he occasionally dabbled in TG stuff, as well!

-----------------------------------

      Tonisha
     by bobby

Tony wandered up and down the aisles of the record store looking 
for a CD.  He had to leave tomorrow for L.A. on a business trip and 
wanted to bring some music along for the six-hour flight from 
Baltimore.  He hated those endless transcontinental flights, and 
anything to help pass the time was a plus.  He didn't feel like 
watching a movie on a 10-inch screen, either, so it seemed that CDs 
were the best way to go, and he'd stopped at one of the malls just off 
the Beltway on his way home from work.  He'd already picked out a 
couple,  and needed just one more to round out his selection, but 
nothing came to mind as he looked through the bins.  After wasting 
about twenty minutes and not finding anything interesting, he 
decided he could get by with what he already had and proceeded to 
the check-out counter.  There were four people ahead of him in the 
line, so he went into wait mode, looking all around the store but at 
nothing in particular.  After a minute, the line moved forward, and 
he happened to glance over at the cashier.  He felt his heart stop for 
a second, and thought his jaw would drop to the floor when he saw 
the woman behind the counter.  

She was positively gorgeous, in her early twenties, he guessed, with a 
flawless pecan complexion.  Her thick hair fell down past her 
shoulders, framing the most absolutely beautiful face Tony had ever 
seen.  Her exotic eyes were accented by thin delicate eyebrows.  She 
had a delicate nose, high cheekbones, and incredibly full lips.  She 
smiled at the customer she was currently helping, and Tony's heart 
just about melted.  "My God, she's fantastic!" he whispered to himself.  
There was just something about her that Tony found irresistible, 
some kind of indefinable, hidden quality in addition to her looks.  He 
realized he was staring at her, making no attempt to disguise his 
interest, when she suddenly turned and looked directly at him.  
Their eyes met and he wanted to turn away, embarrassed, but he 
couldn't.  Something was holding him in place, as if he were frozen 
solid.  A kind of half-smile, strangely seductive, slowly formed on 
her lips.  After what seemed an eternity, Tony was suddenly able to 
move, and he quickly turned away, his face burning crimson.

The Chaperone by Rebecca Molay

Another oldie but goodie that I had requested way back when...

Hope you enjoy:)

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Gimme a T! Gimme an A! by Cluedog/Smooch

Another excellent piece by Madamoiselle Cluedog. 

Notice all the excellent detail to the transformational motion blur:) 

Almost as important is the fact that Clue gets how to tell a story with no words needed.

Especially that last panel!

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A Different Kind of Contact Sport by Reprobate/Kim Ott

Until she's ready to take over, I will continue to share the lovely Charlotte's wonderful work;)

Here, the girl no longer is sweet and light like her usual girl...

Hope you enjoy:)

----------------------

Changing Channels: Groundhog Day by Zouscha

Another author I can't believe I haven't gotten around to posting things by yet.... Zouscha!

He/she does wonderful work, really wonderful work.  Admittedly, sometimes I'm not always a fan of the shemales that crop up but fortunately, there's usually so many other guys becoming buxom babes that I usually gloss right over those parts:)

But this one....this one has not only the main male character undergoing a change but also two girls getting changed (the girlfriend and her mother)! Never mind the main character's former secretary...

WARNING:  The mother does the naughty with the son and the daughter and the daughter's boyfriend/girlfriend!


--------------------------------

The alarm went off at 6 AM, like it always did.  I stirred groggily and
looked over at my fiancée Leah.  She looked so scrumptious lying there
that I had half a mind to blow off work and make passionate love to her,
but instead I gave her a little shake on the shoulder.  She moaned that
she was awake, and she padded off to the shower.  Only having one
bathroom in the apartment meant I was shaving while she was showering. It
was hard to see in the steamed-up mirror, and sure enough, I nicked
myself.

We didn't talk much at breakfast.  She had a big presentation she was
making today, so she was dressed to impress in her best business attire. 
She just reminded me to stop by her mom's tonight on the way home and
give her the book she'd just finished, and that we needed some milk from
the grocery store.  I'd pick her up at the train since she was working
late.  As luck would have it, in the lobby we saw Rudy, the building
manager, and thanked him for installing the new satellite dish yesterday
that was giving free cable to all the tenants.  It had apparently been
his idea.  "Hope you enjoy it!" he said, cheerfully, clapping me on the
shoulder. He was such a nice guy.

Beer Goggles by CBlack

And now, the lighter side of TG...  presented to you by C Black and the TG Comics extravaganza!

How many people would I use these goggles on..... anyone care to imagine?;)

-------------------------------------

SRU: Sweets by Gina R

Geez, this is the first Spells R Us item I've put up?  Just seems a bit....unbelievable.

But oh well, there you are. 

This is another oldie but goodie by Gina R.  She hasn't written much but what she has written is quite enjoyable.

Hope you agree!

---------------------------------------------------------

SRU: Sweets
By Gina R

"Spells? Yeah right."

James (17, male, 5 foot 6) was no believer but he was in a habit of
checking out any new store in his local mall, unless it was a girl's
shop of course. In fact he could not even remember seeing this shop in
construction and tried to think what it replaced. The shop was at the
far end of the mall and he didn't come down this way often so maybe
that was why he could not remember it.

He walked into the shop, which was called 'Spells R Us', clearly taking
its name from the toy store of similar name. He presumed it would be
full of magic tricks and things for pranks, which is what convinced him
to look inside, he loved playing tricks.

"Good morning James and don't tire me with the usual response, how do
you know my name." A strange looking old man said, appearing as if from
nowhere.

"But h..." The startled boy started.

"I said don't ask. I am a wizard and this is my shop. What can I help
you with?"

Tuning Bimbos by Ellie Dauber

I always liked this one.  Simple concept:  remote control which changes reality and hormonal teenage boys leads to sexy disaster for said hormonal teenage boys;)

Hard to believe this is 13 years old.  Yeesh.

Still a good one!

SRU: Tuning Bimbos
by Ellie Dauber
copyright 1999

"Man," Larry Bryce said, "I cannot believe the way Old Lady Reese came  
down on us."

"I know," Bret Sanger said.  "Two weeks' detention for one little  joke."

"Yeah, but it was almost worth it," Rick Quint said.  "The way she  screamed 
and everybody scattered when the mice jumped out of her drawer.  Hell, half 
the guys  in the class screamed."

The three laughed, remembering what had happened when their teacher  
opened a desk drawer and a dozen white mice, liberated from the biology lab, 
scattered  through the room.  They'd gone directly from their senior English 
class to the Principal's Office to  detention.

Now, at 5 PM, they were "liberated", but they knew that they'd be  spending 
two hours after school in detention for the next ten days.  In no hurry to get 
home,  they all piled in Bret's car and headed to the local mall.  It would be 
crowded with kids to share in  their triumph.

*****

She-Wolf of Suburbia by Cluedog

I may have unintentionally been insulting to our buddy Smooch/Cluedog.  I should have been referring to HER as SHE. 

My apologies!

After all, our real-life TG tech is getting ever more effective, which I'm sure will inspire more and more stories in the future.

Anyway, without further ado, here's another excellent example of her excellent skill in showing emotions without ever TELLING us with WORDS;)  That's how good she is.

The Monkey Paw by Ed Miller

Ed sometimes goes a little overboard in his sexual escapades but what gets me is his attention to detail in describing the transformations. 

This is probably the last story I've seen him produce.  Kinda miss him.  Ah well.

---------------------------------------

This is a story involving explicitly described sex. If you think you
might be offended by it, or you aren't allowed by the laws of the place
in which you live to read such a story, don't. If you read past this
warning, any offense you take or laws you break are your problem. I've
warned you.

Permission is hereby given to archive this story anywhere on the
Internet, so long as I'm credited as the  author, it is reproduced in
its entirety (including this disclaimer!) and no fee is charged to
access it.

On the matter of fees: I wrote this story (and others) for free, and I
never expected to get anything out of it except the occasional response
or critique, either good or bad. Constructive criticism is welcome,
though please don't be abusive, and remember that this is primarily an
attempt at a wank-story, not something aimed at a Pulitzer Prize.

My point being: the only benefit I get from writing is feedback, and it
seems to be tapering off in recent years. If you like it, tell me! If
you don't, tell me why! Leave feedback on Fictionmania (that's best), or
send email to:

edmiller21@yahoo.com

Put "your stories" in the subject line, or I might miss it in all the
junk email I get.

Lastly: I am not retired.  I just seem to have fewer ideas for these
kinds of stories.  I HAVE been writing quite a few captioned images;
check them out at Freya's site if you haven't already:
http://www.pornhome.com/stories/freya



The Monkey's Paw
By Ed Miller

Mooching by Madcap McGee

Another cute little quickie from the Madcapped One!