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

Revenge: A Story of Pleasure Island

  

By Christopher Leeson

Version date 01-03-15

Dean Fontain was too wild for his sedate parents to control. But their neighbors, the Boelkes, recognized what their friends were going through and told them about the secret that had changed their lives: the secret of Pleasure Island. What the Fontains learned that night astonished them and they couldn't help but think that their neighbors were playing a bad joke. They were actually saying that their pretty and well-behaved daughter Carla used to be a very bad boy, Carl.

"That's ridiculous," said Mrs. Fontain. "I remember when you brought that precious little girl home from the hospital eighteen years ago."

Mrs. Boelke shook her head and almost smiled. "There's magic involved. The first time you saw Carl as a girl, the enchantment he brought from Pleasure Island put false memories into your mind. We remember what really happened because the island people give parents a protective charm, but everyone else sees no change when a boy comes back different. Because of the spell you can't remember how badly Carl behaved, and even that you complained that he was tempting your Dean into so much trouble.”

“No,” replied Mr. Fontain curtly, “we certainly don't remember anything like that.”

"It's all true," said Mr. Boelke. The neighbors then offered to let the Fontains wear their charms overnight, telling them that the enchanted metal would take away all their false memories. Dean’s parents thought the idea was silly, but still something made them both go along with the joke. But by morning they knew that it was no joke. The charms had worked like, well, like a charm. They had awakened up knowing everything about Carl Boelke. The pair immediately went over to their friends’ home.

Carla was there with them, finishing the breakfast dishes. She was a pretty, upbeat teen who usually dressed in a way that would catch the attention of the neighborhood boys. It was hard for the Fontains not to stare, now remembering what a sour loudmouth Carl Boelke had been.

To get some privacy for her visitors, Carla's mother gave the girl some money to spend at the ice cream shop. A minute later, Carla had gone out the door and the four adults were left free to confer.

"How did you find out about Pleasure Island?" Mrs. Fontain asked.

"A friend at the hospital told me," replied her neighbor. "She had a boy who was hooked up with drug dealers and she had found out about Pleasure Island just in time to save him. Now he's a cheerleader who's doing well in school."

Mr. Fontain reached into his pocket and handed back the charms. "These things took the wool away from our eyes. We'd give almost anything if Dean were just as well behaved as your Carla is, even if it means that we have to exchange a son for a daughter. But can't the Island people fix a boy's bad personality without changing his sex, too?"

"All I'm sure of is that there's a good reason why they don’t want to do it that way. A sexual reversal gives off an energy that they call mana and they're able to capture and store it for use later. A gender change is actually not what they're after; it’s just a by-product of the mana-harvesting."

Mr. Fontain frowned. "What exactly is mana?"

Mr. Boelke looked at him very seriously. "All we know is what we've been told. Mana is what magic is made of, and it's also the energy that makes some babies develop into males in the womb. Developing infants who don't have the mana-absorbing gene are born female. Have you see films about how a boy and girl fetus look exactly the same until after a period of development? They develop into different sexes because the baby with the mana-gene is drawing in mana that enables its development into a male. 

"Remove that energy from a male, even when he is fully grown, and he will go to the human default form, female. Younger males have the most potent mana, so the wizards do all they can to recruit mana donors at a young age. But not at too young an age, because exploiting children is against another one of their rules. With parental consent, they can take the mana from an older child, because Pleasure Island has a law that says that a child is not a legal adult until twenty-one. If on Pleasure Island, a contract with the parents or legal guardian is makes donation without the boy's consent legal to to that age of maturity. They are not very much interested in taking mana from males over twenty-one for some reason."

"Hiring wizards must be expensive," Mr. Fontain suggested.

“Not very,” said Mr. Boelke.

This surprised the other couple. “Are you saying that they don’t care about money because because what they are really after is the mana?" asked Mrs. Fontain.

“It seems so. In fact, I've heard that they can make gold out of lead; money means little to them. They want mana."

"You're lucky that Carla turned out to be so pretty," Mrs. Fontain said. "I felt so sorry for the homely girls at my old school. They always seemed either angry or sad. A lot of the angry ones became feminists."

 

Going Native by Perspikay and Friend!

Hi all, this is a collaborative story I wrote with my friend Perspikay! If you like it and wanna read more work like it, check out her DA at http://perspikay.deviantart.com
---
Going Native

The room was charged with joviality as the guests mingled and mixed with each other, cocktail glasses clenched tightly as the champagne popped and flowed, the dulcet sound of the harpist playing a lullaby to the museum’s newest acquisition. But even as the bodies milled around him, all Professor Sienkiewicz could do was gently adjust his glasses as he gazed up in astonishment at the enormous totem that loomed above them. He’d never dreamed he’d be able to see it in the flesh. 12 feet of magnificent, polished obsidian shone and glimmered in the gallery’s soft lighting, every angle and corner designed to guide the eye across the ivory relief figures that embedded themselves on it’s surface. He blushed as he gawked at multitudes of sculpted women, their exaggerated impossible forms exhibiting massive hips and bulbous breasts - and occasionally - gravid pregnant bellies, clearly denoting some sort of hyper fertility. They were all frozen in some sort of dance, a ritual, around a ferocious male figure at the centre of the totem, his enormous member towering over a woman who was kneeling low in supplication, his own groin tingling slightly..

    “Wow.” a voice next to him gasped. “It’s so… expressive.”

    He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t noticed Janice’s presence. He whipped around to find his favourite student gawking up at the totem with the same look of hushed reverence on her face, absently twisting her ponytail around her finger. When he’d been invited to help the museum curate the Kerezala Totem for the gala, he couldn’t help but bring her along as well. She’d spent years researching her thesis on the Mutabwe people, their sudden flourishing golden age and mysterious collapse.

    “I still can’t believe it’s real.” Janice said. “I mean I’ve seen the pictures, but to actually see it face to face.. a totem from the Mutabwe high period this well preserved.. Just look at the details on the figures! The poses feel like they’re leaping out at me, they look so realistic despite all the exaggerations.”

     “Yes. it’s breathtaking.” The Professor answered. “I didn’t think any still existed.”

    “What do those characters around the base of the totem say..?”

    “It was some sort of proverb, I think. “The strong will grow stronger while the lesser will quench their hunger” His eyes darted back to the central figure and his lips tightened into a barely hidden smirk. “I have a few guesses as to what it means.”

    “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Hannah giggled as she butted in between the two of them and sipped on her glass of champagne. “Honey, you need to tear your eyes off that statue for more than a minute. This is a party, remember? You two look like zombies standing there!”

    For a moment Professor Sienkiewicz was stunned at the contrast between his wife and the student, her t-shirt and jeans making a night and day difference with Hannah’s dignified little black dress. Yet, she was always so alive and perky at these sorts of events, she even looked younger, the glow of excitement evident in her face, her own enjoyment of events like these shining through her. They’d met on a dig site years ago, back when he’d still been active in the field himself - the bright, attractive girl asking him question after question about whatever relics he’d had to hand, showing genuine interest in his work. Together they’d made a perfect match - his knowledge and research, allied to her own interest and growing knowledge as well as her enjoyment of social events like this, had been the main reason he’d managed to get this appointment in the first place, and create the collection that he had. It was as much her baby as his.

     She deftly hooked her lithe arm around her husband’s and tugged insistently. “C’mon honey.”  She grinned. “There’s some people I want you to meet.” With a gentle look of resignation the Professor stumbled along attached to his wife, looking back at his student glibly waving at the two of them and chuckling to herself. “Have fun, sir” she smiled, before turning back and circling the totem to inspect it closer, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned in.

    There was a large mix of academia and upper crust society populating the gala, even though it had been intended to be a small function, the guest list had unwittingly ballooned out of control. But it was the first guest on the list that Hannah beelined for, the man who the totem was on loan from and who had originally acquired it for his private collection. Barrel chested and tall, he cut a strong figure for a man in his late 50’s, his silvery hair well matched to his dark olive complexion. His hands gesturing extravagantly as he expounded to the small group of guests trying to hide their boredom, Basil Kinnock (or “sir” Kinnock - the professor could never remember how those titles worked ) the old familiar story drifted through the room to the Professor’s ears. He, of course, had been intimately involved in every step of the process, finding, cataloguing, researching; there had been no step of the totem’s journey from desert sands to its position at rest on the high podium which hadn’t involved him to some degree. Inwardly he scoffed. Oh, in appearance he was everything the public might think of when asked to imagine an elder statesman of archaeology, still active in the field, but if his actual work was anything like the time he’d put in with the Professor the only time he had dust on his boots was when he’d left them to rest stored away in a cupboard somewhere. Not that he would risk a blemish on those expensive Italian loafers.

    “Ahh! Kieran!” Basil shouted to the professor as he reluctantly drifted to the front of the crowd. “And Hannah. It’s truly an honour to be blessed with not one, but two of the most preeminent experts in the Mutabwe culture. Besides myself, of course.”

    “Mmhmm, we’re very grateful you invited us, Sir Kinnock. The only reason my husband hasn’t had the time to thank you already is because he was so busy studying the artefact.” Hannah groaned. “I practically had to drag him away from the thing.”

    “Now now, it’s not every day one gets to be exposed to a fully preserved Mutabwe Totem!” Basil exclaimed bombastically. “Though with such a fine creature on his arm it’s quite curious how Kieran could find the time to tear himself away.”

    Hannah tittered nervously at his compliment, butterflies forming in her stomach as she took another long sip of the cool red wine. She’d been feeling the usual giddiness that heralded any evening like this, even before she’d entered the room, but after she saw the totem she’d been feeling truly ecstatic. The totem was going to revolutionize her field of study and she had Basil to thank for it, even if he would take all the credit. She shifted on her high heels slightly as he leaned in to take her tiny hand in his own, before shaking Kieran’s forcefully.

    “Well then, now that you’ve had your inspection, what do you two think the totem was meant to symbolize?”

    “Well..” Hannah said. “It seems that it’s clearly used in some sort of fertility ritual, most likely entailing a, well, orgy of some sort.” She blushed. “The inscription at the bottom seems to imply that the central figure is divinely powerful, holding command over and providing nourishment to the women that please him.”
   
    Basil seemed pleased with this explanation, when the Professor began to speak. “An alternative theory we’ve also been working on is that the inscription is a warning, the central male being some sort of demonic figure, a spirit of unchained lust who feeds off the souls of the weak. Only by being appeased is the demon sated, keeping him at bay.”

    Kinnock rubbed his chin and went silent for a moment, before breaking into a beaming grin. “Both of these interpretations would answer so many of the questions we have about the Mutabwe culture! I do hope you’ll stay on and continue studying the totem. It really is quite fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Truthfully, I know I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of it!” Laughing softly, Hannah tossed her head back towards the display, at the younger girl still studying it. “It’s just so interesting!” The Professor chuckled inwardly, his wife’s curiosity and interest still so strong even after all these years.

    “Well, I don’t want to tie up either of you too much! Please, go and enjoy yourselves! The totem and all of the study it entails will still be here when the party finishes!” The man grinned, slapping Kieran on the shoulder with his thick hand. The two of them looked at each other and smiled dreamily as they wandered back off into the crowd, Basil turning back to speak to some other dilettante who’d bother to listen to his story.   

******************************************************

As the night went on, the alcohol began to flow more generously and freely. The pale cheeks of the attendants turned rosy and bright in the sterile air of the gallery, the wine increasing both in volume and quantity. Kieran was himself nursing a half drunk martini glass in his hand as his wife slumped her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He could catch a glimpse of his favourite pupil giggling into her drink at the bar, her ponytail somewhat messy and yet neatly curled around her neck. It seemed like the atmosphere of the entire party had been slowing down into a calm and drunken stupor. Even the harpist was beginning to haphazardly miss notes as she tugged at the stringed instrument, her bemused face giving her a tipsy air.

In the centre of the room, Basil stood, his raised voice still continuing on his favourite theme, interrupted now and then by the giggles of the small group that stood around him, listening intently.

As the Professor and his Wife slow danced to the sound of the harp stringing them along, they both waltzed past the totem, the obsidian looking for all the world as if it was sparkling. Hannah’s lidded eyes perked up as she gazed across the slutty figures playing with each other on the totem, smirking as her eyes drifted to the appalling ivory cock poking out so rudely. Suddenly she felt...really thirsty. She lazily twirled her fingers in circles on the back of Kieran’s neck as she giggled.

“Kieerraannn.. Get me a drink.”

“Get it yourself.”

“Poo, you’re no fun!” Hannah chuckled as she pushed Kieran away, her tipsy husband almost losing his balance for a moment as she tried to make her way over to the bar. It was just that her heels were so high and her dress was clinging so tightly to her sweaty body, forcing her to mince and strut with every step she took. It didn’t help that her dress was also so very short, letting everyone see the exposed camel toe on her panties as she swished and swayed across the room.

Janice waved a lazy hand as the other woman stepped up to the bar next to her. “Hi! This is such a great party, i’m having so much fun!” Hannah slumped on the bartop, grinning over at the girl. Suddenly she just felt so top-heavy… maybe she had had too much to drink after all. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying it!” Her hand drifted slowly over to hold the other girl’s. “My husband always said you were his best student, so of course we had to invite you to come!” Behind the bar, the young bartender slid two more glasses over, Hannah greedily grabbing hers to poor the cool liquid down her throat. Beside her she heard the choking sound change to a giggle, Janice’s strained t-shirt dribbling with red wine that has missed her mouth. “Oopsie.”


    Hannah smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You know, in ancient cultures, being so eager that you spill some food or drink was a sign of how much you were enjoying yourself.” Under her eyes, one drip of the crimson liquid rolled across the small dark stain, on the crest of the round chest beneath it. “If you want, you could always go in the back somewhere, i’m sure I have some old clothes you could change into if you wanted lying around here somewhere!”

    “No, it’s ok.” Her finger dipping to collect the drop, all three women’s eyes followed it as it became an unconscious little caress, a stiff peak rising to poke out of the material. “It’s only a cultural thing, right? I mean, so are clothes, too. I could be completely naked if I really wanted!” The new wine glass quickly placed served just right to salve Hannah’s dry throat. “Has anyone ever told you how.. how young you look? I mean, for your age. You could probably pass as my sister!”

Hannah almost choked into her drink as well, but managed to gracefully down the wine in a fluid gulp. “Oh hush, don’t tease me like that. I’m old enough to be your mother.” Janice just grinned and twirled her lengthening ponytail around her fingers. “I’m serious! You look amazinngg~. Hee hee, this whole conversation is reminding me about all those weird anomalies about Mutabwe culture.” Hannah pursed her lips and ordered another drink. “You mean like how after the high period the Mutabwe seemed to just abandon clothes?”

Janice nodded eagerly as if her head was on a swivel. “Yeah! Or how after a while the only remains that are found are just breeding age females. It’s like, where did all the men go? Or the older women and stuff? Spooky right?” Hannah just rolled her eyes and arched her back, her dress barely straining to encapsulate her swelling bust. “Those are just myths Jan, they wouldn’t stand up to any academic rigour. We just haven’t found enough samples yet.”

“I know, right, I mean, how could a culture get by without any men? It just wouldn’t work.” Eyes glazed slightly as she put her glass back on the bartop. “They couldn’t go without… I mean, it makes no sense.”

Rebecca Molay's Retirement

If you haven't heard....Rebecca Molay, a prolific authoress of the genre, retired suddenly yesterday.  Her site is down and her captions scratched.  Apparently someone was threatening to expose who she was to people she knew.

From Christopher Leeson

"I hope people are enjoying my continuing novel, The Spellcaster's Heiress. I'll be sorry when we reach the end. But my main reason for writing is to say that I have just posted a revision of my TFTGS story "The Dark of the Moon." It should read better than before, and I have changed most of the pictures, to make them better and more appropriate to the story. If anyone has liked the story enough to download it, I recommend that they download the new repost."

Thanks Everyone:) Could Really Use Some Help... I Haven't Found Any Yet!

If anybody reading this wants to submit something, I'd love to see it.  I rarely find anything online which I find suitable to publish anymore.  Bit of a sad state of affairs.

Thank god for Chris's stuff and thank god you guys seem to enjoy it, judging by the steady activity we get around the first/second week of every month when he posts!

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 14

 

 

By Christopher Leeson 


FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
After Ceann fled from the scene of torture, I had followed  her, believing that she needed to talk.

"I hate this,” my former mistress said.   “Why won't he just answer the questions?"

I shook my head.   "He expects to be murdered, no matter what he says or does."

She looked into my eyes.  "And is he right?"

I shrugged.

Ceann looked at the moon, now sagging into the western skyline. "You're strong, like Rodin,” she said.

I sighed.  “If I'm as strong as Rodin, that's because that's who I am.”

“I know.   But things are different now.   There's something that seems so wrong about a woman torturer.”

I frowned.  “If you mean me, I haven't touched the fellow.”

“But you would, if you had to.   I can kill, and you know that I have killed, but...   I mean, causing as much pain as possible before...killing...makes me feel dirty.”

"You don't have to....”

She turned swiftly and stared into my face.  "Yes I do!" she insisted.   "If I ever stop feeling dirty about things like this, it will be the day that I die.”

I felt sorry for the girl.   I hadn't been able to protect her the expedience of staining her hands with enemy blood.   I had worried that performing homicide would change her, and I suppose that she had changed in some ways, but I hadn't stopped loving her.   “No,” I gently disagreed.   “You wouldn't die.”

“I don't mean that I'd die physically.  But I think something inside would die.   Weren't you different yourself, before you had to...?”

“I don't doubt that I was,” I answered with a shrug.   “Maybe that's a good thing.   Maybe you wouldn't have cared for the callow boy that I used to be.”

She shifted again and leaned back against the porch support.   “I wish that we had met back then, when we were two different people.   You a callow boy, and me, whatever I was....   I don't deserve to have any good things happen to me.   Maybe I've already lost myself, maybe there's no way to ever be made clean again.   Sometimes I think that my parents are looking down on me with shame.”  Ceann turned her face away, as if it were a mirror to her soul that I should not gaze into.

I sank back against the rail.  Sometimes I, too, missed the person -- the better person -- whom I once had been.   When had he slipped away?   I don't think it was during my guards training, nor when I had been learning at the feet of Cawdour.   It must have happened after I took the responsibility decide whom should live and whom should die.  

Suddenly, Ceann was speaking again.   "Will you kill...this one...even if he tells you what you want?"  As things stood, should our captive die, his blood would stain her hands as scarlet as the men's.

"I'm not sure," I said.   "Maybe he deserves it.   We don't know anything about him.”   I didn't like to kill honest soldiers, even if they served the enemy.

Ceann stepped away, becoming more remote, gazed out over the street.   "I know what you mean.  We all deserve to die, for something or other.   It is so easy to make ourselves undeserving to live."

"Not you."

She looked back at me.  "Myself as much as anyone else.   Rodin, aren't we always trying to do the right thing?   How can so many right actions become so wrong?  How did our road grow to be so cruel and dark?"

“Maybe it's not our fault,” I ventured.   “Maybe if we had the luxury of fighting decent people, we could stay decent, too.”

That was the root of it all.   I so much wanted it to be someone else's fault -- someone else's fault that I had become the person that my parents couldn't have recognized.

But if I could blame Harouck for my fall, who could Ceann blame?

Could she -- should she -- blame me?

* * * *

THE ROOT OF IT ALL