Damsels
By Melissa Quenya

The path that led toward the rocks passed through verdant greenery, as if to lull a hardened warrior into believing that there was nothing to fear. But Sir Manderley de Haute Devoir knew the truth. He brushed aside the dainty flower with a steel-gloved fist sending a butterfly aloft, and cruelly hacked at a colorful shrub that was barely in his way, sending birds up into the trees. He was on a mission. He had no time for scenery.

But the warm green of life suddenly disappeared as the wall of stone stood only a few feet away from his coned visor. The stone was grey and black as the surcoat of death might be. The rocks were cleaved by a narrow passage. Beside it, on a stone shelf sat a skull. He could see that it was the skull of a young man – younger than him, still fresh enough to be yellow rather than bleached by the sun. The top of the skull was like the passage through the rock, cleaved open by an axe or a broadsword.

Enter and die. The message was clear.

Sir Manderley knew that to turn was to doubt. His quest lay ahead. He may never see green again. Black and grey and perhaps red – the blood of the evil mage, Putinak – God willing.

Not that Sir Manderley had much faith in God, despite the many oaths he had sworn. He had seen too many of the good and faithful die. He put his faith in his sword and his armor, and in daily practice. He spat on the ground. And in his courage, or whatever it was that made him never think about death when it was all about him.

It seems that there was a low mist about his feet as he walked on, like smoke but without that smell. It seemed to carry the odor of rotting flesh. He raised his visor to better see his footing. He had not come this far to fall down a hole.

The cavern that came into view was like the jaws of a savage beast, with stalactites hanging down like a dozen deadly incisors. He saw human bones cast about. This was the lair he had been told about. He was near. Death was near.

Where light could penetrate there was moss on the walls, damp and dark, and giving way to slime, before dry rock was all that he could see, and the passage ahead was illuminated by a strange blue light – clearly the stuff of evil magic.

The passage opened out into a cavern, and dropped down to a stone circle, flat with packed sand. He could see what it was. A killing ground. A place where he might be challenged. There were passages in all directions, and a dozen vantage points where a crossbow bolt might pierce his mail and plate. He could feel eyes upon him. He had no target. He was the target. He enemy would need to come forth.

So, he took off his helm and pulled back his mail hood. It was an invitation. He did not need to shout out – “Show yourself, Wizard!”. Instead, he let the silence speak.

“Name yourself, brave knight!” The voice echoed in the grotto.

Sir Manderley looked for the origin of the voice, and saw the mage standing on a ledge above him. Jagged rocks lay between them, so there was no chance to get close enough to the villain to strike him, had that been the warrior’s intention.

“I am Sir Manderley de Haute Devoir, a knight of the Order of Saint Elmo,” he said, thrusting his chin forward in brave defiance.

“And you have come here to slay me, Sir Manderley?” The face of the mage was twisted in a malevolent smile. It was neither an old nor a young face, with thick angled brows below dark hair flecked with grey, and a forked beard both black and white. The knight could assess his size and the strength of his arm, but he knew that a fight with this creature would not be physical.

As he did not reply, the mage spoke again – “Do you know the fate of intruders to my cavern? You can choose your fate. Death or womanhood. Plenty have chosen the latter.”

“I am aware of your power, Sir, and that it stems from a need to injure the innocent and protect your own life, so I should tell you that I am not here to slay you, but to seek out one of my order who came to this place.”

“Give me the name of this lost knight,” said the mage, if only to humor the man before him.

“Sir Crispin Mountable, a young and impetuous knight of my order, who came here on some heroic quest, as young knights must, I suppose.”

“Ahh, Pinny. She is now my prettiest girl,” said the evil one. “It would amuse me to let you see her know – a youthful combatant now a weak and compliant maid. Let me light the way.”

With a wave of the hand those magic blue lights showed a smooth but winding path through the rocks. Sir Manderley picked up his helmet and ventured forward.

He was aware that the wizard was now behind him, but perhaps by some distance. The illuminated path led through stone portals and open doors and into a large chamber lit with natural light from a wide crack above him, with blue sky visible. There were seven young women there, some sewing and others attending to their beauty or the beauty of another.

They turned to stare at the knight.

“My harem, as the Saracens might say,” said the Mage. “Come forward, pretty Pinny”.

Her long blond hair was being combed by another, and it shone in the light. She was wearing a garment that seemed to be made of cloth from Gaza, so light a weave that her body was visible through it, even though the hem of her dress reached the tiled floor. Sir Manderley could see her full, pert breasts, and even make out a tuft of slightly darker hair above her quinny.

The strange thing was that Sir Manderley could recognize her face. It was the face of Crispin’s sister, had he one. She was startlingly beautiful. There was a stirring in his codpiece.

“Brother knight,” she said. “You should leave this place, or suffer death, or our fate.”

With her dainty hand she indicated the six other maidens about her, all almost as pretty as she was, dressed as she was, shaped as she was. It seemed hard to imagine that all of these women had once been men. Somehow the thought that they once had been seemed to make his member swell even more.

“So, what will it be, Knight,” said the mage. “Death, or shall you join this happy sisterhood? I give you the option.”

“Your powers are great, Wizard, so I did not come unprepared,” said Sir Manderley. He turned to address his enemy who had now walked into his view and towards the women.

“Draw your sword if you must,” said the mage, with a wicked sneer.

“In truth I came here not to kill you but to rescue a maiden, but now I find that I have eight to rescue,” said Sir Manderley, now fingering a charm that hung around his neck.

“Eight? Are you including yourself?”

“I am no maid and never will be, Sir,” said Sir Manderley. “And I am no innocent either. The truth is that I may well be as bad as you. The intentions that motivate my rescue are not honorable. They are driven by the flesh.”

“If you think that my powers cannot work on a sinner, then you are mistaken,” said the mage, for the first time seeming to have become frustrated and impatient. “Let me show you. Be ready to join your sisters and to open your legs a feel and man inside your cunt.”

The mage took a deep breath, drawing in not only air but the blue light that appeared from the air around him. He seemed to grow a little in size, and to acquire a bluish tinge. His power could be felt by all present, and the stream of energy that left his fingers and struck the chest of Sir Manderley was visible to everybody.

But that stream struck the charm lying against the breastplate, causing it to rattle and jump. The stream seemed to jump back, as if reflected as light in a mirror. The mage fell to his knees.

“What magic is this?” squeaked the mage, his voice already change.

“Witchcraft,” said Sir Manderley casually. “I have no powers like you, but as I said I came prepared. It is a reflecting charm. It is put right back upon you, My Lady!”

They all watched as the dark robes around the body of the mage turned to dust, and as the body of this creature contorted while a new shape emerged. His beard disappeared. His hair grew out, thick and dark, breasts started to swell and the prick and sack in his groin disappeared as if pulled back into his body - high inside as her womb formed within.

“We are saved!” said one of the women. “He has no power as a woman. We are saved!”

“Not quite,” said Sir Manderley. “Some might say that the only good in me is honesty, and I spoke the truth to this villain. I said that my intentions were not honorable. I am a person driven by carnal desires, and I have to say that the thought of your Sir Crispin in female form has kept me awake many nights. You are everything I dreamed that you would be.”

He stepped up to Pinny and took off his gauntlet to hold her smooth chin between his strong fingers, and examine her as he might a fresh steed.

“What will become of us,” another woman said.

“Don’t worry. You will all get your turn,” said Sir Manderley. “But for now the fresh one over here with the dark hair deserves my attention … every inch of it.”

The one who had once been a mage cowered before the knight as he revealed his fleshy sword, as long as a dagger, and as wide as a battle-axe handle.

“Be gentle, Sir,” she pleaded.

The End

© Melissa Quenya 2022

There was an inn, less than a league outside the village of Codswallop, in the county of Bogshire, and it was a welcome sight for Sir Marchant Camberley, a well-travelled knight on a tired steed. It was just he and the horse. He had learned from experience to travel light. There was no armor under his surcoat and no squire by his side, yet he seemed to all who might see him pass by a knight clad in steel as befitted his rank. To be clear, he was on a quest and fully recognized the tradition of a knight errant, but he was practical and alone.

He drew his horse to the stable by the inn and tied the reins to a post, then he ventured inside. The patrons were of the local peasantry, so he had no need to engage with them. He sought only the patron of this establishment to find a meal and a cup of ale, a room for the night, and livery for his mount. He saw immediately who the man was, standing at the beer keg, addressing those about like the king of the rats.

“Good sir, I have need of lodgings and stables if you can provide those,” he called out to the man over the hearty noise of common men.

“Draw near, Sir,” the man replied. “We have rooms, clean but humble. I have a mind that you might be a nobleman by your bearing, Sir. I am not sure if it will meet your needs?”

“The sun is an hour gone, good man,” said Sir Marchant. “A knight errant must take his bed where he can. I am sure it will suffice.”

“Ah, a nobleman with a noble cause,” said the landlord. “To wander in search of good deeds to do. The cost will be half a shilling and will include a mug of ale and a bowl of hot meat.”

“I am pleased to pay that, Sir. But do you have any enemies to put down, or beasts to put to death in these parts?” Sir Marchant rummaged in his pouch for a small coin and found it by touch among the scraps of steel mail that passed for a full purse.

“The village has its problems if you wish to visit it on the morrow, Your Lordship, but we have no need of heroes here. Nobility does not often visit my inn unless you want to count the lady in the corner as that. She comes here often enough and speaks in the same manner as you.”

Sir Marchant turned to the direction the landlord was gesturing and saw a small table in the corner, with a hooded figure sitting at it. All he saw was the hand reach out to the glass goblet – it was delicate and pale, and unlike every other hand in the place. This was indeed a lady.

“What is the woman in the corner drinking?” Sir Marchant asked. “I venture that it is not ale.”

“She has purchased and supplied me with a cask of Malmsey wine, just for her and her guests, although she rarely has any,” the publican said. “It comes from Greece, so she says. The heart of civilization now forgotten in these dark times, she says. I don’t drink it myself. Do you?”

“If I can,” he said, without turning from his gaze into that corner. “Bring me the meat, but hold the ale. I will introduce myself to your guest.”

He crossed the room with skill, avoiding any contact despite the cramped spaces and a good number of people. He was nimble and quick and alive by these traits. Within seconds, he was standing over the hooded figure.

“Madam, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Marchant Camberley, of noble family and a knight of the order of Saint Crispin. I find myself in this humble inn for the night, and I wonder if I might seek your company for an hour or so?”

The dainty hand that he had seen pulled back the hood to reveal a woman of startling beauty, even to Sir Marchant, who had seen many women reputed for their looks. Her face was strong, her lips full, and huge blue-green eyes were dressed with thick dark lashes and shaped dark brows. Her long honey and gold hair shimmered in the candlelight.

Her all-covering cloak now fell away to reveal a green dress trimmed in white lace barely constraining the two perfect orbs of her breasts that seemed to quiver in an effort to jump free and into his waiting hands. Sir Marchant was struck dumb.

“Why not?” Her voice was also honey–sweet and slow-flowing.

Seemingly, for the first time, his dexterity abandoned the knight as he fumbled to find a stool to sit at her table. He could only babble – “Thank you, good lady.”

“What is a knight alone doing in these parts?” she asked. “Is there an army to be joined – a war to fight? I know of none anywhere near here.”

“I am a knight without master, on a quest to rid the world of evil wherever I find it,” he spoke well used words while he struggled to find poetry. “And to bask in moments where all the beauty and good in the world can be enjoyed.”

“Are you speaking of me? Did you say your name was Sir Marching Flattery? I assure you that if such sweet words continue, I may find myself seduced.”

“I honor womenkind above all things but God,” said Sir Marchant. “I seek nothing more than your acquaintance, and perhaps your story?”

“Would you join me in taking some wine?” she asked, and at his nod, she raised her glass until the landlord saw it and indicated that a second goblet was required. It soon arrived with a bowl of coarse stew and, curiously, a door key with a piece of white lace tied to it.

“I am sorry. Will you join me in partaking of a meal?” he asked. “Although this would seem too humble for a lady such as yourself.”

“I only eat during the light of day,” she said. It seemed a strange thing for her to say, but Sir Marchant had other thoughts. He was becoming aroused, and his mouth and tongue craved not what was in the earthenware bowl on the table.

“I trust that you will excuse me for my lack of courtly manners, dear lady, but I am a swordsman not a dancer. I prefer to be direct, if I can ask you a question of such nature?”

“I don’t like to dance and I dislike dancers,” was her reply. “I admire directness, and that is not the only feature of you that I find already that I admire.”

So encouraged, he took a large sip of the sweet Malmsey wine and said – “Why are you here in this place?”

“Ah, well, I can only tell you a part of my story,” she sighed. “The fact is that by a curse I am consigned to toils during the daylight hours such as you would never believe, but at night I am free to pursue whatever pleasures I can find. They rarely appear, but then tonight, you sit across the table from me.”

“A curse, you say? Who is the witch or wizard who would do such an awful thing to such a fine lady? I will make it my sworn duty to rid you of this thing.”

She looked at him closely, and said – “Do you have a room here for the night? You need to know me before we go further.”

Sir Marchant was again rendered speechless. Did she mean “know” in the Biblical sense? It seemed too hard to believe. He took his goblet and drained it, then held up the key. She nodded. She rose and led him from the room, under the gaze of the many drinkers still remaining despite the hour.

Clearly, she knew the way. She led him up the stairs to a door and stood back for him to use the key. He stepped forward, at close quarters to her for the first time – close enough to smell her hair – the perfume of lavender and roses. The door opened.

He was in for another surprise. The room was lit with candles in front of a large mirror above a fireplace with logs burning. This was no guest room in an inn but a room set aside for royalty. There was covering on the walls like red velvet, a large wardrobe and dressing table as one might find in a mansion house, and a large double bed.

“It seems that I have been given the bridal suite,” said Sir Marchant.

She simply smiled. She undid her cloak and let it fall to the floor and then set about working free the buttons on her bodice.

“Don’t just stand there, man,” she said to him. “I can see that your codpiece is horizontal. Get those clothes off. You are about to have the night of your dreams.”

He awoke in the same bliss as he had left the world the night before. The lowest rays of the morning sun shone against the door, the most humble feature of the room. He rolled towards her, but she was gone. Only the perfume remained and the small stain of lovemaking. It seemed for a moment that everything may have been a dream. But he saw the green dress and the cloak folded on the dresser.

He stood and put on his long shirt to survey the room. In the daylight, it was clear that the room was in use. The wardrobe and the dresser were full of women’s clothes – her clothes. He had been passed the key to her room. The window faced the morning sun, and on the next wall was another door – he opened it in the hope that it might be a privy where he could find the woman who had changed his life.

Instead, the door led directly outside – another entrance and exit, with outside stairs leading to a path past a small shed and into the woods. Somehow, he knew that was where she must be.

He donned his clothes and took up his materiel. He decided that he must find the publican and demand answers.

He went down the stairs and called out for attention at the counter where he had been served the night before. After a few minutes, the landlord appeared, looking as if he had shared much ale with his customers before retiring.

“I have questions for you, Sir, about the lady I met last night, and why you gave me the key to her room.”

But before the man could answer, the door at the front of the inn burst open and in stepped a man in clothing of some quality.

“Are you Sir Marchant Camberley?” the stranger asked.

“I am he,” said Sir Marchant.

“Word of your arrival reached the village of Codswallop last night, and I ride here this morning to call for your assistance, as we understand that you are a knight errant sworn to protect the innocent and defenseless.”

“That is my oath, Sir. Pray sit and tell me of your problem and how I may be of service.”

The man took a seat and recovered his breath, saying – “Our good village is being preyed upon by an ogre, good knight. He is a fearsome and ugly creature who has killed those locals who challenged him with his bare hands. We have sought assistance from experienced fighters, but all three of them have been cudgeled to death by this beast who wields a club against the sword.”

“To me, this sounds like the mission that fate has led me to,” said Sir Marchant. “While I don my armor, pray go to the stable and ask for my horse. You may need to throw a penny at the groom attending there.”

He gathered together his equipment and set about preparing himself as he had done many times before, mainly for small tourneys in search of a prize, but occasionally in the service of a minor noble or a town clerk.

They rode together, he and his caller, and they reached the village in short order. They were told by terrified villagers that the ogre was ransacking a nearby public house, drinking the ale and molesting the women.

Sir Marchant dismounted and gave the reins to his companion. He tightened the straps of the armor on his forearms and shoulders before walking towards the alehouse. He held his helmet in his left hand and exercised with his sword as he walked before throwing both in the air to swap hands and exercise with the sword in his left. He pushed the door open to the smell of blood and beer.

In the darkness of the bar, he could see the huge creature with a full-grown man in each hand as if they were made of straw. He was dressed roughly and had a huge nose and jaw, and ears that stuck of his head like wingnuts.

“Foul creature!” called out Sir Marchant. “Unhand those men and step outside to do battle, if you have any honor at all!”

“Come in here if you want to fight me,” grunted the ogre, with spittle coming forth from the F. “As for these toys, I have no need of them now that I have such a bright and shiny thing to play with.” Both men were dropped to the floor and managed to scurry away. This left only the two of them in the room, although there were people watching at the windows, none of them expecting Sir Marchan to prevail.

“Take up your weapon, Demon, for my sword is sharp as a razor and as fast as a flash!” Sir Marchant moved his balance from one foot to the other.

The Ogre moved across the room with apparent disregard of the knight, and recovered his crude basher from where he had left it. He checked it for grip and headed towards his challenger. “You have interrupted my pleasures, little knight,” he said. “You will pay the ultimate price for that.”

For all those at the windows who expected to see a battle of equals, they were about to be disappointed. The entire affray was over in mere seconds, for the ogre must have been three times the size of the knight. All that the knight had was nimbleness, and with that size and weight can be turned on its head. The ogre charged, and suddenly, the man standing in front of the ogre with a blade was standing behind with the pommel of his sword slammed with deadly accuracy into the sweet spot above the left ear. The ogre fell to the floor with a crash.

The crowd with a view gasped.

“Run him through!” somebody shouted.

“I will not do that until he has answered for his crimes,” cried out Sir Marchant. Do we have chains and a place where he can be held and questioned as to his origins and his evil deeds?”

The man who had brought him to the village spoke of the old bear pit behind the fortress and the chains that still lay there.

“Some of you help me to carry this monster and to bind him. He will remain insensible for perhaps an hour or two, and I must sit with him alone until he does. If he comes to and escapes, I will kill him, but I will see nobody risk their lives. Come, grab an arm or a leg. And when he is restrained, bring me food and ale. I know not how long it will take for him to awaken.”

With some difficulty, the large creature was taken to the bear pit and placed in irons, with the blacksmith driving the hot pins through. They laid the creature out on the ground and set up a chair for Sir Marchant beyond the length of the chain with a bottle of ale and bread and cheese.

It was late afternoon before the ogre stirred. He blinked at looked towards Sir Marchant, trying to bring into focus the details of his situation. To assist him in this the knight threw over a wet cloth that the beast slapped against his temple. He grunted – “How did you do that?”

“The arrow is small and thin, and loves a big target,” said the knight with a sly grin. “I have questions for you, and time to wait for the answers.” He tore off some bread and cheese and took a swig of ale. His guess was that the creature was driven by appetite and that watching him eat would be torture enough.

“I do not have that time and neither do you,” the ogre said. “I beg you good knight, please release me from these chains. I swear to you that this is true – if I am not allowed to flee before the sun goes down then I will transform into something that will tear the heart right out of your chest.”

Sir Marchant threw back his head and laughed. “I do not fear you, foul animal. I have defeated you in this form and will slay you in the next.”

“Then kill me now,” the creature spat in fury.

“I will not strike you dead while you stand in chains before me,” said Sir Marchant. “That would be a dishonor that I could not bear. You have a story to tell when you are hungry enough to tell it, and I will listen. And then I will free you right arm and throw you a weapon and we fight to the death.”

“I cannot kill you, knight. And soon you will understand that you cannot kill me either.” The ogre slumped back against the stone wall that anchored the chains.

The sun sank into the west and Sir Marchant used a flint to light a torch of cloth and pitch, that could be placed in a ring on the wall. With vague amusement he turned to see the ogre in the throes of some kind of fit. He seemed to squirm and shake, and it looked as if the muscles and even the bones under his skin hand become like eels in the stomach of dead horse. In disbelief the knight watched as the ogre transformed and to his disbelieving dismay, he watched the new form take shape in front of his eyes.

It was her. It was the beautiful woman he had been in bed with that very morning. She stood there in all her fragile beauty, naked in the flickering light of the torch, the cuffs of her chains falling away from her slim wrists onto the oversized garments of the ogre that now lay about her fragile feet.

“Sir Marchant, please forgive me,” she cried out. “In the form of the ogre I am driven to do the most monstrous things. I must challenge and defeat men in combat, even as the good person I am within struggles not to cause hurt. I am cursed to be powerless but to see and watch all the evil being done by his hoary hands. I was cursed by a witch, you see. This is my burden. I am only my true self at night.”

She stood still and Sir Marchant drew close, finally reaching out to touch her beautiful hair and her smooth skin to see if she was real.

“Fair lady, you are cursed indeed. I now understand why you would say my heart was in danger. I feel the pain in it now. What can we do, you and I?”

“It is said that true love will always defeat a curse, but now that you know what I am, I cannot expect that love from you,” she said, with a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Madam, if a sword will not resolve this then let us ask cupid for an arrow,” he said. And with that he took her into his arms, and he kissed her deeply.

They made love, lying in the garments of the ogre, with the knight’s garments cast aside in the passion.

“Could this be true love?” she asked.

“You have stolen my heart, that is for sure,” he said.

“And you have mine,” she said. “You had it last night, I think. But maybe it needs to be both of us?”

They fell asleep in one another’s arms and although both of them had resolved that they would wake before dawn, just in case, neither did. For the first time he woke to see the light of day strike her beautiful face. The curse was broken.

“We need to get you clothes,” he said. “Where are the clothes that you wore last night?”

“I have a house in the woods not far from the inn where we first met,” she said. “In the form of the ogre I could cover the ground quickly before dusk and dawn, but I think that we will need to take your horse. If you agree I will don your surcoat in the meantime. I will carry your name upon me, as if I were your wife.”

“Perhaps you will be soon enough,” said Sir Marchant.

They headed for the stables and found his horse. He mounted it and then lifted her into the saddle in front of his. She placed her arms around his neck.

“Now that the curse is broken, I should be honest with you,” she said. “I have only spoken one lie to you. It was a witch who cursed me, but my original form was the ogre. After I raped a witch, she cursed me to live my nights in female form driven to seduce men.”

She could feel his body stiffen. She was wracked with fear. She said – “But I swear, as much as I barely believe it myself, our love is true, and this is how I wish to stay – as a woman … your woman. You are my lord and my master. All that I have will be yours, and I can tell you that in my days of violence there are many treasure in my cottage in the woods. Perhaps your days of wandering might be over? All I ask is you to fuck me as often as you can.”

“It would be my honor and my duty, my love,” said he. He kept this promise for the years that followed..

But although he had never done so before, he always slept beside Lady Camberley with a dagger under his pillow … just in case.

The End
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