A Genie Story (Squire to Genie TFTG)

I hear you like genie TFTG stories! Well, enjoy this new Premium tier ongoing story! Hope you like it : )

By FoxFaceStories

A Commission for CreepyJ

It is the Siege of Antioch in the First Crusade, and the young squire Richomer is following his master knight’s example in raiding the city after it has fallen. But when he takes a valuable bottle, ignoring a woman’s warning, he is shocked when he opens it and he is instead transformed into an attractive Arabic djinni! The new djinn must grapple with her changed gender, species, and powers as she hopes for a master to let her out.

Next Part

A Genie Story

Part 1: The Bottle

The city had fallen for good. The crusaders cheered as they stormed through the streets of Antioch, proclaiming the greatness of their God as they triumphed over their Muslim foes. The enemy was routed, and after bloody fighting the numerous knights and military forces of Christendom were making their way through the streets, pillaging and taking what they wanted, revelling in their glorious victory with the further spilling of blood, and the taking of precious gold. 

“Kerboghha’s relief force is defeated!” Knight Lothar announced happily to his squire Richomer. “That’s the second relief force crushed, and the Seljuks will not be able to muster another! Ha! Soon we shall be on our way to the Holy Land in full, now that this foothold is established.”

Richomer beamed with excitement. He knew he was merely a squire, a boy of twenty from a minor Frankish family, red in the cheeks and with sun-kissed red hair, but standing by his master he felt anything but small. The final defenders of the inner city were surrendering, exiting their towers and gates to be put in chains or sold away. The Seljuk menace still had a powerful might, but they had been dealt three crushing blows now: the loss of the outer city, and the defeat of two relief armies. Antioch was finally in the hands of the great crusaders, and he was here to witness it.

“It’s astonishing,” Richomer said to his knight as Lothar grabbed a tankard from a passing servant. They were heading past a tavern, and the local olive-skinned wenches were celebrating the victory as much as they. The city had retained a large God-fearing population, after all. The Christian God, that was. “I truly feel as if we have made a difference, sir. We are now crusaders! Crusading knights!”

Lothar chugged down his drink and threw away the metal tankard before belching. He had never been the most . . . well-mannered of knights, but he was the best that Richomer’s family could set him up with to learn the nature of knighthood. 

“Ah, my boy! You’re still young and naive. Trust me, the best is yet to come.”

“Oh, of course. I know now that we shall conquer Jerusalem and reclaim it in God’s name!”

Again Lothar laughed, though he still made the sign of the cross out of some superstitious habit. “Ah, yes, of course, of course. But I’m not talking about that, squire. I’m talking about far more exciting matters. Look at all the celebrators, look at our cheering comrades-in-arms . . . and look at what they are doing!”

Richomer’s eyes widened as he realised what Lothar was gesturing to across the sun-scorched streets of the citadel. Several knights, still wearing the banner of the cross, were breaking into local shops, shoving aside women, and taking what merchant goods they desired.

“We should stop th-”

But Lother pulled Richomer back before the squire could even draw his shortsword. “Don’t be an imbecile, boy! It’s right and natural. It’s the right of conquest for ordinary soldiers and even noble knights - or squires - like ourselves to relieve the locals of some possessions. Sacking a city is a tale as old as time, young one, and this is not even a sack. Not even a pillage, really!”

“But sir, it is unChristian to do such a thing. To thieve is to break one of the sacred ten commandments and -”

Lothar fixed him with a stare, and it left Richomer to wither before it. The squire had grown athletic and fit during his long marches and aid to his knight, but Lothar was a larger man still, broad and cantankerous at times, though thankfully never violent. 

“Boy, you have a lot to learn. This isn’t stealing, it’s taking payment from the locals. We’re getting the reward for cleansing this city of the Muslim invaders and liberating it properly. Look at the hired Norman filth; they loot far worse than the rest of us, and they call us the uncivilised ones! Now come, I’ll show you what’s what and let you enjoy your first bit of looting. We aren’t getting greedy, just supporting ourselves for the long marches and needs of a warrior’s life. If you’re timid, we won’t even take you by a brothel-”

“I’ve known a woman’s touch!” Richomer said, somewhat defensively. He blushed immediately after, though thankfully the hot sun had burned his skin somewhat to make it less obvious.

“Aye, that girl you did the prayers for. The fishwife’s daughter back home.”

A further bush. It was more obvious now. “Aye. I knew it was a sin, but I’m also a man.”

“The same applies here then, lad. Come. I’ll show you what I mean.”

He did, and over the next hour, Richomer felt he came to understand what his master meant. Lothar was a crude man, but not a particularly cruel one. He ventured over to merchant stalls and into local shops and made it clear by his mere presence that he was here to take. Several locals tried to argue otherwise or beg him not to, sometimes even using crude translations, but he would push them lightly aside and take what goods he desired; gold and silver coins mostly, but also small decorative items, jewels and jewellery, and fine silks.

“Never too much from one place lad,” he cautioned when Richomer dared to take coins from a counter himself. He gestured to a man who owned the store, whose expression radiated hatred. “Don’t want to get gutted by a local. Only take enough that they’re resentful, but not more than that.”

It was wise advice, and something about the practicality of it made their actions easier to stomach, because soon their looting ramped up. All of Antioch’s crusaders were celebrating, and many of the local Muslim populace were suffering for it, their shops being easy targets, including by Richomer and Lothar. That also made it easier to accept; these people were the enemy, were they not? Indeed, just thinking along those lines allowed him greater moral flexibility than he’d ever allowed himself, and soon he was taking treasures with relish, adding them to his sack, and gesturing to the cross over his cuirass whenever a local non-believer in Christ complained.

“We should split up,” he said as they left a shop, heading further into the interior of  Antioch. “We can get more if we do so.”

Lothar gave a great belly laugh and slapped him on the back. “Ho! The boy has spirit! Where are your Christian morals?”

“It . . . isn’t immoral to take from those who spurn God. Theirs is the far greater sin.”

Lothar grinned. “Whatever lets you have an excuse. Very well. We’ll meet back here when the sun hits the edge of the tower there. See it? Good. We’ll be much wealthier, lad, and deserving of it too! Trust me, you’ll be a changed man!”

***

The shop looked finer than the others, and judging from the Arabic - or was it Turkic? - script upon the wall, the owners were rightful targets. At least, that’s how Richomer judged it. He tried to enter through the door but found it locked, the owners clearly anticipating looting across the city in celebration. This was no matter; he simply took his shortsword and used it to smash open the window boards, entering easily through there instead. Something had awakened in the young man. It was akin to the sensation of being in battle against the Seljuk  Turks for the first time: when the blood was up, he had truly felt as if he were a man and a warrior. He’d never experienced that rush before, but this was certainly enough to replicate a part of it. He stormed through the shop, and was amazed to see just how refined and expensive its wears were. Numerous items; jugs, bottles, amphorae, glasses, cups, and so forth, all lined various shelves. Many of them were crafted from glass, lined with gold and silver and other fine metals, their embroidery and engravings incredibly fine. He instantly began grabbing some of the smaller items and shoving them inside his bag.

“No! No! You cannot do this thing!”

He swivelled around, drawing his sword, but felt himself a fool; only an old woman with dark, wrinkled skin was there, dressed in the garb of a local. Clearly the owner or the wife of the owner of the shop, or perhaps the owner’s mother. It mattered little to him.

“Relax, old woman,” he said, trying to keep his voice deep. “I am only taking a few items as payment for the crusade. It will go to a good cause.”
 Even he felt that was a lie too far.

But the woman just shook her head, gesturing to the bottle that was in his hand. He had grabbed it from behind the counter, easily shattering the lock with the hilt of his sword. It was easily the finest item he had ever seen up close, the kind of thing he imagined in the chamber or displays of a king, not some random merchant woman's store. The glass had been stained purple, the very colour of royalty, and it was wreathed in bands of what had to be gold and silver, with writing that was most certainly Arabic engraved along their lengths. Something smokey seemed to coil within the bottle, like a miniature storm. It held him briefly captivated, though he knew it could not be magic. Only God could measure out such things.

“You cannot take that one!” the woman repeated in a croaky voice. “You will regret it! It is empty of djinn! It has the old magic of the desert! It was to be sold to a Seljuk princess, as thanks for-”

He held up his hand to indicate for her to stop speaking. “For a Seljuk princess, hm? Well, then this would very much help the crusade for her not to have it.”

“You do not understand, child. She was meant to ascend and serve her master! It is impossible to explain. She would be djinn!”

Richomer snorted. He could barely understand the woman’s accent, but whatever word she was using was entirely unfamiliar to him. What was familiar was the sound of other crusaders running through the streets, hollering and half-drunk and looking to make trouble. While the looting occurred, many of his comrades were no longer allies, but competition. He grabbed the bottle, still part-mesmerised by its strangeness, and stuffed it into his sack.

“Child, you know not what you do!” the woman claimed. “Do not open it! Especially alone by yourself! Let it go to the sands, or you will regret it. It desires another, and will entrap you, as she was meant to be entrapped!”

But Richomer was barely listening, and her accent was getting too thick to understand in her agitation. He gave a slightly apologetic grin, as if recognising that he was committing the sin of theft, and then left out the window once more. He had enough of what he came for, and there were more places to loot.

*** 

The sun wasn’t too far from falling over the tower, but Richomer still had a little time. He’d earned quite a bit of coin from his looting, but didn’t want to get too adventurous. Nevertheless, he felt like a changed man indeed; how had he been so self-righteous before? Surely no God could look down upon what he had done, if so many other good Christians were doing the same, or worse? Still, it was not worth angering the heavens, so he found a peaceful alley free from the celebrations and sat down upon a sandstone step to look over his new possessions. There were quite a few, but chief among them was the purple glass bottle with its smokey interior and expensive metal bands. Even the stopper looked finely crafted.

“A curse to open,” he muttered to himself, before giggling. His blood was still up, and he was excited. “Sure, and I’m the King of the Franks.”
 He grabbed the stopper and pulled it off with some effort. It didn’t come off. He tried again, but there was no removing it. Frustrated, he glanced over the item itself. It had gotten dusty in the sack, mingling with numerous other items. 

“Perhaps the writing has something to do with it?” he asked aloud. 

He began wiping it with the sleeve of his tunic, clearing away the dust and grit to better see the finery of the Arabic engraving, hoping that one of the images would tell him something. Instead, the stopper on the bottle came free all on its own, falling away and leaving the thick purple smoke to begin pouring from the bottle, much to the squire’s astonishment.

“What - how could it have - and how does it have so much smoke?”

He stood, still tucked away in the shaded alley, as more and more of the purple smoke swirled around him like morning fog. Tendrils of crackling energy surged through it, but it did not simply remain at his feet even as he dropped the bottle to the ground. Instead, it spread all over him, enveloping the young man so that it was almost impossible to see. He tried to dash, but as he reached out his hands to grip the wall or feel for the path he could sense neither. He tried to run anyway but staggered as he breathed in the smoke. No, breathing it in implied that he was the one bringing the strange purple mist into his body, and the truth was far more terrifying; it was pouring into him, as if the fog were alive and seeking to invade him.

Something strange was happening.

To Be Continued . . .