The Warlock Heretical by Christopher Stasheff Page A
Authors: Christopher Stasheff
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantastic fiction, Gallowglass; Rod (Fictitious character)
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stayed the night with Sir Whittlesy. But the
apprehension in her breast turned to fear, from knowing that he was not home. She frowned, angry with herself, and slid out of bed; she had footmen and maids and men-at-arms to guard her, if
she needed. She was probably troubling herself for no reason; if there were any real danger, her guards would
already be shouting the house down and fighting the intruder.
But a cold breeze seemed to blow against her back as she wondered why she had thought of an enemy entering
her moated grange. Why not have thought of fire or flood, or even a squabble between servants?
Naught but a woman's megrims, she told herself sternly, and caught up her bed robe. As she started to wrap it
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around herself, though, she heard a clanking sound beyond her door and froze, heart leaping into her throat. For a
moment she stood, frozen by fear, then forced herself to move toward the door. This was nonsense! she told
herself. She was a knight's daughter, and should be indifferent to fear. But the clanking came again, and her heart hammered in her breast. Still, she kept moving, reaching out for the
unseen door in the dark . . .
It yawned open before her, creaking, and she stopped dead in her tracks, fear frissoning into terror, for dark
against the dim glow of the night-lamp bulked a suit of armor, filling the doorway. For a moment her terror
almost wheeled into panic, but she just barely managed to rein herself in and demand, "Who art thou, come so
unseemly to my chamber?" The man stood silent, closed helm turned toward her. "Who art thou?" she demanded
again, and was relieved to feel some of her fear transmute into anger. "How durst thou so afright me, coming
here unheralded, unexpected? Nay, have the small courtesy to tell me thy name!" Still the man stood, only
staring. "At least lift thy visor!" she cried in exasperation. Good, good—she was working toward fury. Anything
would be better than this unbearable fear! "Ope thy helm and let me gaze upon thy visage, at least!"
The man's hand went to his visor then, and she felt a thrill of triumph as he lifted it ... And a bare grinning skull looked out at her with empty sockets where its eyes should have been. Terror struck, and she screamed and screamed till unconsciousness claimed her and she mercifully swooned.
Rod had hoped it would go away if he ignored it, but it had been eight days now, and Gregory was still feeling as
though he wanted to be a monk when he grew up. Rod hoped it was just a phase, but knew he had to at least pay
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it lip service—so here he was, trudging out of the woods with his youngest at his side (walking instead of flying,
so as not to afright the natives) toward the log chapter-cabin of the brand-new Runnymede Chapter of the Order
of St. Vidicon of Cathode.
So what was he doing bringing the boy, if he was so skeptical? Well, that was the point—that Gwen wasn't
skeptical; she was delighted. Any medieval parent would be—having a son in the monastery was instant status.
Not that the senior witch of Gramarye needed to worry about such things (though she would have liked it if the
majority of the people she met really approved of her), but it was nice thinking she had an "in" with the Other
World, too.
That wasn't really it, either, of course, and Rod knew it. Gwen was just happy thinking that her baby was going
to have a surer road to Heaven than any of the rest of them. Which, he had to admit, was a nice idea—but he
wasn't sure of it. He'd known too many clergymen himself.
"It's not all it seems to be, son." They turned into the footpath that led to the door. "Not just praying and contemplating." He pointed toward a three-monk team that was plowing the field near them. "That's how they
spend most of their time—in good, hard
apprehension in her breast turned to fear, from knowing that he was not home. She frowned, angry with herself, and slid out of bed; she had footmen and maids and men-at-arms to guard her, if
she needed. She was probably troubling herself for no reason; if there were any real danger, her guards would
already be shouting the house down and fighting the intruder.
But a cold breeze seemed to blow against her back as she wondered why she had thought of an enemy entering
her moated grange. Why not have thought of fire or flood, or even a squabble between servants?
Naught but a woman's megrims, she told herself sternly, and caught up her bed robe. As she started to wrap it
Page 81
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
around herself, though, she heard a clanking sound beyond her door and froze, heart leaping into her throat. For a
moment she stood, frozen by fear, then forced herself to move toward the door. This was nonsense! she told
herself. She was a knight's daughter, and should be indifferent to fear. But the clanking came again, and her heart hammered in her breast. Still, she kept moving, reaching out for the
unseen door in the dark . . .
It yawned open before her, creaking, and she stopped dead in her tracks, fear frissoning into terror, for dark
against the dim glow of the night-lamp bulked a suit of armor, filling the doorway. For a moment her terror
almost wheeled into panic, but she just barely managed to rein herself in and demand, "Who art thou, come so
unseemly to my chamber?" The man stood silent, closed helm turned toward her. "Who art thou?" she demanded
again, and was relieved to feel some of her fear transmute into anger. "How durst thou so afright me, coming
here unheralded, unexpected? Nay, have the small courtesy to tell me thy name!" Still the man stood, only
staring. "At least lift thy visor!" she cried in exasperation. Good, good—she was working toward fury. Anything
would be better than this unbearable fear! "Ope thy helm and let me gaze upon thy visage, at least!"
The man's hand went to his visor then, and she felt a thrill of triumph as he lifted it ... And a bare grinning skull looked out at her with empty sockets where its eyes should have been. Terror struck, and she screamed and screamed till unconsciousness claimed her and she mercifully swooned.
Rod had hoped it would go away if he ignored it, but it had been eight days now, and Gregory was still feeling as
though he wanted to be a monk when he grew up. Rod hoped it was just a phase, but knew he had to at least pay
Page 82
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
it lip service—so here he was, trudging out of the woods with his youngest at his side (walking instead of flying,
so as not to afright the natives) toward the log chapter-cabin of the brand-new Runnymede Chapter of the Order
of St. Vidicon of Cathode.
So what was he doing bringing the boy, if he was so skeptical? Well, that was the point—that Gwen wasn't
skeptical; she was delighted. Any medieval parent would be—having a son in the monastery was instant status.
Not that the senior witch of Gramarye needed to worry about such things (though she would have liked it if the
majority of the people she met really approved of her), but it was nice thinking she had an "in" with the Other
World, too.
That wasn't really it, either, of course, and Rod knew it. Gwen was just happy thinking that her baby was going
to have a surer road to Heaven than any of the rest of them. Which, he had to admit, was a nice idea—but he
wasn't sure of it. He'd known too many clergymen himself.
"It's not all it seems to be, son." They turned into the footpath that led to the door. "Not just praying and contemplating." He pointed toward a three-monk team that was plowing the field near them. "That's how they
spend most of their time—in good, hard
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