The Warlock Heretical

Chapter One

"One… two… three—shoot!"

Four small fists swept down into a circle—and changed form. One turned into a rock, one turned into a pair of scissors, and two turned into sheets of paper.

"I win!" cried Cordelia. "Scissors cut paper!"

"Nay, I win!" Geoffrey corrected. "Stone doth dull scissors!"

"Then we two do win," Magnus pointed out, "sin that paper doth wrap stone."

"Yet I then win, after all!" Cordelia maintained, "for my scissors will cut thy paper from off this stone!"

"We all do win." Little Gregory beamed. " 'Tis fine."

"Nay, 'tis horrible!" Geoffrey's chin jutted out. "If all win, none win!"

"Thou wouldst think thus!" Cordelia snapped.

"Only a lass could ha' thought of so silly a game at the outset!" Geoffrey retorted. "Who e'er did hear of playing 'Scissors, Stone, and Paper' with more than two?"

"You must not let newness itself keep you from attempting new ideas, Geoffrey." The voice was in the children's minds, not their ears, and it came from a huge black horse that stood nearby, watching. "Still, in practice it proves to have been less than effective."

"Any could see it would not work, Fess!"

"Not that thou didst attempt it with any great effort." Cordelia glared at Geoffrey. "I could see thy fist through thy rock."

"Thou couldst not! Yet I did see two fingers on thine hand, with but the barest suggestion of paired blades!"

"Tis a lie!" Cordelia squawked.

"Children, children!" Fess reproved. "Please limit your use of hyperbole."

" Twill avail naught, Fess," Magnus said wearily. "They persist, though they know full well that Gregory doth cast the best illusions of us all."

"I know naught of the sort!" Geoffrey glared at Gregory, who shrank back wide-eyed.

" 'Tis true—thou knowest naught," Cordelia agreed.

"Wilt thou not cease!" Magnus cried. "Art thou so desperate for summat to do that thou must needs quarrel to pass the time?"

Cordelia subsided, glaring, but Geoffrey only shrugged. "Wherefore not? Or wouldst thou prefer combat, brother?"

Magnus gave him a slow grin. "Assuredly, an thou art foolish enough to attempt it. Wilt thou wrestle or box?"

"Nay!" Cordelia cried. "Thou knowest what Mama hath told thee of fighting!"

"We do but practice." Geoffrey unbuttoned his doublet. "Let us grapple—'tis hot weather."

"Let them go, Cordelia," Fess advised. "It will channel their excess energy—and, to some extent, boys need to wrangle."

Magnus grinned, pulling his doublet off. "I warn thee, brother, I've weight and height on thee."

"Yet I have the skill," Geoffrey retorted.

"Thou must needs stop!" Cordelia cried. "Even Papa would…" Her voice trailed off in despair as her brothers started circling each other, crouching. "Oh! Gregory, canst thou think of naught to stop them… Gregory! Where hast thou fled?"

Magnus looked up, startled, the match forgotten in a sudden surge of concern.

Geoffrey saw the opening and dived in to catch Magnus's knee and pull hard with a yowl of victory.

Magnus slammed down backwards.

"Geoffrey!" Fess scolded. "Foul!"

Magnus scrambled up with blood in his eye. "How unfair canst thou be, to attack when I'm distracted with concern for thy brother!"

"Distracted thou wert," Geoffrey agreed, "and combat is ever unfair. Even Papa doth say so."

Magnus's face reddened, and the fight was about to become real, when Gregory appeared with a bang. "Strangers!"

His brothers straightened up, their quarrel forgotten. "Strangers! Where?"

"In the meadow yon." Gregory pointed. "I thought I sensed an errant thought, so I skipped aloft to look—and I did behold a great sort of cottage there, with men in brown robes who did till the earth!"

"But that meadow was barren only last Sunday!" Geoffrey cried. "We did picnic there!"

"Two Sundays ago, actually," Fess corrected.

" Tis filled now," Gregory answered.

"A score of men can raise a house of wattle and daub in a few days' time." Magnus frowned. "Yet what are these brown robes, brother? Peasants wear smocks and biashosen!"

"What know I?" Gregory said, with wide-eyed innocence. "I am but seven."

"Even so." Magnus caught up his doublet and shrugged into it. "Let us go see—yet quietly!"

"No, children! There might be danger!" Fess warned.

But Magnus was already in the air, arrowing away between tree trunks. Geoffrey whooped and flew after him, pulling on his doublet as he went.

"Do not go too close," Fess cautioned, resigned.

Cordelia caught up her broomstick from a nearby tree. "Well done, little brother! Thou hast most ably distracted them from bruising one another!"

Gregory smiled, pleased, and darted off after her.

The house was everything Gregory had said it was—large, thatched, and mud-plastered, at least on one wall. The other three were still basketworks of twigs, with a couple of two-man teams busily spreading more mud over them. A fence stretched around a quarter of the acre surrounding it, with two more men in brown robes working at extending it. Their cowls were thrown back, and sunlight gleamed off the bald spots in the middle of their scalps. Around them a third of the meadow had already yielded its long grass to the two teams of monks with wheeled plows, each with one steering and two pulling, leaving the dark brown of turned earth behind them.

"By whose leave do they take the whole meadow for themselves!" Geoffrey cried.

Gregory shrugged. "None said them nay, brother."

Geoffrey strode forward, pushing up his sleeves.

"Thou wilt not!" Magnus caught him by the collar, then ducked aside from his punch with the ease of long practice. " Tis not thy meadow, to say yea or nay to it—'tis the King's!"

"Yet it hath been our place of play all our lives!"

"As hath the whole wood, and every grotto and clearing within it," Magnus reminded. "Surely we can spare one such place for the good fathers."

"Fathers?" Geoffrey stopped swinging and frowned up at him. Then his eyes widened. "Aye! The cowls, the brown robes—how foolish I am not to have seen it!"

"Thou art," Cordelia assured him. "They are monks."

Geoffrey turned back to the clearing, puzzled. "Yet what do they here? Monks dwell in the monastery, so far to the south… Hist! What comes?"

"What indeed?" Magnus frowned, peering over Geoffrey's head at the meadow.

" 'Tis another band of strangers!" Cordelia exclaimed.

"These are not goodly." Gregory's face darkened.

They certainly did not appear to be. They wore grimy clothes, untrimmed beards, and tangled hair, and they came out of the forest from several different directions, converging on the monks. Each carried a shield and a quarterstaff. One or two had swords.

One of the brown-robes saw them coming and shouted a warning. His fellows looked up, startled, then leaped to catch up steel caps and quarterstaves from the long grass. The other plow team did, too, and came pelting across the meadow, jamming their caps on their heads. The fencers and plasterers dropped their tools, caught up caps and staves, and came running to join the plowmen.

Geoffrey's face darkened. "What manner of monks are these, who bear weapons?"

"Is't not fair, then," Cordelia jibed, "for men of the cloth to defend themselves 'gainst men of arms?"

Geoffrey turned on her, anger flaring, but Magnus clapped a hand over his mouth and hissed, "Be still! Dost thou wish them to turn upon us?" He saw Geoffrey's eyes light up, and bit his tongue.

"Indeed, be most cautious." Not being able to fly as easily as they did, Fess had taken a while to catch up. "In fact, children, come away—here is danger."

"We are far from them," Geoffrey protested, "and none can see us."

"There is no hazard, Fess," Cordelia pleaded. " Tis not as though we did attempt to fight them."

"Not yet," the black horse muttered.

"The bandits slacken their pace," Gregory reported.

Geoffrey twisted out of Magnus's hold and stepped up next to his little brother. "Thou canst not know they are bandits!"

"Who else would dress so slovenly, yet bear arms?" Gregory answered.

The bandits slowed, seeing the weapons, but still came on to surround the monks on three sides, grinning. "Dost'a truly think to bear weapons 'gainst us, men of God?" The tallest bandit made the last three words an insult.

The lead monk stepped forward a pace. "We hope not to. Who art thou, and what is thy business?"

For some reason the bandits seemed to think this was hilarious. They broke into guffaws, and the tallest one said, "Why, we are gentleman, good friar—canst thou not tell by our comely appearance and costly garments?"

"Thou dost mean thou art bandits." The lead monk let a touch of contempt show. "Well, I am Father Boquilva. What dost thou think thou canst have of us?"

The bandit's grin turned into a snarl. "Have? Why, only such goods as thou dost own, gentle monk—all of them."

Father Boquilva shrugged. "Take all thou canst find that is ours, and welcome—Christ will provide us with more."

The bandits stared at him, not believing their ears. Then the leader's grin widened with a chuckle. "The more fools thou, then! Come!" He trotted off toward the house, beckoning to his men. "The sheep are primed for shearing!"

The other bandits jogged after him.

The monks watched them go. "I do not think they will take my breviary," said one.

An older monk shrugged. "If they do, what of it? I can pen it anew for thee, from memory."

"Wherefore do they give way so easily!" Geoffrey hissed.

"They have staves and helms! How can they care so little for their goods?"

"They are men of the spirit," Gregory answered. "Things of wood and stone mean little to them."

"Who asked thee, wight!"

"Then I'll ask thee." Gregory frowned. "How can men so godly take up weapons?"

"There is, unfortunately, precedent for it," Fess sighed. "Monks of every religion have, sooner or later, learned to fight—or taken weapons."

" 'Tis shields they take up now." Magnus's hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Mayhap they but sought time to arm."

Geoffrey spun to stare, then shook his head. "Only shields. There's not so much as a paring knife among them."

"The bandits come," Cordelia said, with dread.

Indeed they did, boiling out of the house with yells of rage. "What mockery is this!" the biggest bandit demanded as he pounded up to Father Boquilva. "Hast thou naught but meal and pease?"

The priest nodded at another robber. "I see that thou hast found my missal. Take it, an thou wilt; Christ will provide."

The bandit threw it away with an oath.

Father Boquilva's jaw firmed. "There is naught more, save a little meat, some sacramental vessels, and each man's curios."

"Naught more, is it?" The bandit grinned and held up a dirty sack. "What of this?" He lifted a golden chalice.

"One of the sacramental vessels I but now spoke of." The lead monk paled. "That is not ours—'tis God's. I pray thee, place it back upon the altar from which thou hast taken it!"

"Thou hast but now said Christ will provide. He hath, then, provided us with this bauble of His."

"Assuredly thou wilt not desecrate a chapel!"

"Wherefore—would not God wish to share with the poor?"

"Thou dost blaspheme. Give back that sacred cup—or wouldst thou violate the Lord's house?"

"Nay, but I'll steal from thine! What else hast thou hid here, eh?"

"Naught, though thou hast missed our glass cruets. Thou hast in thine hand such gold as we do hold."

"I'll not credit thee," the robber snarled, "sin that thou hast already withheld this from me. Nay, speak!" He slashed a backhanded blow into Father Boquilva's face. The priest's head rocked, and his face darkened, but he struggled against anger and won. The robber growled and raised his hand again, but as he swung, the priest's arm shot out, blocking the blow as he kicked the robber's feet out from under him. The bandit fell heavily as his men shouted, "Hold!"

"Nay, now!"

"Leave off!" and leaped forward, swords slashing and staves whirling.

But the monks swung up their shields, and the swords clunked into layers of toughened hide. One bandit aimed a terrific double-handed quarterstaff blow at a monk's head, but the holy man swung up his shield, and the staff cracked into its covering. The bandit used the bounce to swing it higher.

Another bandit reached out and yanked at a shield; the monk behind it stumbled, and the bandit's staff swung in a short, vicious arc. The blow rang off the monk's helmet, and he staggered, dazed.

"They do but ward off blows!" Geoffrey cried. "These monks have staves; wherefore do they not strike back?"

"And there are half again as many bandits as monks!" Cordelia added, despairing.

The two swordsmen had wrestled their weapons free and were circling their target monks.

"Geoffrey," Fess said with sudden foreboding, "do not dare to—"

The boy shot out of the thicket, yowling before the horse could finish the sentence.

"Geoffrey!" Fess moaned in despair.

"Nay, brother!" Magnus shouted. " 'Tis no quarrel of— Oh, devil take it! He's in the broil!"

Geoffrey had caught up the dazed monk's staff and was swinging at a bandit, enraged. The man leaped back in sheer surprise; then his face darkened, and he advanced.

"Nay, thou fiend! Stand away from my brother!" Magnus bellowed as he, too, charged out of the wood.

"Magnus!" Fess wailed. "Oh, children! How could you!" But he was thundering out of the brush as he said it.

"What? Shall we alone stay quiet?" Cordelia cried. "Nay!" She leaped on her broomstick and darted off into the fray.

Gregory prudently stayed in the shadows, but he stared at a fist-sized rock, and it stirred, lurched, then shot up off the ground to brain a bandit.

Geoffrey's robber swung his stick high to smash the boy— but Magnus leaped up, caught the staff on the backswing, and yanked hard, throwing all his weight into it. The bandit staggered back and spun about, wide-eyed. He saw Magnus and bared his teeth, lifting his staff… and Geoffrey landed on his shoulders, yanking back on his head. The bandit roared and stepped back, and Magnus hooked a foot behind his heel. The man crashed down, arms windmilling.

One monk was down with a bandit standing over him, staff poised for a deathblow. Cordelia shot into his face, screaming, and the bandit leaped back with a yell of fright. Then he saw his attacker was only a little girl, and raised his staff with blood in his eye.

Fess reached out and caught the man's collar with steel teeth. He yanked and spun, and the man went flying with a howl.

"Spoilsport!" Cordelia shouted.

Father Boquilva saw her and stared, appalled. A quick glance showed him two more children in the thick of the fight. He bellowed, "Children! Brothers, ask not—protect them! Strike!"

The monks didn't turn to look, but their staves were suddenly whirling blurs. They lashed out with hollow knocks, and bandits cried out; two toppled. The staves whirled again.

Four bandits jumped on Magnus and Geoffrey. Fess charged into their midst, screaming, and the men leaped back, yelling with fright, as the steel hooves lashed out at them. But behind Fess Geoffrey cried, "A rescue!" as the lead bandit yanked him up above his head to throw. Fess whirled to lash out at the man, and Geoffrey fell, flipping over to land on his feet—but the four bandits shouted with victory and pounced on Magnus. Fess spun about to counter them, but suddenly froze, poised in mid movement like a statue; then his forefeet thudded down and his legs spraddled outward stiffly as his head plummeted to swing between his fetlocks.

"Villain!" Geoffrey cried. "Thou hast caused our horse a seizure!" And he sprang at the nearest bandit's face. The man stepped back, startled, then reached up to catch him—and a hand from a brown sleeve grabbed his shoulder and spun him about; a quarterstaff cracked into his skull.

He fell, and Father Boquilva stepped over his unconscious body, face thunderous, to grasp Geoffrey's shoulder. "Bide with me, lad! Stay close!" He thrust Geoffrey behind him and turned to find another enemy…

But he was out of luck. His brother monks' staves had done their threshing; the harvest lay on the ground, and the chaff were running for the forest.

Father Boquilva looked at the half-dozen unconscious robbers, panting. " 'Twas ill done; men of the cloth should not strike. See to them, brothers; be sure none are dead, and aid those who are injured."

The other monks dropped down to their knees to check for heartbeats and bruises.

Father Boquilva turned to Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory, and Cordelia, his face dark. "I doubt not thine efforts were well meant, children, but 'twas nonetheless foolhardy."

"But thou wouldst not strike in thine own defense!" Geoffrey cried. "Yet once thou didst, they could not stand against thee!"

"They should have had no need to," the priest retorted. "Say how thou didst chance to be nearby."

Gregory and Magnus exchanged a look. Then the elder said, "By your leave, sir, we must needs see to our father's horse."

"Horse?" Father Boquilva frowned, looking up at Fess. "Even so. What ails the beast?"

"He is elf-shot." Magnus turned to Fess.

"Epileptic?" Father Boquilva stared. "I wonder thy parent doth not put him out of his misery!"

"He is a true friend, and a valiant fighter," Geoffrey said angrily. "His seizures are a small matter, weighed against all his good service."

Magnus felt under the pommel of Fess's saddle and pushed the enlarged vertebra that was a disguised circuit breaker.

"Yet how didst thou come to knowledge of the word?" Gregory asked.

A transparent shield seemed to slide down behind Father Boquilva's eyes. " 'Tis no matter. Is thy mount wounded?"

"Nay; he doth come to himself now." Magnus was watching carefully as Fess slowly lifted his head. Where… what…

Magnus stroked the velvet nose. "Thou hast had a seizure, old friend. 'Tis naught; thou wilt presently be well again." He looked up at the monk, and felt a thrill of alarm. "Why dost thou stare so?"

Father Boquilva was gazing at Fess intently. "I had thought… no matter." He turned a stern gaze on the boy. "Thou, too, wert valiant—but foolish. These bandits would not have slain us, for we are adept at defense."

"Too much so," Geoffrey said, frowning. "What manner of monks art thou, to own such skill with a quarterstaff?"

"Geoffrey!" Magnus snapped, then turned to the monk. "I cry thy pardon, Father. He is but young, and doth forget his manners betimes."

"I have no need for thou to apologize for me," Geoffrey grated.

"Nay; thou must needs speak thine own regrets, an thou hast them." Father Boquilva studied the sturdy lad. "As thou shouldst; 'tis not meet for thee to speak so to thine elders—yet I feel some trouble of the soul within thee, wherefore I shall explain. Ere I came to the sense of my vocation, young sir, I was a lad much like thee, and was as fond of martial sport as I think thou art. I did delight at quarterstaff play, aye, and at archery and wrestling too, and forbore them only when I sought out the cloister." He nodded toward the other monks, who were busy administering restoratives. "The same is true of most of my fellows—yet when we did come away from the monastery to dwell by ourselves, we did bethink us of bandits who might seek to prey on such easy game as ourselves. Therefore did we take up practice again, and did teach these skills to such of our fellows as had them not."

"Fairly said, and I thank thee," Magnus said. "Yet wherefore hast thou come out from the monastery?"

"Ah. That is a matter of some dispute with our Abbot's policies," Father Boquilva explained, "a dispute so strong that we have felt the need to go off by ourselves."

"And is this, too, why thou dost practice thy skills at arms?" Gregory's eyes were huge. "Dost thou fear thine Abbot may try to bring thee back into his fold by force?"

Father Boquilva turned to him, startled. Slowly, he said, "Thou hast excellent insight, youngling. Aye, there is some thought of that in our hearts."

Gregory's face crumpled; tears welled in his eyes. "It cannot be! 'Tis vile for men of God to think of battle!"

"I cannot but concur with thee," Father Boquilva said softly, "and do heartily wish 'twere not so. Yet come, I will seek to explain it to thee the whiles I escort thee home."

Cordelia stiffened. "Oh, nay, good father! Thou hast no need to accompany us!"

"Yet I have," the monk said quietly, "for I wish to speak of thy kind assistance to thy father—most personally."