Free Warlock and Son by Christopher Stasheff

slung over his shoulder, stood the ragpicker. Magnus firmed his resolve and narrowed his eyes. "What dost thou here? Begone!"
    "I but seek to offer thee that which will be of value to thee." The ragpicker swung the bag off his shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a golden chain with a bauble on the end. "Invulnerability, for thine heart! That no wench may ever capture it, to twist and torment it!" Magnus squinted, trying to make out what the bauble was, but it twisted and turned in a patch of sunlight that made its form seem to blur. "What should I pay thee with?" Magnus demanded. "My soul?"
    "Oh, nay! I shall take no pay. I exist but to aid those who are in need-or who will be."
    "I trust not those who profess to offer much and ask little."
    "Yet thou hast," the ragpicker called after him, "for thou hast acted from that same principle thyself, time and again." That rocked Magnus a little; he liked to think of himself as motivated by healthy self-interest, though he was aware that it came in many disguises. Still, he realized the comment was just a barb to hook him into further argument and possible exploitation, so he ignored it and rode on. The trail curved, hiding the ragpicker from view. Magnus was tempted to go back to make sure the man had disappeared, but steeled himself against the impulse.
    He rode on as dawn turned into morning, sending dapples of sunlight through the leaves of the forest. The ground began to slope upward, and the trees thinned out. Magnus crested the rise, broke through a final screen of scrub, and saw another village below him in the morning mist. The sunlight struck through the clouds, and sent a shaft down to highlight the collection of huts. Magnus halted, charmed by the sightand realized that glistening in the shaft of light were the whitewashed boards of a church steeple. With an uncomfortable pang of conscience, he remembered that it was Sunday. The church bell began to toll.
    Magnus sighed and shook the reins. "Come, good mount. I must needs go forth to the chapel, some holy words to hear." He rode down into the valley, following the dirt road, softened now with the autumn rains, and came up to the church as the last few parishioners were filing in. But he was not quite late-a lady on a white palfrey, flanked by four men-atarms, was riding down an adjoining road, coming behind him.
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    Magnus dismounted, tying his horse's reins to a tree limb. He strode up to the church door, then glanced back to make sure his horse had grass to eat ...
    And saw the lady watching him, with a gleam in her eye. Something about her regard made Magnus uncomfortable. He turned back to the church door, doing his best to ignore her. . . .
    "Hold, sirrah!"
    Magnus whirled about, instantly seething at the demeaning term-the more so when he saw it was a guardsman who had spoken it. Didn't he know Magnus's rank without having to be told? Even coated with dust and in his travelling clothes, his garb was clearly that of a nobleman, or at the very least, a squire.
    But the guardsman wasn't entering-he was holding the door wide, and his fellows had stationed themselves behind the lady, who was marching toward the door. She looked up at Magnus, and her glance seemed to pierce him. He stood numbed by surprise, and she smiled, with newly moistened lips.
    "Art thou so hot to enter then, young man?"
    "Young man!" Magnus took refuge in outrage. "Thou art not so much older than I, milady-and thy servants want rebuke! Thou must needs teach them to know their betters!"
    "What!" the guardsman cried, and his halberd swung down.
    Magnus dropped his hand to his sword. "School him, lady, or I'll do it for thee." The three other men instantly lowered their halberds. Magnus stood poised, hand still on his sword, and locked gazes with her.
    Her eyes seemed to swell; her lips parted.
    Magnus felt a current pass through him, leaving him shaken. He hoped he