Chapter Twenty-Five

Father Stomald sat down to the supper on the camp table with a groan. He hadn't expected to be alive to eat it, and he was tired enough to wonder if it was worth the bother. Just organizing the unexpected booty abandoned by the Guard had been exhausting, yet Tibold was right. The dispersal of one army was no guarantee of victory, and those weapons were priceless. Besides, the Guard might regain enough courage to reclaim them if they weren't collected.

But at least deciding what to do with pikes and muskets was fairly simple. Other problems were less so—like the more than four thousand Guardsmen who'd trickled back and begged to join "the Angels' Army" as wonder overcame terror. Stomald had welcomed them, but Tibold insisted no newcomer, however welcome, be accepted unquestioningly. It was only a matter of time before the Church attempted to infiltrate spies in the guise of converts, and he preferred to establish the rules now.

Stomald saw his point, but discussing what to do had taken hours. For now, Tibold had four thousand new laborers; as they proved their sincerity, they would be integrated into his units—with, Tibold had observed dryly, non-Guardsmen on either side to help suppress any temptation to treason.

Yet all such questions, while important and real, had been secondary to most of Stomald's people. God's own messengers had intervened for them, and if Malagorans were too pragmatic to let joy interfere with tasks they knew must be performed, they went about those tasks with spontaneous hymns. And Stomald, as shepherd of a vaster flock than he'd ever anticipated, had been deeply involved in planning and leading the solemn services of thanksgiving which had both begun and closed this long, exhausting day.

All of which meant he'd had little enough time to breathe, much less eat.

Now he mopped up the last of the shemaq stew and slumped on his camp stool with a sigh. He could hear the noises of the camp, but his tent stood on a small rise, isolated from the others by the traditional privacy of the clergy. That isolation bothered him, yet the ability to think and pray uninterrupted was a priceless treasure whose value to a leader he was coming to appreciate.

He raised his head, gazing past the tied-back flap at the staff-hung lantern just outside. More lanterns and torches twinkled in the narrow valley below him, and he heard the lowing of the hundreds of nioharqs the Guard had abandoned. There were fewer branahlks—the speedy saddle beasts had been in high demand as the Church's warriors fled—but the nioharqs, more than man-high at the shoulder, would be invaluable when it came to moving their camp. And—

His thoughts chopped off, and he lunged to his feet as the air before him suddenly wavered like heat above a flame. Then it solidified, and he gazed upon the angel who had saved his people.

Sean and Tamman waited outside the tent inside their portable stealth fields. The trip across the camp had been . . . interesting, since people don't avoid things they can't see. Sandy had almost been squashed by a freight wagon, and her expression as she nipped aside had been priceless.

Sean had planned to get this over with last night, but the totality of the Guard's rout—and the treasure-trove of its abandoned camp—had changed his schedule. One thing Stomald hadn't needed while he organized that windfall was the intrusion of still more miracles. Besides, the delay had given Sean time to watch the "heretics" work, and he'd been deeply impressed by Stomald's military commander. That man was a professional to his toenails, and a soldier of his caliber was going to be invaluable.

But that was for the future, and right now he tried not to laugh at the priest's expression when Sandy suddenly materialized in front of him.

Stomald's jaw dropped, and then he fell to his knees before the angel. He signed God's starburst while his own inadequacy suffused him, coupled with a soaring joy that, inadequate as he was, God had seen fit to touch him with His Finger, and held his breath as he awaited some sign of her will.

"Stand up, Stomald," a soft voice said in the Holy Tongue. He stared at the floor of his tent, then rose tremblingly. "Look at me," the angel said, and he raised his eyes to her face. "That's better."

The angel crossed his tent and sat in one of his camp chairs, and he watched her in silence. She moved with easy grace, and she was even smaller than he'd thought on that terrible night. Her head was little higher than his shoulder when she stood, but there was nothing fragile about her tiny form.

Brown hair gleamed under the lantern light, cut short as a man's but in an indefinably feminine style. Her clean-cut mouth was firm, yet he felt oddly certain those lips were meant to smile. Her triangular face was built of huge eyes, high cheekbones, and a determined chin that lacked the beauty of the angel Tibold's huntsmen had wounded yet radiated strength and purpose.

She returned his gaze calmly, and he cleared his throat and fiddled with his starburst, trying to think. But what did a man say to God's messenger? Good evening? How are you? Do you think it will rain?

He had no idea, and the angel's eyes twinkled. Yet it was a kindly twinkle, and she took pity on his tongue-tied silence.

"I said I would visit you." Her voice was deep for a woman's, but without the thunder of her wrath it was sweet and soft, and his pulse slowed.

"You honor us, Holiness," he managed, and the angel shook her head.

" 'Holiness' is a priestly title, and I am but a visitor from a distant land."

"Then . . . then by what title shall I address you?"

"None," she said simply, "but my name is Sandy."

Stomald's heart leapt as she bestowed her name upon him, for it was a new name, unlike any he'd ever heard.

"As you command," he murmured with a bow, and she frowned.

"I'm not here to command you, Stomald." He flinched, afraid he'd angered her, and she shook her head as she saw his fear.

"Things have gone awry," she told him. "It was no part of our purpose to embroil your people in holy war against the Church. It was ill-done of us to endanger your land and lives."

Stomald bit down on a need to reject her self-accusation. She was God's envoy; she could not do ill. Yet, he reminded himself, angels were but God's servants, not gods themselves, and so, perhaps, they could err. The novel thought was disturbing, but her tone told him it was true.

"We did more ill than you," he said humbly. "We wounded your fellow angel and laid impious, violent hands upon her. That God should send you to us once more to save us from His own Church when we have done such wrong is a greater mercy than any mortals can deserve, O Sandy."

Sandy grimaced. She'd intended to leave angels entirely out of this if she could, but Pardalians, like Terrans, had more than one word for "angel." Sha'hia, the most common, was derived from the Imperial Universal for "messenger," just as the English word descended from the Greek for the same thing. Unfortunately, there was another, derived from the word for "visitor"—from, in fact, erathiu, the very word she'd just let herself use—and her slip hadn't escaped Stomald. He had been using sha'hia; now he was using erathu, and if she corrected him, he would only assume he'd mispronounced it. Explaining what she meant by "visitor" would get into areas so far beyond his worldview that any attempt to discuss them was guaranteed to produce a crisis of conscience, and she bit her lip, then shrugged. Harry was right about the care they had to take, but Harry was just going to have to accept the best she could do.

"You did only what you thought was required," she said carefully, "and neither I nor Harry herself hold it against you."

"Then . . . then she lived?" Stomald's face blossomed in relief, and Sandy reminded herself that Pardalian angels could be killed.

"She did. Yet what brings me here is the danger in which your people stand, Stomald. We have our own purpose to achieve, but in seeking to achieve it we put you in peril of your lives. If we could, we would undo what we've done, yet that lies beyond our power."

Stomald nodded. Holy Writ said angels were powerful beings, but Man had free will. His actions could set even an angel's purpose at naught, and he flushed in shame as he realized his flock had done just that. Yet the Angel Sandy wasn't enraged; she'd saved them, and the genuine concern in her soft voice filled his heart with gratitude.

"Because we can't undo it," Sandy continued, "we must begin from what has happened. It may be we can combine our purpose with our responsibility to save your people from the consequences of our own errors, yet there are limits to what we may do. Last night, we had no choice but to intervene as we did, but we can't do so again. Our purpose forbids it."

Stomald swallowed. With Mother Church against them, how could they hope to survive without such aid? She saw his fear and smiled gently.

"I didn't say we can't intervene at all, Stomald—only that there are limits on how we may do so. We will aid you, but you must know that the Inner Circle will never rest until you've been destroyed. You threaten both their beliefs and their secular power over Malagor, and your threat is greater, not less, now, for word of what happened last night will spread on talmahk wings.

"Because of that, fresh armies will soon move against you, and I tell you that our purpose is not to see you die. We seek no martyrs. Death comes to all men, but we believe the purpose of Man is to help his fellows, not to kill them in God's name. Do you understand that?"

"I do," Stomald whispered. That was all he'd ever asked to do, and to be told by an angel that it was God's will—!

"Good," the angel murmured, then straightened in her chair, and her mouth turned firmer, her eyes darker. "Yet when others attack you, you have every right to fight back, and in this we will help you, if you wish. The choice is yours. We won't force you to accept our aid or our advice."

"Please." Stomald's hands half-rose, and he fought an urge to throw himself back to his knees. "Please, aid my people, I beg you."

"There is no need to beg." The angel regarded him sternly. "What we can do, we will do, but as friends and allies, not dictators."

"I—" Stomald swallowed again. "Forgive me, O Sandy. I am only a simple under-priest, unused to any of the things happening to me." His lips quirked despite his tension, for it was hard not to smile when her eyes were so understanding. "I doubt even High Priest Vroxhan would know what to say or do when confronted by an angel in his tent!" he heard himself say, and quailed, but the angel only smiled. She had dimples, he noted, and his spirits rose before her humor.

"No, I doubt he would," she agreed, a gurgle of laughter hovering in her soft voice, and then she shook herself.

"Very well, Stomald. Simply understand that we neither desire nor need your worship. Ask what you will of us, as you might ask any other man. If we can do it, we will; if we can't, we'll tell you so, and we won't hold your asking against you. Can you do that?"

"I can try," he agreed with greater confidence. It was hard to be frightened of one who so obviously meant him and his people well.

"Then let me tell you what we can do, since I've told you what we cannot. We can aid and advise you, and there are many things we can teach you. We can tell you much of what passes elsewhere, though not all, and while we can't slay your enemies with our own weapons, we can help you fight for your lives with your own if you choose to do so. Do you so choose?"

"We do." Stomald straightened. "We did no wrong, yet Mother Church came against us in Holy War. If such is her decision, we will defend ourselves against her as we must."

"Even knowing both you and the Inner Circle cannot survive? One of you must fall, Stomald. Are you prepared to assume that responsibility?"

"I am," he said even more firmly. "A shepherd may die for his flock, but his duty is to preserve that flock, not slay it. Mother Church herself teaches that. If the Inner Circle has forgotten, it must be taught anew."

"I think you are as wise as you are courageous, Stomald of Cragsend," she said, "and since you will protect your people, I bring you those to help you fight." She raised her hand, and Stomald gasped as the air shimmered once more and two more strangers appeared out of it.

One was scarcely taller than Stomald himself, square-shouldered and muscular in his night-black armor. His hair and eyes were as brown as the angel's, though his skin was much darker, and his hair was even shorter. A high-combed helmet rode in his bent elbow, and a long, slender sword hung at his side. He looked tough and competent, yet he might have been any mortal man.

But the other! This was a giant, towering above Stomald and his own companion. He wore matching armor and carried the same slender sword, but his eyes were black as midnight and his hair was darker still. He was far from handsome—indeed, his prominent nose and ears were almost ugly—but he met the priest's eyes with neither arrogance nor inner doubt . . . much, Stomald thought, as Tibold might have but for his automatic deference to the cloth.

"Stomald, these are my champions," the angel said quietly. "This—" she touched the shorter man's shoulder "—is Tamman Tammanson, and this—" she touched the towering giant, and her eyes seemed to soften for a moment "—is Sean Colinson. Will you have them as war captains?"

"I . . . would be honored," Stomald said, grappling with a fresh sense of awe. They weren't angels, for they were male, but something about them, something more even than their sudden appearance, whispered they were more than mortal, like the legendary heroes of the old tales.

"I thank you for your trust," Sean Colinson—and what sort of name was that?—said. His voice was deep, but he spoke accented Pardalian, not the Holy Tongue, as he offered a huge right hand. "As Sandy says, your destiny is your own, but your danger is none of your making. If I can help, I will."

"And I." Tamman Tammanson stood a half-pace behind his companion, like a shieldman or an under-captain, but his voice was equally firm.

"And now, Stomald," the Angel Sandy said in the Holy Tongue, "it may be time to summon Tibold. We have much to discuss."

Tibold Rarikson sat in his camp chair and felt his head turning back and forth like an untutored yokel. He'd found his eyes had a distinct tendency to jerk away from the Angel Harry's beautiful face whenever she glanced his way, and it shamed him. She hadn't said a word to condemn him for shooting her down, and he was grateful for her understanding, yet somehow he suspected he would have felt better if she'd been less so.

But it wasn't just guilt which kept pulling his gaze from her, for he'd never imagined meeting with such a group. The man the angels called Sean was a giant among men, and the one called Tamman had skin the color of old jelath wood, yet the angels automatically drew the eye from their champions. The Angel Harry might be shorter than Lord Sean, but she was a head taller than most men, and despite her blind eye, she seemed to look deep inside a man's soul every time her remaining eye met his. Yet for all that, it seemed odd to see her in trousers, even those of the priestly raiment she wore. She should have been in the long, bright skirts of a Malagoran woman, not men's garb, for despite her height and seeming youth, she radiated a gentle compassion which made one trust her instantly.

And then there was the Angel Sandy. Even on this short an acquaintance, Tibold suspected no one was likely to imagine her in skirts! Her brown eyes glowed with the resolution of a seasoned war captain, her words were crisp and incisive, and she radiated the barely leashed energy of a hunting seldahk.

"  . . . so as you and the Angel Sandy say—" Stomald was saying in response to Lord Sean's last comment when the angel leaned forward with a frown.

"Don't call us that," she said. Tibold had spent enough years in the Temple's service to gain a rough understanding of the Holy Tongue, but he'd never heard an accent quite like hers. Not that he needed to have heard it before to recognize its note of command.

Stomald sat back in his own chair with a puzzled expression, looking at Tibold, then turned back to the angel. His confusion was evident, and it showed in his voice when he spoke again.

"I meant no offense," he said humbly, and the angel bit her lip. She glanced at the Angel Harry, whose single good eye returned her look levelly, almost as if in command, then sighed.

"I'm not offended, Stomald," she said carefully, "but there are . . . reasons Harry and I wish you would avoid that title."

"Reasons?" Stomald repeated hesitantly, and she shook her head.

"In time, you'll understand them, Stomald. I promise. But for now, please humor us in this."

"As you comm—" Stomald began, then stopped and corrected himself. "As you wish, Lady Sandy," he said, and glanced at Tibold once more. The ex-Guardsman shrugged slightly. As far as he was concerned, an angel could be called whatever she wished. Labels meant nothing, and any village idiot could tell what the angels were, however they cared to be addressed.

"As Lady Sandy says," Stomald continued after a moment, "the first step must be to consolidate our own position. The weapons the Guard abandoned will help there—" he glanced at Tibold, who nodded vigorously "—but you're correct, Lord Sean. We cannot stand passively on the defensive. I am no war captain, yet it seems to me that we must secure control of the Keldark Valley as soon as possible."

"Exactly," Lord Sean said in his deep, accented voice. "There are a lot of things Tamman and I can teach your army, Tibold, but we can't make the Temple stand still while we do it. We've got to secure control of the valley—and the Thirgan Gap—quickly enough to discourage the Guard from anything adventurous."

"Agreed, Lord Sean," Tibold said. "If the An—" He paused with a blush. "If Lady Sandy and Lady Harry can provide us with the information on enemy movements you've described, we'll have a tremendous advantage, but too many of our men have little or no experience. They'll need good, hard drilling, and if we can do it in a strong enough defensive position, the Guard may leave us alone long enough to do some good."

"Very well, then," Stomald said firmly. "We will be guided by you and the An—you and the Lady Sandy and Lady Harry, Lord Sean. Tomorrow morning, Tibold and I will introduce you to our army as its new commander, and we will act as you direct."

 

High Priest Vroxhan sat behind his desk and glared at Bishop Frenaur and Lord Marshal Rokas. Neither quite met his fiery eyes, and he growled something under his breath, then inhaled deeply and managed—somehow, out of a lifetime of clerical discipline—to still his need to curse at them.

"Very well," he grated, placing one hand on the message upon his blotter, "I want to know how this happened."

Frenaur cleared his throat. He hadn't visited Malagor in half a year, but he'd read the semaphore messages to Vroxhan and additional, personal ones from Under-Bishop Shendar in Malgos, the Malagoran capital. He wasn't certain he believed what they reported, but if even a tenth of them were true . . .

"Holiness, I'm not certain," he said at last. "Father Uriad led the Guard against the heretics as the Circle directed, and for almost a moon he met with total success. There was no resistance until they reached the northern Shalokars and the heretics fortified a pass. He moved against them and—" He broke off and shrugged helplessly. "Holiness, the Guardsmen who fled all insist they saw something, and their descriptions certainly tally with the heretic Stomald's descriptions of his 'angels.' "

"Angels?" Vroxhan spat. "Angels who kill a consecrated priest?"

"I didn't say it was an angel, Holiness." Frenaur managed not to retreat. "I said it matched Stomald's descriptions. And whatever it was, it protected the heretics with powers which were far more than mortal."

"Assuming the cowards who fled aren't lying in fear of Mother Church's wrath," Vroxhan snarled, and Marshal Rokas stirred at Frenaur's side.

"Holiness," the grizzled veteran's rough voice was deferential but unafraid, "Captain-General Yorkan reports the same thing. I know Yorkan. I would know if his report was an attempt to cover himself." The grim old warrior met his master's eyes, and Vroxhan glowered for a moment, then sighed.

"Very well," he said heavily, "I must accept their story when all of them agree. But whatever that . . . thing was, it was no angel! We didn't come through the Trial only to have angels suddenly appear to tell us we all stand in doctrinal error! If that were the case, the Voice wouldn't have saved us."

Frenaur bit his tongue. Wisdom suggested this was no time to mention the irregularity of the Trial's liturgy. And, he thought unhappily, far less was it a time to point out that Stomald had never claimed his "angels" had said anything at all, much less condemned the Church for error. Besides, the mere fact that they'd had dealings with the Valley of the Damned proved they couldn't be angels . . . didn't it?

"Yet whatever happened, it's deprived us of over twenty thousand Guardsmen," Vroxhan continued grimly.

"It has, Holiness," Rokas agreed. "Worse, we've lost their equipment, as well. The heretics have gained their weapons, including their entire artillery train . . . and their position divides our strength."

Vroxhan looked like a man drinking sour milk, but he nodded. There might even have been a glimmer of respect in his eyes for Rokas' unflinching admission, and he pinched the bridge of his nose while he thought.

"In that case, Marshal," he said finally, "we shall just have to call forth a greater host. There can be no compromise with the heretical—especially not when they now possess such strength of arms." He turned cold eyes upon Frenaur. "How widely has this heresy spread?"

"Widely," Frenaur confessed. "Before . . . whatever happened, there were only some few thousand, mostly peasant villagers from the Shalokars. Now word of the 'miracle' is spreading like wildfire. It's even reached beyond the Thirgan Gap to Vral. God only knows how many people have flocked to Stomald's standard by now, but the signs are bad. Messages indicate entire villages are streaming north to join 'the Army of the Angels.' "

Vroxhan scowled at him for a moment, then shrugged.

"I know it's not your fault." He sighed, and the bishop relaxed. "You're simply in range of my ill humor and fear." His mouth tightened. "And I am afraid, Brothers. Malagor has always been prone to schism, and this comes too close upon the Trial. The vile powers of the valley have awakened to the defeat of the Greater Demons. Perhaps still more of the unclean star spawn wait to smite us—the Writ says there are many Demons—and they use these lesser evil spirits to divide us before they assail us yet again."

He brooded down at his desk, then straightened his shoulders.

"Lord Marshal, you will summon the Great Host of Mother Church to Holy War." Rokas bowed, and Frenaur bit his lip. The full Host had not been summoned since the Schismatic Wars themselves. "But we must prepare our men to withstand demonic deceit before we offer battle," Vroxhan continued heavily, "and I fear much of Malagor will go over to the heretics before we are ready."

He looked up at Frenaur's unhappy face, and his angry eyes softened.

"The same would be true anywhere, Frenaur. The common folk are ill-equipped to judge such matters, and when their own priests lead them astray it's hardly their fault that they believe. Yet be that as it may, those who embrace heresy must pay heresy's price." He returned his eyes to the marshal. "I do not yet wish to summon the secular lords to your banner, Rokas, but even if we rely solely on the Guard, we must first send priests among them, preaching the truth of what's happened lest we lose still more troops to panic and spiritual seduction. Do you agree?"

"I do, Holiness, but I must urge caution lest we delay overlong."

"What do you mean, 'overlong'?"

"Holiness, Malagor has always been difficult to invade, and its position divides our forces. Worse, my own reports indicate the heretics are as inflamed by what they see as foreign control as by whatever other seeds the demons may have sown."

Rokas watched Vroxhan with care and was relieved when the high priest gave a slow nod. Before the Schismatic Wars, Malagor had been strong enough to give even Mother Church pause. Indeed, the traditional Malagoran restlessness under the Tenets' restrictions had helped fuel the Great Schism, and the Inner Circle of the time, already engaged upon a life-or-death struggle with the Schismatics, had used the wars to break the princedom. Prince Uroba, Malagor's present "ruler," was the Temple's pensioner—a drunkard sustained in power not by birth or merit but by the pikes of the Guard—and his people knew it.

"Our forces west of Malagor are weak," Rokas went on. "We have perhaps forty thousand Guardsmen in Doras, Kyhyra, Cherist, and Showmah, but less than five thousand in Sardua and Thirgan, and the heresy has spread more quickly to the west than to the east. Indeed, I fear the Guard's strength may be hard pressed to prevent more of the common folk from joining the heresy in those regions. More, the semaphore chains across Malagor will soon fall into heretic hands, depriving us of direct communications. We will have to send messages by semaphore to Arwah and thence by ship to Darwan for relay through Alwa via the Qwelth Gap chain. Such a delay will make it all but impossible to coordinate closely between our forces east and west of Malagor."

He paused until Vroxhan nodded once more, then went on in measured tones.

"The Guard's total strength west of Malagor is, as I say, perhaps forty-five to fifty thousand. Here in the east, the Temple can summon five times that many Guardsmen if we strip our garrisons to the bone. For more than that, we would require a general levy, yet, as you, I prefer not to rely upon the secular lords' troops—not, at least, until we've won at least one victory and so proved these 'angels' are, in fact, demons."

He paused again, and again Vroxhan nodded, this time impatiently.

"The only practical routes for armies into or out of Malagor are the Thirgan Gap and the Keldark Valley. The gap is broader, but its approaches are dotted with powerful fortresses which the heretics may well secure before we can move. Given those facts and our weakness in the west, I would recommend massing the western Guard south of the Cherist Mountains around Vral. In that position, they can both seal the Thirgan Gap and maintain civil control."

Rokas began to pace, tugging at his jaw as he marshaled words like companies of pikes.

"Our major strength lies in the east, and with the gap secured we may concentrate in Keldark, using the Guardsmen of Keldark to block the valley against heretical sorties until we're ready. The valley is bad terrain and even narrower than the gap, but most of its fortresses were razed after the Schismatic Wars. There are perhaps three places the heretics might choose to stand: Yortown, Erastor, and Baricon. All are powerful defensive positions; the cost of taking any of them will be high."

He made a wry face. "There won't be much strategy involved until we actually break into Malagor, Holiness, not with such limited approach routes, but the same applies to the heretics. And, unlike us, they must equip and train their forces. If we strike quickly, we may well clear the entire valley before they can prepare."

"I agree," Vroxhan said after a moment's thought. "And it will, indeed, be best to move from the east. If they can strike before we prepare, they'll move east, directly for the Temple."

"That was my own thought," Rokas agreed.

"In the meantime," Vroxhan returned to Frenaur, "I see no choice but to place Malagor under Interdict. Please see to the proclamation."

"I will," Frenaur agreed unhappily. What must be must be.

"Understand me, Brothers," Vroxhan said very quietly. "There will be no compromise with heresy. Mother Church's sword has been drawn; it will not be sheathed while a single heretic lives."