Heirs of Empire

Tibold Rarikson stood behind the parapet, straining his eyes into the night, and rubbed his aching back. It had been years since last he’d plied a mattock, but most of his “troops” were only local militia. They had yet to learn a shovel was as much a weapon as any sword … and it seemed unlikely they’d have time to digest the lesson. He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he knew they were bringing up the guns, and Mother Church’s edict against secular artillery heavier than chagors gave the Guard a monopoly on the heavier arlak. Of course, he didn’t even have any chagors, though his malagors might come as a nasty surprise. Except that he faced Guards who’d spent most of their enlistments in Malagor, so they knew all about the heavy-bore musket that was the princedom’s national trademark…

He shook himself. His wandering thoughts were wearing ruts, and it wasn’t as if any of it really mattered. There were more than enough Guardsmen to soak up all the musket balls he had and close with cold steel, which meant—

His thoughts broke off as a dim pool of light glowed suddenly into existence between him and the Guard’s pickets. He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, but the wan radiance refused to vanish, and he poked the nearest sentry.

“Here, you! Go get Father Stomald!”

“Captain Ithun! Look!”

Under-Captain Ithun jumped and smothered a curse as heated wine spilled down his front. The Guard officer—one of the very few native Malagorans in the Temple’s detachment to the restive province—mopped at his breastplate, muttering to himself, and stalked towards the picket who’d shouted.

“Look at what, Surgam?” he demanded irritably. “I don’t—”

His voice died. An amorphous cloud of light hovered five hundred paces away, almost at the edge of the ditch footing the heretic’s earthen rampart. It seethed and wavered, growing brighter as he watched, and his hair tried to stand on end under his helmet. The incredible tales told by the handful of heretics they’d so far captured poured through his mind, and his mouth was dust-dry as the eerie luminescence flowed towards him.

He swallowed. If the heretics were meddling with the Valley of the Damned, then that might be a—

He stopped himself before he thought the word.

“Get Father Uriad!” he snapped, and Private Surgam raced off into the dark with rather more than normal speediness.

“What is it, Tibold?” Stomald had finally managed to fall asleep, and his mind was still logy as he panted from his hasty run.

“Look for yourself, Father,” Tibold said tautly, and Stomald’s mouth fell open. The ball of light was taller than three men and growing taller.

“I— How long has that been there?!”

“No more than five minutes, but—” Tibold’s explanation broke off, and the Guardsman swallowed so hard Stomald heard it plainly even as he fell to his own knees in awe.

The pearly light had suddenly darkened, rearing to a far greater height, and he groped for his starburst as it coalesced into a mighty figure.

“Saint Yorda preserve us!” someone cried, and Stomald’s thoughts echoed the unseen sentry as the blue and gold shape towered in the night, lit by fearsome i

“Dear God!” Under-Captain Ithun whispered.

The light streaming from the unearthly figure washed the gorge walls in rippling waves of blue and gold, and its brown eyes glowed like beacons. He fought his panic, locking trembling sinews against the urge to fall to his knees, and cries of terror rose from his men. A demon, he told himself. It had to be a demon! But there was something in that stern face. Something in the set of that firm mouth. Could it be the heretics were—?

He slashed the thought off, wavering on the brink of flight. If he so much as stepped back his company would vanish, but he was only a man! How—?

“God preserve us!”

He wheeled at the whispered prayer and gasped in relief. He reached out, heedless of discourtesy in his fear, and shook Father Uriad.

“What is it, Father?” he demanded. “In the name of God, what is it?”

“I—” Uriad began, and then the apparition spoke.

“Warriors of Mother Church!”

Stomald gasped, for the rolling thunder of that voice was ten times louder than in Cragsend—a hundred times! All about him men fell to their knees, clapping their hands over their ears as its majesty crashed through them. Surely the very cliffs themselves must fall before its power!

“Warriors of Mother Church,” the angel cried, “turn from this madness! These are not your enemies—they are your brothers! Has Pardal not seen enough blood? Must you turn against the i

The giant figure took one stride forward—a single stride that covered twenty mortal paces—and bent towards the terrified Temple Guard. Sadness touched those stern features, and one huge hand rose pleadingly.

“Look into your hearts, warriors of Mother Church,” the sweet voice thundered. “Look into your souls. Will you stain your hands before man and God with the blood of i

“Demon!” Father Uriad cried as men turned to him in terror. “I tell you, it’s a demon!”

“But—” someone began, and the priest rounded on him in a frenzy.

“Fool! Will you lose your own soul, as well? This is no angel! It is a demon from Hell itself!”

The Guardsmen wavered, and Uriad snatched a musket from a sentry. The man gawked at him, and he charged forward, evading the hands that clutched at him, to face the monster shape alone.

“Demon!” His shrill cry sounded thin and thready after that majestic voice. “Damned and accursed devil! Foul, unclean destroyer of i

The Temple Guard gaped, appalled yet mesmerized by his courage, and the towering shape looked down at him.

“Would you slay your own flock, Priest?” The vast voice was gentle, and clergymen in both armies gasped as it spoke the Holy Tongue. But Uriad was a man above himself, and he threw the musket to his shoulder.

“Begone, curse you!” he screamed, and the musket cracked and flashed.

“That tears it,” Sean muttered, jockeying the fighter as Sandy’s holo image straightened. “Why the hell couldn’t they just run? Got lock, Tam?”

“Yeah. Jesus, I hope that idiot isn’t as close as I think he is!”

“Priest,” the contralto voice rolled like stern, sweet thunder, “you will not lead these men to their own damnation.”

Upper-Priest Uriad stared up, clutching his musket. Powder smoke clawed at his nostrils, but the ball had left its target unmarked and terror pierced the armor of his rage. He trembled, yet if he fled his entire army would do the same, and he pried one clawed hand from the musket stock. He scrabbled at his breast, raising his starburst, and it flashed in his hand, lit by the radiance streaming from the apparition as her own hand pointed at the earth before her.