Heirs of Empire

Still, he reminded himself, the odds were formidable. None of Malagor had remained loyal to the Church, but the “heretics” had far too few weapons for their manpower, and garrisoning the Thirgan Gap fortresses had drawn off over half of their strength, while the Temple had over two hundred thousand Guardsmen in eastern North Hylar, not even counting any of the secular armies.

Yet Tibold no longer doubted God was on their side, and while he knew too much of war to expect His direct intervention, Lord Sean and Lord Tamman were certainly the next best thing.

Sean closed the spyglass and rolled onto his back to stare up into the sky. Lord God, he was tired! He hadn’t expected it to be easy—indeed, he’d feared the Pardalians would resist his i

Not that Sean intended to complain. His troops were incomparably better armed (those who were armed at all!) than anything they were likely to face, and if he’d been disappointed in Israel’s productivity, he’d been amazed by how quickly the Malagoran guilds had begun producing new weapons from the prototypes “the angels” had provided.

He’d been totally unprepared for the hordes of skilled artisans who’d popped up out of the ground, but he’d forgotten that Earth’s own industrial revolution had begun with waterwheels. Pardal—and especially Malagor—had developed its own version of the assembly line, despite its limitation to wind, water, or muscle power, and that required a lot of craftsmen. Most had declared for “the angels”—as much, Sean suspected, from frustration at the Church’s tech limitations as in response to any miracles “the angels” had wrought—but even with their tireless enthusiasm, there were never enough hours in the day.

Nor did the long year Pardal’s huge orbital radius produced ease things. On a planet where spring lasted for five standard months and summer for ten, the campaigning seasons of Terra’s preindustrial armies were a useless meterstick. Sean was devoutly thankful the Temple had seen fit to postpone operations for over two months while it indoctrinated its troops, but a delay which would have meant having to hold the Temple off only until the weather closed in on Terra meant nothing of the sort here. He faced an immediate, decisive campaign, and the sheer size of Pardalian armies appalled him. There were over a hundred thousand men headed up the Keldark Valley, and by tomorrow—the day after at latest—a lot of people were going to die.

Too many people, whichever side they’re on, but there’s not a damned thing I can do about that.

He clapped Tibold on the shoulder, and, despite everything, his heart rose at the older man’s confident grin as they headed for their branahlks.

Stomald rose as the Angel Harry entered the command tent to update the “situation map.” She smiled, and he knew she was chiding him for his display of respect, but he couldn’t help it. And, he reminded himself, he had finally managed to stop addressing her and the Angel Sandy as “angels,” even if he didn’t understand why they were so adamant about that. But, then, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand. He’d expected the angels to be angry when the army’s mood began to shift, yet they were actually pleased to see the troops becoming Malagoran nationalists rather than religious heretics.

He watched her work. She was a head taller than he, and even more beautiful (and younger) than he’d remembered, now that her face was alive with thought and humor, and he chided himself—again—as he thought of the body hidden by her raiment. She might not use his people with the authority which was her right, but she was an angel.

She cocked her head to check her work with her remaining eye, and he bit his lip in familiar anguish. Her other terrible wounds had healed with angelic speed, but that black eye patch twisted his heart each time he saw it. Yet despite all Cragsend had done to her, there was no hate in the Angel Harry. Stomald didn’t believe she could hate, not after the gentleness with which she always spoke to him, the man who’d almost burned her alive.

She turned from the map, and amusement deepened her smile as he blushed under her regard. But it didn’t embarrass him further. Instead, he felt himself smiling back.

“Sandy will have a fresh update in a few hours,” she said in the Holy Tongue. “We’re keeping a closer eye on them now that they’re approaching.”

“I’m no soldier—or,” he corrected himself wryly, “I was no soldier—but that seems wise to me.”

“Don’t belittle yourself. You’re fortunate to have a captain like Tibold—and Sean and Tamman, of course—but you’ve got a good eye for these things yourself.”

He bent his head, basking in her praise, but before he could say anything more Lord Sean walked in, followed by Tibold.

Lord Sean touched his breastplate in respectful salute, and the angel acknowledged it gravely, yet Stomald noted the twinkle in her eye. For just an instant, he resented it, and then shame buried his pique. She was an angel, and Lord Sean was the Angel Sandy’s chosen champion.

“Is that the latest update?” Lord Sean’s Pardalian had developed a distinct Malagoran accent in the past five days, and he smiled as the angel nodded. He moved closer to the map and leaned forward beside her to study it.

Tibold gri

Lord Sean was murmuring to the Angel Harry in that other odd-sounding language they often spoke. Stomald suspected they sometimes forgot no one else understood it (Lord Sean always fell back into Pardalian whenever he remembered others were present), and the young war captain’s ability to speak it awed the heretic priest. To be so close to the angels he spoke their own tongue almost unthinkingly must be wondrous, indeed.

Lord Sean stood back from the map at last, and his eyes were pensive. “Tibold, I think they’ll hit our forward pickets this afternoon. Do you agree?”

Tibold studied the map a moment and nodded.

“Then it’s time,” Lord Sean sighed. “I’ll speak to Tamman again, but you have a word with the under-captains. Make sure they keep their heads. We’re fighting for survival, not honor, and we don’t want any wasted lives.”

“I will, Lord Sean,” Tibold promised, obviously pleased by the Captain-General’s concern for his men, and Lord Sean turned to Stomald.

“I expect to hold them, Father, but are we ready if we can’t?”

“We are, Lord Sean. I’ve sent the last of the women back to safety, and the nioharqs will be in the traces by dawn, ready to advance or retreat.”

Lord Sean nodded in satisfaction, then nodded again as the Angel Harry murmured something too soft for any other ears to hear.