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 innocent to shed still more?”
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 innocent babes and women?”
“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 innocence! I cast you out! Begone to the Hell from whence you came!”
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.
“These innocents are under my protection, Priest. I have no wish for any to die, but if die someone must, it will not be they!”
A brilliant ray of light speared from her massive finger.
Tamman tightened as the fighter’s main battery locked onto the laser designator within that beam. He took one more second, making himself double-check his readings. God, it was going to be close. They’d never counted on some idiot being gutsy enough to come to meet Sandy’s holo image!
The ray of light touched the ground, and twenty thousand voices cried out in terror as a massive trench scored itself across the valley, wider than a tall man’s height and thrice as deep. Dirt and dust vomited upward as the very bedrock exploded, and Father Uriad flew backward like a toy.
The raw smell of rock dust choked nose and throat, and it was too much. The Guardsmen screamed and turned as one. Sentries cast aside weapons. Artillerists abandoned their guns. Cooks threw down their ladles. Anything that might slow a man was hurled away, and the Temple Guard of Malagor stampeded into the night in howling madness.
The ray of light died, and the blue-and-gold shape turned from the shattered hosts of Mother Church to face Father Stomald’s people.
The young priest drove himself to his feet, standing atop the rampart to face the angel he’d tried to slay, and the burning splendor of her eyes swept over him. He felt his followers’ fear against his back, yet awe and reverence held them in their places, and the angel smiled gently.
“I will come among you,” she told them, “in a form less frightening. Await me.”
And the majestic shape of light and glory vanished.
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.