“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.”