And when all those changes were added together, the Angels’ Army could produce a weight of fire no experienced commander would have believed possible. Instead of once every five minutes, its artillerists fired three times in two minutes—even faster, using the “fixed rounds” at close range. Instead of thirty rounds an hour, its musketeers—no, its riflemen—could fire three or even four a minute and hit targets they could hardly even see! Tibold still wasn’t certain fire alone could break a phalanx, but he wouldn’t care to charge against such weapons.
Perhaps even better, there were maps. Wonderful maps, with every feature to scale and none left out. It was kind of the angels to try to make them look like those he’d always used, and he lacked the heart to tell them they’d failed when they seemed so pleased by their efforts, but no mortal cartographer could have produced them. Some of his militiamen hadn’t realized how valuable they were, but he’d worn his voice hoarse until they did. To know exactly how the ground looked, where the best march routes lay, and precisely where the enemy might be hidden—and where your own troops could be best deployed—was truly a gift worthy of angels.
Best of all, the angels always knew what was happening elsewhere. The big map in the command tent showed every hostile army’s exact position, and the angels updated it regularly. The sheer luxury of it was addictive. He was glad Lord Sean continued to emphasize scouting, but knowing where and how strong every major enemy force was made things so much simpler … especially when the enemy didn’t know those things about you.
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 innovations, and the eagerness with which they’d accepted them instead was a tremendous relief—but even so, he’d underestimated the sheer, grinding labor of it all, and he’d expected to get more advantage from Israel’s machine shops. To be sure, Sandy’s stealthed flights to shuttle muskets back and forth for rifling had been an enormous help, but this was Sean’s first personal contact with the reality of military logistics, and he’d been horrified by the voracious appetite of even a small, primitively-armed army. Brashan and his computer-driven minions had been able to modify existing weapons at a gratifying rate, but producing large numbers of even unsophisticated weapons would quickly have devoured Israel’s resources.
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.