the mountain.
Pianessa suddenly erupted with a laugh, drawing the attention of a lieutenant who sat beside him on horseback. The merciless guffaw seemed to have nothing of human pleasure within it, but there was harsh pleasure, nonetheless.
The lieutenant studied Pianessa s barbaric countenance, asked, "Something you see, sire?"
Pianessa settled back into his saddle. His huge hands closed on the flat, wooden horn, reins held easily. "Nothing, Cassius," he commented. "I was simply wondering if the Vaudois have any idea what is going to befall them when that regiment descends on their village."
Cassius, tall and lean with an aquiline face that gave him an almost aristocratic air, shrugged. "I expect they've heard what befell the valley, sire— rape, murder, pillaging, burning." He paused. "It doesn't matter if the Waldenses renounce their faith. The Inquisitors have issued orders to kill them all."
"Indeed," Pianessa murmured and was silent for so long that the lieu-tenant was watching curiously when he spoke again. "But tell me, Lieutenant. Would you lead that battalion knowing that Gianavel and his people are waiting for you?"
Cassius took a deeper breath and leaned back, stiffening as he gazed upward at the slope. He said nothing, but a sudden, frozen paleness in his face answered for him.
Pianessa laughed loudly and spurred his stallion toward the field. "Neither would I."
Bertino spun as the runner, a scout, arrived at the camp breathless and sweating heavily. He staggered the final few steps, and Bertino caught him by the shoulders.
"What is it, boy?"
The boy gasped, "A battalion. At least a thousand! They're coming!"
"How long?"
"An hour!" the boy cried. "Less!"
Gianavel lifted his rifle and walked forward. His poise was calm. There was nothing about him that matched those who surged quickly and nervously to don weapons and equipment. His voice was cold as he spoke to Bertino. "Keep a close eye on signals. The more chaotic the battle, the more important are our communications."
" Oui !" Bertino nodded and turned to a small platoon often men. "You know what to do!"
Hector walked quickly past the Captain of Rora, his men close behind the elderly man, though he said nothing and didn't glance to insure they were following. When they were gone, Gianavel lifted two extra rifles that he slung across his back.
He, alone, had no one to reload for him. He would attack the most critical, and most heavily guarded, elements of the battalion, striking at the head to kill the body. To take out the general was a mission best suited for six coordinated men, but he would risk no one else in the attempt. So he would run the gauntlet himself. He had only to seize the opportunity when it was there and execute with precision, then retreat quickly without a single mistake.
It was possible, Gianavel knew, because it would be at close range, and everything at close range was chaotic. Shots fired from ten feet easily went wide. Men swiped wildly with sabers, afraid they would lose their own head if they struck a second too late. And their fear would be his advantage because he had no fear. No, he had no fear, for he knew what was awaiting him—death. And the victory he would claim would make all the rest seem as nothing.
With a last impulse, he slid two more poniards into his belt, which would be quickly discarded because he would be too close for rifle or pistol with no time to reload and no time to retreat. It was the only way to do it. For, if he failed, he would be the one to pay the cost.
When all were gone, Gianavel paused. Though he revealed nothing, the fire was in his blood—the sunlight was bright, brighter, his blood fast, his hands tingling. Everything about him was white and dangerous, even the leaves that swayed beyond the camp. It was the mind he would keep until the killing was done.
With long strides he vanished into the trees.
* * *
Chapter 6
C aptain Mario brushed a tree branch aside. glaring
Pianessa suddenly erupted with a laugh, drawing the attention of a lieutenant who sat beside him on horseback. The merciless guffaw seemed to have nothing of human pleasure within it, but there was harsh pleasure, nonetheless.
The lieutenant studied Pianessa s barbaric countenance, asked, "Something you see, sire?"
Pianessa settled back into his saddle. His huge hands closed on the flat, wooden horn, reins held easily. "Nothing, Cassius," he commented. "I was simply wondering if the Vaudois have any idea what is going to befall them when that regiment descends on their village."
Cassius, tall and lean with an aquiline face that gave him an almost aristocratic air, shrugged. "I expect they've heard what befell the valley, sire— rape, murder, pillaging, burning." He paused. "It doesn't matter if the Waldenses renounce their faith. The Inquisitors have issued orders to kill them all."
"Indeed," Pianessa murmured and was silent for so long that the lieu-tenant was watching curiously when he spoke again. "But tell me, Lieutenant. Would you lead that battalion knowing that Gianavel and his people are waiting for you?"
Cassius took a deeper breath and leaned back, stiffening as he gazed upward at the slope. He said nothing, but a sudden, frozen paleness in his face answered for him.
Pianessa laughed loudly and spurred his stallion toward the field. "Neither would I."
Bertino spun as the runner, a scout, arrived at the camp breathless and sweating heavily. He staggered the final few steps, and Bertino caught him by the shoulders.
"What is it, boy?"
The boy gasped, "A battalion. At least a thousand! They're coming!"
"How long?"
"An hour!" the boy cried. "Less!"
Gianavel lifted his rifle and walked forward. His poise was calm. There was nothing about him that matched those who surged quickly and nervously to don weapons and equipment. His voice was cold as he spoke to Bertino. "Keep a close eye on signals. The more chaotic the battle, the more important are our communications."
" Oui !" Bertino nodded and turned to a small platoon often men. "You know what to do!"
Hector walked quickly past the Captain of Rora, his men close behind the elderly man, though he said nothing and didn't glance to insure they were following. When they were gone, Gianavel lifted two extra rifles that he slung across his back.
He, alone, had no one to reload for him. He would attack the most critical, and most heavily guarded, elements of the battalion, striking at the head to kill the body. To take out the general was a mission best suited for six coordinated men, but he would risk no one else in the attempt. So he would run the gauntlet himself. He had only to seize the opportunity when it was there and execute with precision, then retreat quickly without a single mistake.
It was possible, Gianavel knew, because it would be at close range, and everything at close range was chaotic. Shots fired from ten feet easily went wide. Men swiped wildly with sabers, afraid they would lose their own head if they struck a second too late. And their fear would be his advantage because he had no fear. No, he had no fear, for he knew what was awaiting him—death. And the victory he would claim would make all the rest seem as nothing.
With a last impulse, he slid two more poniards into his belt, which would be quickly discarded because he would be too close for rifle or pistol with no time to reload and no time to retreat. It was the only way to do it. For, if he failed, he would be the one to pay the cost.
When all were gone, Gianavel paused. Though he revealed nothing, the fire was in his blood—the sunlight was bright, brighter, his blood fast, his hands tingling. Everything about him was white and dangerous, even the leaves that swayed beyond the camp. It was the mind he would keep until the killing was done.
With long strides he vanished into the trees.
* * *
Chapter 6
C aptain Mario brushed a tree branch aside. glaring
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