warily at the boulder-strewn slope Pass of Pelice. He saw only deep forest almost black beneath the overlapping crests of trees. There was no sign of Rora's defenders, nor was there any sound. He paused a long time, searching, but saw nothing in the distance, where the trail leveled across the valley. No, nothing...
It was as if Rora had been abandoned with uneaten meals still warm on tables, open doors swaying in haunting silence, open curtains at empty windows with dogs scurrying sideways on dust-devil trails utterly hedged by mountains ominous and silent as gravestones.
Mario looked to the side. "Sergeant!"
The red-bearded man turned his head. His face, also, reflected a sweating tension. His voice was quiet. "Yes, sir?"
"Why haven't they attacked?"
The sergeant major scanned the impenetrable forest once more. "I can't say, sir. If they're lying in ambuscade, they have the patience of devils."
"You're certain that men march parallel on either flank? I don't want to walk into another trap."
"Twenty men march parallel on either slope, sir."
Mario glanced at the size of the regiment. "Is that enough to fight off an ambush?"
The sergeant, too, appeared to be moving at a pace convenient for passing. "Oh no, sir, the fools will be murdered without a survivor. But they'll still sound the alarm."
"If we're attacked, will you charge the slopes?"
The red beard moved almost imperceptibly. "It's foolish to charge uphill against a fortified position, sir. It's like being caught halfway across a river. You can't advance and you can't retreat. The Spaniards are wizards at it, but, then, they're adulterous devils." He continued, quite businesslike, "No, sir, if they hit us from the slope, we'll retreat and barrage their positions with cannons. Beat them down a bit before we charge into their rifles."
Mario slowed his pace even more. "These people are wise, Sergeant. If they see that battle is unavoidable, they'll strike without warning and strike to kill."
"I'm confident the flanks will provide a warning, sir, however abrupt. And a warning is all we need."
Mario's eyes lighted nervously from bush to bush. His voice was quieter than the leaves that rus tled above him.
"Yes ... a warning."
***
As silent as a breeze, Gianavel ripped his poniard from the chest of a soldier that marched on the flank of the regiment. Strewn behind him, the soldiers' comrades, twenty in number, lay in a long scattered line.
The Captain of Rora raised burning eyes at Captain Mario, now so close.
No, there would be no warning.
As he'd anticipated, the first company was comprised of mercenaries and a rank sergeant. But it would do little good to kill expendable mercenaries and a low-level commander. He had to target a commander whose sudden death might throw them into confusion.
Just as with his own men, Gianavel knew that as long as they retained their discipline, they would be difficult to defeat. But when they lost their discipline, when they began fighting like individuals instead of a team, they were already half-defeated.
Silen tly sheathing the poniard, Gianavel angled through the thick stand of poplar until he moved parallel with the standard-bearer, who traditionally stood beside the commander in chief. After Gianavel killed the sergeant, who truly controlled the riflemen, Captain Mario would be next, and then the standard-bearer. He turned his head, gazing across the narrow ravine.
Within one hundred feet, Bertino would open the first volley. Then events would move quickly, and there was no way to predict the enemy's reaction. To charge uphill was certain doom, but to dig into a bad position was little better.
Bent and silent, Gianavel moved alongside the center battalion, his eyes darting from the detachment to the path before him with each step. He avoided twigs and stones and only lightly moved branches that brushed silently over his wool shirt and pants.
He heard the first volley.
Plumes of white smoke erupted on the slope as
It was as if Rora had been abandoned with uneaten meals still warm on tables, open doors swaying in haunting silence, open curtains at empty windows with dogs scurrying sideways on dust-devil trails utterly hedged by mountains ominous and silent as gravestones.
Mario looked to the side. "Sergeant!"
The red-bearded man turned his head. His face, also, reflected a sweating tension. His voice was quiet. "Yes, sir?"
"Why haven't they attacked?"
The sergeant major scanned the impenetrable forest once more. "I can't say, sir. If they're lying in ambuscade, they have the patience of devils."
"You're certain that men march parallel on either flank? I don't want to walk into another trap."
"Twenty men march parallel on either slope, sir."
Mario glanced at the size of the regiment. "Is that enough to fight off an ambush?"
The sergeant, too, appeared to be moving at a pace convenient for passing. "Oh no, sir, the fools will be murdered without a survivor. But they'll still sound the alarm."
"If we're attacked, will you charge the slopes?"
The red beard moved almost imperceptibly. "It's foolish to charge uphill against a fortified position, sir. It's like being caught halfway across a river. You can't advance and you can't retreat. The Spaniards are wizards at it, but, then, they're adulterous devils." He continued, quite businesslike, "No, sir, if they hit us from the slope, we'll retreat and barrage their positions with cannons. Beat them down a bit before we charge into their rifles."
Mario slowed his pace even more. "These people are wise, Sergeant. If they see that battle is unavoidable, they'll strike without warning and strike to kill."
"I'm confident the flanks will provide a warning, sir, however abrupt. And a warning is all we need."
Mario's eyes lighted nervously from bush to bush. His voice was quieter than the leaves that rus tled above him.
"Yes ... a warning."
***
As silent as a breeze, Gianavel ripped his poniard from the chest of a soldier that marched on the flank of the regiment. Strewn behind him, the soldiers' comrades, twenty in number, lay in a long scattered line.
The Captain of Rora raised burning eyes at Captain Mario, now so close.
No, there would be no warning.
As he'd anticipated, the first company was comprised of mercenaries and a rank sergeant. But it would do little good to kill expendable mercenaries and a low-level commander. He had to target a commander whose sudden death might throw them into confusion.
Just as with his own men, Gianavel knew that as long as they retained their discipline, they would be difficult to defeat. But when they lost their discipline, when they began fighting like individuals instead of a team, they were already half-defeated.
Silen tly sheathing the poniard, Gianavel angled through the thick stand of poplar until he moved parallel with the standard-bearer, who traditionally stood beside the commander in chief. After Gianavel killed the sergeant, who truly controlled the riflemen, Captain Mario would be next, and then the standard-bearer. He turned his head, gazing across the narrow ravine.
Within one hundred feet, Bertino would open the first volley. Then events would move quickly, and there was no way to predict the enemy's reaction. To charge uphill was certain doom, but to dig into a bad position was little better.
Bent and silent, Gianavel moved alongside the center battalion, his eyes darting from the detachment to the path before him with each step. He avoided twigs and stones and only lightly moved branches that brushed silently over his wool shirt and pants.
He heard the first volley.
Plumes of white smoke erupted on the slope as
Similar Books
