Rora (34 page)

They had ascended to the very crest, but the fighting had still not come to blows. Along the ridge, the Waldenses had positioned a series of cannons in cave
-like indentations, like a honeycomb. None of the cannons could be attacked from the flanks, and though each cannon had a limited scope because of the walls of the cave, they had positioned them so that they crisscrossed. Each cannon had only to fire upon what was directly in front it. If it was not in front of one cannon, it was in front of another. But every inch of the slope was scarred by grapeshot that had the lethal tendency to skip across the downward sloping cliff as rocks skip across a smooth lake.

To Pianessa's further irritation, many of the balls didn't even kill his men but simply blew off a foot or a few toes.
Still, they could scarce climb with half a foot, so they remained crippled and uselessly alive. But more than once Emmanuel saw Pianessa pause long enough to kill the wounded, an action that inspired those around the traitor to rise on mangled feet and stumble forward.

Emmanuel turned at footsteps that raced up behind him. Drawing his sword to kill, he saw a runner who stumbled breathlessly into Pianessa's
back before the marquis hauled him around with a burly arm and shouted, "What is this?"

The runner was so out of breath he could not speak.

Pianessa struck him. "What is it!"

"Gianavel!" the boy shouted and pointed. "The Pelice!"

For a moment Pianessa scowled. "Gianavel is holding the Pelice? He's not on this side of the valley?"

The boy's head shook.

Teeth bared in a snarl, Pianessa hurled the boy away and advanced without a word. Doubtless, Pianessa had wanted to personally defeat the captain in combat. It would have done great repair to his marred reputation as a military commander. For despite what was said openly within Pianessa's castle, even throughout Piedmont, Gianavel had become the prince of his people. It was competition the marquis neither desired nor needed. And now, even if Pianessa won this war, he would never reclaim his fearsome reputation unless he himself defeated the captain.

More than anyone else, Pianessa knew the security of a powerful military reputation. It was the central truss in his kingdom and, if removed, might precipitate a domino effect that could collapse the rest. For if others followed the Waldensian s example, they could, for certain, harass Pianessa from Piedmont, regardless of his militia and papal endorsement.

Walking boldly up the cliff, Pianessa dared the thickest onslaught of cannon and rifle fire, but Emmanuel was not surprised. While Pianessa was a beast in human form, he was also a soldier of dauntless courage. And when he took the field, he acted as if he were impervious to the death that struck on either side, killing hundreds. Emmanuel understood—Pianessa's very fearlessness was the heart of what made him so feared.

And, now, the summit was within reach.

Six hundred feet of blackened earth, broken stone, and broken men lay in flame and smoking blood and splintered weapons along the Pass of Pelice. It was as though a volcano had erupted to send a firestorm along the ravine, destroying what could be destroyed and burying everything else in the dead dust of an open grave.

***

Rora's defenders rearmed with prearranged weapons. The second wall had been equipped so that they would have to carry nothing from the first. Each man grabbed a loaded rifle, and Blake donned two additional belts of pistols. His re-loaders were miraculously uninjured and settled behind him, trembling.

Blake looked back at them. Both of the young boys were frightened as they should have been frightened. But they had courage—great courage. He understood deeply why these Waldenses were so willing to the death to defend their children, not to mention their way of life.

Pausing, Blake smiled faintly. "We'll be all right, lads. Just keep doing what you've been doing."

They nodded, almost in tears.

But some commander within Pianessa's militia was no fool. He knew what they had done just as he knew they probably did not have a third wall to fall back to. Even now, dim shapes could be seen advancing through the fog-like shroud. Then silhouettes emerged, rifles leveled at the waist, and fired as soon as they saw the second wall—fired in a long, cascading staggered volley that sent hundreds of rounds over their heads or rebounding futilely off stone.

Then Hector and Bertino opened up with the last cannons and the entire militia of Piedmont charged. Within seconds they were before the wall and Rora's defenders rose up, aiming and firing, killing as fast they could pull the triggers. Men fell before their faces and were instan
tly trampled down by others who climbed with hysterical fear and haste over the dead and wounded alike, caring nothing for another man, and the battle was eye to eye and to blows once more.

Gianavel, dagger and sword in hand, took a position upon the wall and struck only once before a man fell back. Then Blake began pulling pistols from his belts and firing them as fast as he could. He could not kill them all,
it’s true, but he could kill one with each shot, and he had eight shots.

Blake fired, and fired, and fired.

And fired his last.

***

Emmanuel summited only seconds behind Pianessa, but when he looked down into the valley he did not witness the massacre he had expected. Rather, the long slope into the valley of Rora was deserted except for the exhausted militia of Piedmont that stumbled, drunken on blood, toward level ground.

At the last moment the Waldenses had fallen back from their fortified positions. They had probably reached the valley in seconds and disappeared into the trees, taking unseen trails or perhaps one of a hundred narrow ravines that crisscrossed the floor.

It was stunning and disheartening that they had charged into the very face of death to finally gain victory and not find a single dead man. But Gianavel would leave none of his wounded and would probably even carry off his dead to make Pianessa believe they were unsuccessful in either an attack or defense. Or, Emmanuel considered, perhaps the Waldensian, out of honor, would simply not leave a man behind.

For either purpose, the effect was the same.

Distant fires cast a long column of smoke into the air and Emmanuel could see from a well-worn path they were near a village of some sort. He saw Pianessa staring about, as if counting how many of his men remained. Although six thousand troops had attacked the slope, less than two thousand reached the summit. Many if not all had been wounded, but they continued to advance, fanning widely and without pattern into the wood line. They fired into every crevice or bush that might have held an enemy, pausing only long enough to see that they hit nothing before moving forward again.

Emmanuel proceeded almost casually, almost gravely, knowing that the rest would unfold as it would unfold. Even if he tried, he would not be able to restrain Pianessa's wrath.
The marquis had already paid too heavy a price for this battle.

Distant shots—surprisingly distant—echoed through the thick trees, and Emmanuel knew that the Waldenses were attempting to maintain a guarded retreat. But no retreat was as safe as an attack, and those still capable of fighting would eventually be forced into desperate last stands where they would certainly die or fade into the caves and trails where they would be hunted down like animals.

Either way, it was over.

Rora had fallen.

* * *

Chapter 18

Blake staggered through the woods killing every man he met who wore the coat of Pianessa. He had fallen back from the wall with the rest when Gianavel had called the retreat. But in the chaos he had lost the boys and the captain and, now, even himself.

He knew only that he was somewhere in a forest and that it was swarming with forces, and he was considered hostile. His mind should have been focused entirely on escape, but he could not deny himself a strange, and even comforting, thought.

That he was caught in this war by accident was no longer a cause for regret because his decision to stand beside Gianavel had changed him on a profound level that men search for but rarely reach. For the first time in his life Blake did not consider himself a thief or a drunkard or a vagabond. He felt that he was more, and that he had always been more, and he didn't think that even death could turn him from what he now knew and held.

Yet he knew that death was inevitable if he continued to run blindly through these trees. But he didn't know where he was going or where the others had gone. He searched for—

"
Blake
!"

If they knew his name, they had his allegiance.

Blake stumbled forward and threw himself headlong into the dark entrance of a cave barely larger than a man.

He didn't care if he was diving into a stone wall. He hadn't a moment to spare. He was instan
tly caught in strong arms and recognized Bertino whispering, "Close it! Close it!"

Sunlight faded from the side and Blake glimpsed a large rock dropped over the tunnel. He knew that above ground the entrance was hidden and had his first thought of safety.

Then he thought of Gianavel.

***

Gianavel reached the village of Rora to see Pianessa’s militia swarming through homes and buildings, exiting with prisoners only to kill them in the streets.

No one was spared.

Rushing across the small space behind Hector's house, his mind was only on Angela and the children. He heard shouting and crashing inside and Gianavel burst through the back door, leveling a rifle in each hand at his waist.

A soldier of Pianessa, wearing a gleeful smile, turned at the intrusion. The smile vanished as Gianavel blasted him backward across the room. Instan
tly Gianavel shot the second man, blasting his dead body into a cabinet. Hurling the rifles forward, Gianavel charged to smash his shoulder into a third man. Catching him across the face with his elbow, Gianavel ripped out his pistol and fired point-blank. The man had not even hit the wall as Gianavel turned and scrambled up the stairway.

"Angela!" he cried, stumbling hard to automatically tear a
long poniard from his boot. He reached the crest and was searching by sound and sight at once.

Empty.

They had fled.

Relief flooded through him, but he had to find them.

Racing down the steps, he met three soldiers in the front who sighted him instantly. No time to think or evade, Gianavel hurled himself into the first man. At the last second he twisted the rifle barrel aside, and then they were bunched in the corner as the other two rifles erupted.

Gianavel drove his dagger into the first man's chest, and as his hand released, he tore the man's pistol from his own belt and killed the second. The third actually dropped his rifle and shouted for mercy as he threw up his hands in surrender—

Gianavel showed none.

With a pistol in each hand Gianavel charged into the street. The fighting was chaotic but soldiers already outnumbered villagers. Everywhere homes were burning and the dead lay in the street, killed indiscriminately. It was clear that Pianessa's orders were to kill everything, man or animal.

And they were.

Gianavel could think of only one other place that Angela might have taken the children and ran into the stables, quickly searching, shouting. He was moving along a wall when he saw a shadow moving parallel to him on the other side of the wall, outside the stable itself. And with the unearthly combat sense that comes wide awake when a man is fighting for his life, he knew every detail.

Taller than Angela ... Shadow of a rifle ... In clear view of the street and still moving ... Not afraid of being seen ...

In the same breath Gianavel cocked and raised and leveled the pistol at the head of the shadow. Without hesitation he instan
tly placed the barrel flush against the thin board and fired and heard a man fall to the ground. He was out the door as quick and lifted the dead man's rifle. He began to ...

"Gianavel!"

Spinning and dropping with the rifle raised, Gianavel instantly recognized Descombie. The priest staggered through the battle, holding Jacob in his arms. The boy was crying and screaming for Gianavel.

As Descombie collapsed, Gianavel caught Jacob from his arms. He didn't listen to his child's cries as the priest struggled for breath, bleeding profusely from the chest.

"Descombie!" Gianavel shouted, knowing there was nothing that could be done to save him. "Where's Angela! The girls!"

"Pianessa!" Descombie shouted painfully and fell forward with a groan. "Captured!"

Gianavel's face twisted in pain and rage.

The priest pushed Gianavel. "Go! Go!" He coughed fitfully, surged up to his knees to grab Gianavel's shirt. His voice was coarse. "Go! If you live, we live! Hurry!"

Without a word Gianavel stared in horror over the village. What had been dozens of soldiers were now over a hundred with more streaming in like locusts from every trail and path. In seconds the village would be completely surrounded and conquered.

"Hurry!" Descombie cried and slumped to the ground.

Gianavel lifted Jacob and turned from his friend, whom he knew would be dead in seconds. He snatched out his dagger and instantly slashed a piece of cloth from the stable wall.