Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  His armor was solid black, a combination of chain mail and stained leather carefully fitted with straps to conform to his enormous form and to allow vast freedom of movement in the shoulders. It was not plate steel, since no plate armor was reckoned reliable for stopping either a crossbow bolt or a musket round. Rather, it was armor built to withstand random longbow hits and heavy attacks by sword or dagger. Clearly, the marquis expected a vast amount of the fighting to be hand to hand, and he had caught the scent of blood.

  Pianessa was one of the last marquis as they had been in days of old. He considered himself a true military leader and not a pawn of whatever reigning monarch chance had placed in command. After all, monarchs passed at a disturbing rate, but a marquis who could defend his borders and possessed the financial resources to compensate for external threats could remain in power for decades.

  His new sword, half again as long as his arm, was sheathed across his back, but it would be switched to his belt when the time for battle drew near. Three flintlock pistols and two daggers completed Pianessa's armament and his horse bore two rifles. Six servants had reserve armor and weapons prepared. They would also reload his rifles if Pianessa himself engaged in musketry.

  Dominating the dais, Pianessa leaned upon the map table. His face reflected an absolute concentration completely devoid of mercy or the cost of casualties for either side. He was in a warrior mode, now, and men were as meaningless as chaff. To be concerned about conserving soldiers was an activity appropriate for a war conclave. Upon the field of battle the preeminent interest was victory. A conservation of men set to survive the battle was a base point if the battle was lost.

  Nothing was said to interrupt Pianessa, and he continued to study the map, as though disturbed by something he could not understand. His countenance began to harden as if to discern whether there was a weakness to his plans. But he gave no indication of doubt when he turned to Duncan, the sergeant major.

  "This is our last attack on these people." Pianessa looked back at the map, and Duncan stepped forward. "This time we will destroy everything. Every child, every babe, every man and woman and old man and woman. Everything."

  "Yes, My Lord."

  Pianessa lifted his face so that those who dared could look into his eyes. "We climb the cliff of the Castelluzo in absolute silence. We will attack in the morning when all are in position. And if any man reveals our position I will take his head myself."

  "Understood, sir."

  Without a shadow of pleasure Pianessa concentrated once more. It was one of his strongest faculties that he never displayed any sign of satisfaction until a battle was absolutely settled. Until then his every word and gesture and glance would communicate only cold will and ruthless determination.

  "With night, proceed across the river and begin the climb," he said at last, straightening. "I will ride up the pass with a contingent after the battle begins and their bastions are destroyed. Make certain their bastions are quickly destroyed." He paused, added, "I do not fancy riding into a hail of this man's musketeers. He has trained them well."

  "Absolutely, My Lord. I will personally see to the bastions guarding the pass."

  With a long look over the warlords assembled on the dais, Pianessa turned away and descended the steps.

  No one thought twice about the overworked cook who slipped into the forest to gather herbs for the feast of slaughtered cows cast over bonfires on heavy iron stakes. His every nuance declared that he was in no mood for trifles, and impatient men hungered.

  ***

  No one noticed when they saw him rooting along the far side of the Plain of Giovanni, searching with a dagger for some unintelligible root that he claimed would cure the stomach ailments of the men and provide long-lasting strength on the steady climb. After all, he had already made massive heaps of the most digestible curry—a meat paste mixed with raw root and assorted leaves—for Pianessa's Royal Guard. And each soldier had a sackful tied to his waist.

  No one even noticed when darkness fell, and he could only be glimpsed as he rose and scraped beneath distant, pitch-black heaps of foliage, refusing to return until he had obtained what he sought. But men noticed when, after an hour, he had still not returned. And they took special notice when the patrol sent for him returned shaking their heads, declaring that he had vanished.

  Gianavel exited the hut to the fervent activity of the makeshift camp high on the Castelluzo. Men were scurrying in every direction to execute his orders and the orders of Jahier. Another captain, Laurentio, had not joined them and was commanding a squad rushing fallen logs to quickly selected ridges.

  It would take some work to prepare for the coming event, but there was no time to worry about time. It was a common mistake of men to glance at the sun when they were desperately attempting to beat the sunset. All a man's energy should be focused on what he needed to accomplish, not on what he needed to defeat. All the desperation in the world would not slow the sun's descent, but every extra iota of skill and concentration would hasten the completion of the task.

  A man in charge of marksmen rushed forward. Gianavel turned to him as he began speaking, somewhat breathless. "Do we stagger the men up and down the cliff, or do we make a line across the ridge?"

  "A single line," answered Gianavel confidently. "No man is to be in front of another."

  The man turned as another rushed forward, grabbing Gianavel's arm. "How far down the cliff do we position men with torches?"

  "I will position them when I arrive," Gianavel said, and that man also rushed off, almost in the steps of the other.

  It was not that the questions were difficult or that the men themselves could not have answered them with common sense. That was not what they needed or truly sought. But with each terse, simple answer, Gianavel provided for each by making himself a strong and fearless general whose strength would flow through the rest, even more contagious than their fear because men would choose courage over fear just as life over death.

  It was admirable to make a defiant stand against overwhelming odds— even fearful men could be compelled do such a thing to save their lives. But they would fight like fearful men and flee like fearful men if the battle seemed lost. It was the mark of strong leadership and daunting courage to inspire men to choose for themselves to make such a stand because of a purpose greater than themselves—the only thing that would give a man the ultimate resolve to defend a doomed position with his life.

  Yet, even beyond that, he felt a responsibility for the souls of his men that would surpass this battle in either victory or defeat. If his men were to die, he prayed that they might know even a small measure of the confidence he possessed that death itself had been defeated.

  Only if a man fears death can death conquer him.

  ***

  Mario twisted his face to stare into the crystal clear sky, then grimaced toward the private who was hanging so tenuously on the cliff beside him. Together they led the first company of Irish up the sheer face of the Castelluzo, which appeared, at a distance, un-climbable. But at arm's length, a number of narrow hand and footholds could be discerned that would carry a man to the crest. Still, if a man lost his grip and balance, there would be no long, sliding, bruising descent so that he crashed broken and gasping in the river below. No, if a man came loose from this cursed rock, his return to the earth would be non-injurious and, perhaps, reflective, until he reached that sudden stop at the base.

  The first company had climbed to nearly five hundred feet—not cloud-crested but high enough when there was nothing between you and the ground but air. The second company was just beginning the ascent, and the third company would follow. Pianessa had issued clear instructions that all companies should not be simultaneously on the face, lest some fool in the leading platoon precipitate a plunge that would tear men from the cliff like ivy from a fence.

  Mario, face glistening with sweat, spoke to the private. "When we reach the top, we attack at once!"

  The private froze. "What?"

/>   "I said we attack at once!"

  The private's trembling said what his words did not. "But the marquis said that we have to wait for the other companies!"

  Mario didn't respond.

  "Sir!"

  "I know what he said!" Mario's words were a hiss, as if it were possible someone might overhear. "But I will not wait for the others!"

  "But why?"

  "Because no one else will get the glory for this victory!" Mario was grinning now. "I will have Gianavel's head on a pike! And then I'll take it to Savoy! He'll be forced to make me a general!"

  Frozen again, the private carefully turned his head to stare out over the valley, as if Pianessa might be spying upon them to understand their words. As if he weren't certain whether to continue or not, he finally said, "Yes, sir. Whatever you say."

  "Worry for nothing!" Mario laughed. "I will show Pianessa what a real soldier is!"

  ***

  Hands behind his back, Pianessa turned toward a sergeant bent over a Galileo-vintage telescope. Although it had been expressly designed for studying the stars and planets, it served well enough to keep the company in sight as they scaled the cliff. Pianessa s face reflected an uncertainty that had been completely absent when he'd detailed instructions of attack to the men.

  "Well?" he asked impatiently.

  The sergeant hesitated, peering. "Ah ... I see nothing, My Lord."

  Pianessa didn't move. "Nothing?"

  "No, sire." He shifted the telescope a fraction that probably moved its scope two hundred feet on the cliff. "There's nothing at the summit—no movement, nothing."

  "No torches?" Pianessa said with a step forward.

  "I see nothing, sire." He pressed his eye tight against the optical gold cylinder. "I believe it is deserted."

  With a grunt Pianessa resumed pacing, black-gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. There was energy in his steps, as if hectic emotion could not be contained within subdued movement. As he returned he raised a hand, his mouth opening. Then he shut it as quickly and turned away yet again, bent and concentrated.

  "AYYA!"

  "What!" Pianessa shouted as he spun.

  "My Lord! Fire!"

  Pianessa spun to stare at the Castelluzo, where a long line of fire had erupted along the rim, as if a sleeping volcano had suddenly come to life, awakening to angrily search for whatever foolish thing had disturbed its peaceful slumber.

  Mario heard the "whoosh" not so high above but somehow he couldn't place it until the private shouted in alarm and Mario followed the wide gaze to see the crest of the cliff ablaze with hundreds of torches. Seconds later, pieces of clay descended over them like dust, harmless and annoying, but gone quickly.

  Craning his head back, Mario thought he could observe distinct shapes in the waving light of torches and at first opened his mouth to shout before thinking better. He continued to stare as one of the men walked to the crest, peering down with torch in hand.

  The man was tall, middle-aged, and wore a loose-sleeved white shirt beneath a heavy black cloak, and then Mario remembered the face—the face he had seen across the bridge at Rora.

  Gianavel.

  Then, to Mario's utter horror, he saw that the Captain of Rora was smiling.

  ***

  Pianessa had not moved. His eyes were fixed on the crest of the mountain as he grated, "What's happening?"

  The sergeant shifted, swinging the telescope left to right, an eye pressed hard to the lens. "I don't know, My Lord! They're just standing there! But they ... Oh no!"

  With three rushing strides Pianessa was at the telescope and flung the sergeant aside like an empty rucksack. He pressed his face against the telescope and froze. After a moment he muttered, "What are they doing? Why don't they shoot?"

  The answer came a second later as a huge bonfire erupted with a roar that thundered over the mountain and valley itself, and the sky above the cliff was domed in a hellish glow.

  ***

  Mario had the distinct impression that the mountain itself had erupted, hurling fire hundreds of feet into the freezing air, and the blaze—logs stacked at the rim—was so hot that Mario felt waves like an ocean of heat flowing down the cliff over him, unnatural and threatening and sentient.

  He barely opened his mouth to scream when Gianavel lashed out with his sword and cut something, and then the sky disappeared behind a wall of solid flame that flowed like lava down the face of the Castelluzo. Mario was aware of clawing the smooth rock for a better grip as the fire rushed down over him, and then the world disappeared with men screaming in horror and pain.

  ***

  Pianessa came down three feet from the telescope, having leaped back as everything within the view of the telescope disappeared in a roaring circle of white that seemed to travel through the golden cylinder to erupt into his face.

  Then across the distance he heard a roar pushed low across the valley by the cold, rumbling thick and heavy with cloud and the latest wisps of winter. The ground trembled beneath their feet and horses reared, straining at the reins, trampling those around them in sudden fear.

  Pianessa staggered forward, reaching impotently toward the mount where fire cascaded down the face as if to halt the destruction tearing down over his carefully marshaled troops, wiping them from that rock amid crashing impacts and distant screams that seemed faint and thin beneath the violence. Voices were shouting throughout the camp, and men were running in confusion.

  One voice rose above the rest.

  "Sire! Sire!"

  Pianessa turned with a snarl, fiercely holding control. The sergeant stood close, but not so close that he might be struck down by the marquis in his wrath.

  "Sire! What do we do?"

  Staring strangely at the question, Pianessa seemed not to have understood the language. He looked again to the mountain to see other huge timbers leaping alive with fire, and then avalanches descended into defenseless troops clinging desperately to the wall, if any still lived.

  Finally he barked, "Retreat!"

  Instantly the sergeant lifted his arm across his chest to drop it, and an archer on the outskirts of the camp fired a flaming arrow in a high arch. In the distance another arrow was fired, and then another until the arching signal reached the Castelluzo, where horns were heard to sound the call of retreat. But there was no retreating from that perilous face in the darkness, and still more fire descended from the ridge.

  Then, faintly intermingled within the screams and howls and wounded cries, echoed the sound of muskets as a hundred flashes erupted along the skyline of white cloud, illuminated by the flames, each sliver of lightning reaching down the flaming face of the Castelluzo that had become the face of war.

  ***

  Racing along the summit, Gianavel took only seconds to glance at each platoon to insure they were holding themselves behind cover as they fired into the motionless troops on the cliff face. He leaped a keg of gunpowder and glanced down to see a flaming graveyard of men screaming in pain and fear and almost hesitated.

  He did not realize his mouth opened in pain and did not know his face reflected emotions unfit for a warrior before he turned away, rushing farther. But when he reached Jahier and his men jamming iron into the barrel of a two-thousand-pound cannon, he again looked like a commander that knew no mercy—no, there would be no mercy tonight.

  "Have you loaded it like I said?" Gianavel shouted over the rifle fire and bellows and conflict.

  "Enough powder to level a mountain!" Jahier shouted.

  Gianavel threw his shoulder to a wheel and strained to push the can-non to the edge. "Hurry!"

  Jahier took position on the other side of the huge barrel. He was straining with a dozen men who fell in behind them. But Gianavel heard his voice over the tide of moans that rose from the crest. "How long do you want the fuse!"

  When the captain didn't respond, Jahier called out again, but by then Gianavel was at the fuse, ripping out his dagger to count silently as he slid his hand down the powdered string
. He slashed it and lit it within a heartbeat.

  "Now!"

  They pushed the cannon down the slight slope to the edge, and then its own momentum took it into the darkness like a whale disappearing into a white flaming sea of trapped souls.

  With iron wedged tight into the barrel and gunpowder hard packed the entire length, the cannon would fire, but the expanding force would find no release, so the barrel would explode, lancing the Castelluzo with a thousand deadly missiles of iron that would penetrate flesh or bone or stone or whatever else was in their path.

  Gianavel fell to a knee, counting.

  "Seven seconds, second company ... four, five.

  The explosion tore heated air from their lungs as it threw up a huge layer of sky past the summit, staggering them as it staggered the mountain, and then night took form as the shock wave hit and the carefully positioned barrels of oil ignited on the face of the Castelluzo like the breath of a dragon repelling those who had so foolishly attacked it in its lair. The flame blocked out the sky and the land together before a stunning rush of darkness closed on them and snapped shut like black fangs, and it was only then that Gianavel realized he had never heard the sound of it.

  ***

  Mario rolled across a rock ledge, where he had miraculously fallen, and finally stumbled to his feet, trampling down men whose limbs were grotesquely twisted and others who were not there at all as they writhed on the bloody rocks that were black in the darkness and starlight. He saw the slope of a rock and was upon it as he heard the rushing water beneath and wondered how he might descend to reach the holy safety of the flat earth when he sensed a rushing behind him.

  He half turned to see wild-eyed men still holding swords rushing toward him and knew they would kill him for this, but they ignored him, shoving him between themselves as they surged past him to retreat from the rock, and suddenly the rock beneath his right foot vanished.