But hate does not endure like love; it is the awareness of pain that destroys, not pain itself.
Emmanuel commented mildly, "So you meet Gianavel in the morning?"
"I meet him if he is not warned that I am coming," Pianessa commented as he cinched his sword belt. "I do not fancy chasing the Waldensian across the countryside. He retreats far too brilliantly."
The Duke of Savoy had noticed that Pianessa's thirst for battle had lessened somewhat in recent months. As the tide of the war inevitably began to change, so had Pianessa's love for it. And as he saw Gianavel increasing and himself decreasing, he had become almost contemptuous of more battle. Not that Pianessa openly admitted any inevitability at all. He did not comment on his defeats, but neither did he comment on Gianavel's victories.
"I understand you'll have the captain outnumbered by at least ten to one," Emmanuel said.
Pianessa waved off the comment as though it was an irritation and not encouragement. "Gianavel has an uncanny way of neutralizing superiority of numbers. He simply falls back and circles and hits one small segment at a time. Then he falls back again, circles, and hits another segment. Before it is over he has hit my entire battalion without ever actually making a stand." He frowned. “His philosophy, when outnumbered, is to keep moving and fight one piece at a time. That’s why superior numbers are no guarantee of success when you face the Waldensian.”
Sensing the marquis' severe mood, Emmanuel mused it was not a good moment to comment. So he watched as the marquis finished preparations and stood in silence a moment, head bowed as if studying the exacting map of Angrogna. It seemed that Pianessa would say something more, then the marquis turned and simply walked out of the tent. Emmanuel heard him calling orders to commanders, mounting his horse.
There was nothing more for Emmanuel to do. The war was playing out before his eyes, even if no one else could see.
He meandered slowly through the now quiet castle and indifferently watched a group of Inquisitors rushing in something like panic to where Inquisitor General Thomas Incomel and the dark priest had been enjoying that last bottle of wine.
Emmanuel didn't have to ask the reason.
*
Chapter 24
The sky was a flat, gray blade as far as the eye could scan. A sunrise the color of blood made the morning right for battle and for killing. The entire world was violent and dismissive—a good day to die without regret of anything lost.
Peering narrowly over a chunk of ground, Pianessa studied the terrain, noting that last night’s rain would muffle footfalls for a hundred paces. With this water-soaked sod they could march into Angrogna without a hint of their approach. It would be an advantage—the last advantage he needed to defeat Gianavel’s meager force.
Inside the walls of St. Bartholomew’s, Gianavel’s men could be seen moving in the early morning haze. The captain himself was not visible but the sentry appeared bored.
It was the break Pianessa had been awaiting.
He would not neglect it.
Slowly, quietly, Pianessa slid down the mound until he was solidly shielded from view. Beside him rested two commanders and three captains. He whispered, “Attack fast through the gate. Once we are inside we should finish them within a few hours.”
They nodded tensely and Pianessa added, “No matter what, give no warning. Charge only when you hear the trumpet sound from my area. Understand?”
Again they nodded and then slid off into separate directions. Pianessa removed a canteen and drank heavily. It might be the last chance before the end of the fight. Then he searched narrowly over the rise once more; yes, they were unaware— completely unaware.
It was all the advantage he needed.
Setting a freshly prepared pistol on a wooden case that doubled as breakfast table and gun rack, Blake noticed Bertino. The big man was noticeably slimmer than when they began three months ago but retained his implacable aura of strength.
At the moment he was boiling acorns to remove the bitterness.
Blake knew that, for some reason, a man who ate the un-boiled nuts starved to death no matter how much he ate. Blake didn’t try to understand why; one lesson he had learned from Gianavel was to always “grab things by the smooth handle,” meaning men usually had a good reason for doing things the way they did, so it was usually a good idea to do it the same way.
“Where’s Gianavel?” Blake asked absently.
Bertino raised the wooden spoon he was using to stir the pot, and Blake turned toward Gianavel, who was only a few steps away. He laid two legs of a sheep on the table.
“That’s the last of it,” the Captain of Rora commented. “We’ll send out scouts in a little while and march on Turin.”
Bertino, wordless, removed his dagger and began filleting the leg for soup that would be mixed with fruit berries and vegetables to be shared equally by all. Gianavel sat upon a bench and removed a tight coil of leather line that he used to make everything from bivouacs to wooden racks for air-drying beef jerky, which, Blake had also learned, was far more effective than smoking it.
“We’ll herd whatever sheep or cattle we find on the way,” Gianavel continued as if to himself. “The more we— “
All of them spun at the signal of war.
Staring at the location where the shot had been fired, Pianessa cursed and instantly ripped his sword free. Whatever fool inadvertently sounded that alarm would die. He pointed in the direction of St. Bartholomew and bellowed to those around him.
“Fire!”
Cannons opened up almost at once, blasting sections from the walls of the tiny village. Then musket smoke erupted from along a section of wood line and battle was the day.
“Who fired that shot?” Pianessa strode fiercely to where he’d heard the warning. He saw the sergeant majors standing over a dead soldier. The sergeant grimaced with fear.
“It was an accident, My Lord!”
“We’ve lost the advantage!
Pianessa spat before striding back to where three thousand men were plummeting the walls of the village with tens of thousands of shots, knowing they could do no damage at this distance.
He mounted his horse, grabbing his rifle.
“Take the gate!”
As if erupting from the ground itself, three thousand men rose and charged, rifles and pikes lowered. Half were musketeers and half were spearmen and it was more than enough to force the small gate.
Pianessa led them across the field down the throat of returning rifle fire and sensed rather than saw the black blunderbuss that appeared in the entrance of the village.
He reined his mount hard as it erupted.
Bertino hit the wick of the four-pounder almost before they leveled the barrel and hundreds of musket balls sailed across the field raining flesh in a long continuous storm back over muddy footsteps. Mists and geysers of crimson erupted uncountable from men who’d hoped a surprise attack would have carried them cleanly to the gate.
And truly, if they had gained the perimeter, they might have found a defense along the wall. But they never got that far as the first blast of grapeshot and then another, and another, twisted hundreds in their steps where they fell writhing in agony, blasted to shreds and howling.
Gianavel raced along the wall separating men and scattering re-loaders so that a random cannon shot didn’t disintegrate the lot of them. And within seconds the wall boomed with rifle after rifle.
Within the charge, those in the rear saw the carnage that ripped and shredded those before them like so many sheep. Many hesitated, and in hesitating they encouraged one another to hesitate even further, and within seconds half the battalion stalled.
Even Pianessa had angled past the front gate where death thundered in the cannon smoke, apparently searching for a more vulnerable entry, and Blake hoped there was none. For the moment, he knew, they had the advantage. And unless Pianessa’s artillery reduced the wall, his army would have to force the gate.
Pianessa also understood the situation, and
in a moment he was racing along the woodline commanding men to charge through the murderous musket and cannon fire while he searched for an easier point of attack. And in the steady, booming rhythm of the cannons Blake witnessed a massacre in the naked and bloody glade beyond anything he had ever imagined.
Those in the center were ripped apart like paper silhouettes. Those fortunate enough to be on either flank were sliced with coordinated musket fire and it was only then that Blake realized he was no longer hearing the cannons, though the glade erupted with geysers of crimson.
Gianavel had separated the men into zones to keep up continuous fire as they’d been trained—slow and methodical, waiting until their shot was certain. As Gianavel had said, it didn’t matter how close a man came as long as he died with his last step.
Within twenty minutes five hundred of Pianessa’s men were cowering in the field unable to retreat and unable to advance as they awkwardly returned rifle fire. There was no time to be astounded, but Blake knew he should have been amazed at the carnage before him.
In every war Blake had witnessed, before he had joined these people, he had gazed with pity at the dead and even the living wondering what madness men delivered to men. But he knew now that there was something far more evil than fighting, and that evil was what he was fighting to defeat.
Then Blake heard a sudden roar at their backs and whirled and saw a black image on a black horse—Pianessa—and a hundred men racing through some unknown and unguarded back gate. Something—it didn’t matter what – had been overlooked or overrun.
A rare mistake for Gianavel …
And perhaps his last.
Pianessa’s sword swung back and up again at the first man, severing the arm like paper. Then he kicked the dying man with his boot before leaping from his mount.
In such close quarters, a horse was more of a handicap than an advantage—maneuverability was not important when your silhouette made you a readier target. And in such pressing minions it was all too easy to hamstring the mount, consequently sending Pianessa sprawling in a heap. Even from a distance Blake saw that Pianessa would choose the time and place to dismount long before he had his legs cut out from under him.
Pianessa struck down two, three, four men, working his way through the shocked Waldenses like a butcher too long denied the pleasure of his profession. Then a rifle erupted close and the marquis twisted at the glancing impact that tore a plate of leather armor from his shoulder.
With a growl the Marquis de le Pianessa stalked forward and as the man threw away his rifle to withdraw his sword, Pianessa’s descending blade split the man’s sword and head together. And the blow continued to the ground, crushing what remained into a ghastly thing that seemed as if it could have never borne human form.
With barely a glance, Pianessa hit another man and another and became aware they were backing away from him to engage his soldiers.
Man to man, he could, without question, wade through the camp and kill them all one by one. Flies were more of a hindrance than their futile attempts to fight. Then the marquis spied a man who fought with greater skill than the rest—a man who appeared strangely different from the Vaudois.
“You!” Pianessa roared at Blake as he stalked forward. “Who are you!”
Blake knew he could not defeat Pianessa. The marquis was too strong, too fast, and too heavily armored.
Revealing nothing, Blake repeated a gesture he had witnessed by an English colonel who had known his death was certain. He raised his saber, pointing at Pianessa, who released a contemptuous laugh.
Launching himself forward, Blake slashed to take out the marquis’ knee, but, incredibly, Pianessa had already stepped to the side, and the huge sword he wielded lightly as a saber cut through the air toward Blake’s head. The fight would have—probably should have—ended there, but for Blake’s good fortune.
A figure collided with the marquis before the blow met Blake’s neck, and Pianessa staggered forward, roaring and enraged, as if he had been insulted. He turned into the form wrestling with him, and Blake saw Bertino!
The big farmer swung a tight, hard blow that caught the marquis in the chest, and Pianessa’s wrath was prehistoric. He lashed out with a backhand that sent Bertino sprawling. Then, before the big farmer could gain his feet, Pianessa’s blade fell thunderously and Blake knew that the big man he had come to admire, respect, even love, was dead.
Yes, Bertino would live for a moment, hovering between this world and the next and then whatever was him would leave the broken chest that could no longer protect the heart. Just as Blake now believed that he would see the farmer again … and possible sooner than he knew.
He turned as Pianessa whipped his blade through the air, scattering blood. The marquis laughed as he came forward again. His teeth gleamed like a beast’s crouching before a kill.
“Where is Gianavel!” he shouted.
Blake shook his head. “I don’t know …” He raised his sword again. “But I won’t disappoint you, Pianessa.”
Bold words worth nothing, Blake knew. He had never spoken before in combat, didn’t know why he did now, except perhaps because this might be his last chance … and his last words.
Pianessa’s face twisted in anger and frustration as though he did not consider Blake worthy his steel. But as the marquis strode forward, his lips parted in a snarl. Then the huge sword hummed with a slashing brand that Blake met with his own sword but the titanic impact sent him sprawling.
So quickly had Pianessa moved, Blake had not even seen the blow begin. Rather, it had appeared from nowhere and in the next second he was rolling across the ground, sensing the long black strides of the marquis approaching.
Somehow Blake gained a knee, stunned and numbed. He couldn’t feel his hand or wrist or even his shoulder. And although he had never been hit by a cannonball it dimly occurred to him that this must be how it felt.
Blake frantically threw up his blade as Pianessa roared again and the huge blade struck solidly. Blake never even felt his saber shatter but realized it had as Pianessa’s broadsword continued through empty air. Reacting instantly—anything was better than nothing—Blake hurled the broken shard at the marquis, who merely twisted as it flew past his black shape.
Once more Pianessa raised his sword. “I tire of you Waldenses. Now you will die.”
Staggering, Blake rose and spat.
Pianessa laughed, drawing back.
“Pianessa!”
Pianessa whirled with a snarl, clutching the long hilt of his sword in both hands.
Emerging from a storm of bloody roars and colliding bodies, Gianavel surged forward. His eyes were fixed on Pianessa; his face was grim. He held his sword low in a single hand and struck men aside like wheat as he closed.
Swirling his great blade in a quick circle, Pianessa stepped into a bloody arena that left the two of them virtually alone to decide this war. And the marquis seemed to enlarge in the moment, his arms and shoulders swelling with barbaric strength. The black hair along his head and neck rose like the hackles of a wolf.
“At last!” Pianessa whispered, eyes gleaming. “The great prince of the Vaudois! I’ve already made the acquaintance of your wife and children!”
Gianavel said nothing, made no display of courage or cunning as he came forward. Blake half expected some words—some act of defiance, something said in hate. But all that was said was said by Gianavel’s clear and remorseless purpose.
With movements as pure and deadly as his aspect, Gianavel closed the final stride. He made no display of preparing for complex swordplay but at Gianavel’s first move his swordplay was complex beyond anything Blake had ever seen or even imagined.
Gianavel lunged terrifically, almost fully committing himself to a direction of attack—almost. But his right foot dragged, keeping him in contact with the ground.
Pianessa did not catch the last move or didn’t have time to doubt the attack and his broadsword was flung on a course to intercept the saber. But as the blade rose,
Gianavel bunched, bringing his hilt close to his body so that the blade fell short of Pianessa’s block and Gianavel straightened in a second lunge. His saber flashed beneath the block and speared Pianessa in the shoulder.
Shouting with rage and surprise, the marquis swung his blade in a backhand blow that would have killed—any of his blows would have killed if they had connected—but it was too late. The Captain of Rora had already leaped outside striking range and watched almost with contempt as the blade sailed through empty air. Then Gianavel lunged forward again and slashed down, striking Pianessa’s knee.
The marquis turned into the blow and leaped to close the gap, and it seemed to be what Gianavel had expected. Almost before Pianessa had committed himself to the move, Gianavel had pinned Pianessa’s sword arm and blade against his body.
Face-to-face they struggled, neither willing to be the first to retreat because the first to retreat had the disadvantage of retreating and avoiding a blow, whereas the one who held his ground only needed one quick twist to hurl his sword.
Both Pianessa and Gianavel knew the rule. Neither would be retreating from this contest of brute strength. Both held the other’s armor, keeping his opponent close, their other hands wrapped around their hilts.
Straining, Gianavel bent forward, preventing Pianessa from using his superior weight. Pianessa surged, attempting to throw the Vaudois off-balance. But Gianavel turned into the twists, hurling Pianessa’s weight much farther and harder than the marquis expected or wanted, removing his advantage in size.
Suddenly Gianavel’s boot slipped on the wet ground soaked even wetter with blood and Pianessa seized the advantage. His sword rose a mere six inches, enough to clear his hand from Gianavel’s hold, and he tried a hard shortcut.
The Captain of Rora knew it was coming and surged forward, his shoulder colliding with the marquis, and the blade hit a glancing blow from Gianavel’s cheek. Instantly blood erupted from the cut and Gianavel didn’t care to wipe it away. He retreated just outside contact range of the blade and bent, breathing heavily.
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