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enemies—madmen and tyrants and fools that executed their ambitions upon a foreign land simply because the land was weak and thin with peasants. But Gianavel, head bowed, had solemnly accepted the responsibility, and since that day, now twenty years past, had maintained his lonely vigilance.
    Standing upon the sentinel's rock, Gianavel recalled untold encounters against bandits, against wandering bands of mercenaries and marauding deserters of the German or French kings. He was thankful that he had rarely been forced to violence. He had confronted, yes, had sometimes wounded men, when he had no choice. But he had only, with the greatest grief, executed that fatal action only when all other actions had failed. And the pain he had borne from the battle was far greater than the battle itself.
    Yet the drums of war had sounded again. Nothing was new, and men did not change even as slowly as the land. The heart of man was a lake broken by bladed crests lifted on dark winds hidden by whitewashed walls. Each man, alone, was aware of what secret winds moved behind the white veil. And each man, alone, could alter its course.
    He had no illusions.
    Gianavel had fled once from war, it's true, when he was a child—when he felt himself upon a precipice with so little strength left to fight—but he would never flee again, not after the Lord had so greatly delivered him. No, not now—not without the lives of his family, his neighbors, and his friends safely borne within his cloak where he could bear them over the mountains into Geneva.
    Death held no terror—the Lord was Lord of life and death and what-ever was beyond ...
    Yes, he sometimes feared death, though much less than most men. And he pondered death much more than most men. But death, after intimate years, had become to him only a darkness he knew would end. It would come to him, and he would pass through it to the other side, and whatever lay there would be his love.
    It was a twig of shadow rising upon the distant pass that caused him to return to the moment. His eyes had never stopped searching the valley, and he focused on the Pass of Pelice but did not move.
    Movements, he had learned by watching creatures of the forest, were what betrayed a man—what made him separate from the shadows and trees and stones. He had learned that when the trees moved, he could move. And when they stopped moving, he stood motionless until they began to move again, using the shadow, the sound, to mask his own.
    He bent his head forward only an inch so the wide brim of his hat shielded his eyes, and he saw an alien army emerging upon the ridge. Though still miles away, their number could be estimated, and it was great. And then there was no more time for thought.
    Gianavel dropped from his rock, hand on his sword and rifle raised for balance. And when he was in the trees, he began running, the grassy plain rolling away beneath him as his legs flashed dark, stretching and striking, devouring the ground.
    It was time.
    ***
    Gianavel threw open the door of the cottage and stood unmoving, framed by the whiteness of the morning.
    Angela took one glance at him and moved without a word. She threw her shawl over her shoulders and quickly turned to the children. "Shoes! Coats! All of you! Now !'
    Only lit tle Jacob stared in wonder and surprise at what had interrupted his breakfast, and then Gianavel snatched him up, wrapping him in a warm wool blanket. They were quickly out the door and into the small two-wheeled wagon used for traveling the valley. Angela had the reins, and Gianavel placed his hand on her leg, staring up.
    Her face was vivid with fear, but she was doing what they had rehearsed a thousand times. Nevertheless, Gianavel heard himself say quie tly and calmly, "You know what to do."
    She nodded and struck the reins. The wagon violen tly broke from the frost with a crunch, moving from the cottage toward a series of caves. She would alert every house on the way, and within minutes everyone