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would be afoot with whatever food and clothes they could carry.
    Gianavel ran back inside the cottage and emerged in seconds carrying three extra matchlock rifles with a bag of musket balls and two horns of powder. He heard the alarms of nearby bells, and then he ran deep into the orchard, where he came upon six friends—men he had known since his youth—pruning an orchard.
    Turning toward him, one man with a greasy black beard cast aside his ax, understanding instantly. He strode forward as Gianavel tossed him a musket, and then the rest gathered.
    "They're coming across the pass," Gianavel spoke quickly and passed out musket balls. "Does anyone have a rifle?"
    Heads were jerked, no, no, though the big bearded man reached behind himself to the wagon and a sword—a broadsword of two hundred years' antiquity—rasped from beneath the straw. He lifted a hatchet and slid the handle into his belt.
    "Bertino stands beside you," he rumbled.
    Gianavel smiled, turned. "Follow me!"
    Though they were all in their forties , the men kept apace of him easily enough as they traversed the six-mile run to the lowest section of the trail that descended from the path. And when they arrived, the sun was starkly high in the blue cobalt dome of sky. Gianavel estimated that they had mere minutes before the army was upon them. He laid his rifle upon the ground as he knelt—the others followed his movements, breathing heavily, wordless, staring close.
    Gianavel drew two lines upon the ground that spread into a wide funnel. "This is where the pass narrows before it enters the valley. We'll station ourselves on both sides of the ridge, and when they're direc tly under us, we open fire."
    "You know we are outnumbered," Bertino rumbled.
    "Yes. But they don't know that."
    All nodded.
    "Listen closely," Gianavel spoke sharply. "Don't shoot for the soldiers—to kill a soldier means nothing! Shoot for the captain, the lieutenants, and sergeants! Shoot once, then move, and shoot again! Don't shoot twice from the same place! And don't let them see you move! If they see us moving, they'll know our number!"
    Bertino stared down. "Strike them with confusion and fear."
    Raising his face, Gianavel continued, "Yes! We must make them think we're a hundred! Shoot for the officers, move, and shoot again! And use solid cover—rocks and trees! They don't have to see you to shoot you!"
    Bertino lifted his rifle without invitation. He whipped out his knife and severed the wick, twisting it quickly with his fingers to loosen the powder. Now it would light with the faintest spark, but he didn't seem settled by the odds. "This is an old weapon," he rumbled, "but good enough."
    Gianavel passed out the flintlock pistols and spread a handful of musket balls on the ground where he'd drawn the trail. "Brothers, if we fail to turn them, you know what they'll do. The great massacre of twenty years ago will be repeated! They will slaughter our children! No one will live!"
    Dark eyes of men inured to suffering gave no surprise.
    Gianavel stood and pointed to three of them. "Go with Bertino to the west ridge of the trail! Stay inside the trees! When I fire, all of you open fire."
    "If they retreat?" Bertino questioned.
    Gianavel glared. "Don't let them escape!"
    "Why?"
    "Because they'll be back!" Gianavel gasped, then calmed for a moment. "Once blood is drawn, there can be no mercy. Mercy is what you show before the battle begins. In battle there is no such thing as right moves or wrong moves. There are only good moves and bad moves. Good moves kill the enemy. Bad moves get you killed. Fight like the bear defending her cubs—no questions, no mercy." Gianavel bowed his head, grimaced. "May the Lord judge me if I am wrong!"
    "We'll be judged together!" Bertino declared and turned to the three. "Come!"
    They trotted up the slope, rifles swinging rhythmically in their hands, and Gianavel loped toward the east, his breath already hard and fast, his body preparing for what it had