Free Rora by James Byron Huggins

... they died."
    Incomel paused. "I see."
    His gaze passed over the dozens of prisoners huddled in small, motionless positions against the farthest wall, dark eyes gazing at him in various modes of defiance—some strong, some broken. Several of the adults still walked, tending to the wounds of those who had survived Corbis's interrogations. One child lay still in the corner, his eyes covered with a bloody bandage. He did not move.
    "There were fifty," Incomel remarked. "I count only thirteen. The rest?"
    Corbis shrugged. "Were heretics."
    Incomel stepped forward, his face flushed and glistening with perspiration.
    "Hear me," he whispered, and at the tone Corbis s dull eyes froze, gazing at a distant wall. "I will not report to the cardinal that I have not a single reformed heretic to show for our labors! So you will satisfy your bestial pleasures elsewhere, Corbis. Not with every prisoner I bring to this palace!"
    Corbis blinked but said nothing.
    Incomel turned and walked away, hands folded plainly within his cloak. Moving almost too quickly for the dignity of his station, he had almost reached the door at the top of the stairway when the screams began again.
    Long shadows stretched like pyramids across ground hairy with frost, and the scintillating white yielded with a slight crunching as the men of Rora prepared their weapons.
    Gianavel had not slept but had moved throughout the camp during the night, encouraging and instructing. He did not wonder that he was still awake and alert when morning rose. He had never slept well in battle, had risen every day of every war to watch the sunrise, to meditate on the execution of grim action, and to accept the end of it before it began. And he had long ago come to peace with one thing. The greatest tragedy was not fighting. It was not having anything worth fighting to keep—no faith, no freedom, no hope.
    Gianavel had only to remember the faces of his children and Angela, the peace he knew in his heart when he served God, the freedom he possessed since he would not bow to a man. It was all he needed; he was ready.
    Today he held an even newer rifle than the one he'd borne yesterday—a French-made flintlock with better accuracy. He'd cleaned it by pouring warm water down the barrel and swabbing it with a rod and rag. Then he'd cleaned his pistols, four in number, all the same caliber. He was perpetually armed now, and would remain so until this ended. Also, he carried flint, oilskin, a canteen, and other small items he'd need if they were overrun. The intention was to remain prepared to either fight or flee with a split-second's notice.
    A line of twenty men stood approximately fifty paces from rock targets placed on a nearby slope.
    "Load," Gianavel ordered and watched as they carefully measured and poured powder from the hollowed-out stag horns. They inserted a patch of paper beneath the ball and rammed it tight against the chamber with the rod. When they appeared ready, Gianavel walked slowly down the line, studying each man.
    "The first thing you must understand," he explained, "is your weapon. The second thing is yourself. And the third is your enemy."
    Gianavel knew that most of them were already accomplished marks-men. The older ones had been forced to defend the valley in more than one war against Germany. But shooting was a skill that dulled easily, and shooting men was never easy.
    "There's only one way to learn," he said and angled past the far end of the line. "So pick your target, and see what you can do."
    Gianavel did not watch the targets, but he watched the men to see which ones set the stock tight against their shoulder, which ones steadied their breathing and, consequently, the barrel. He also determined which ones jerked the trigger, moving the barrel so that they ineffectually hit the slope. After the smoke cleared, he determined that the oldest were the steadiest—no surprise.
    "Reload!" he called out and studied to see how they had positioned their powder