The plan had been perfect. As the soldiers and horses rode down upon the village, an army of scrapped-together militiamen waited for them to arrive at the perfect spot for an ambush. It was, perhaps, strange to them that the valley was empty, and that nobody else was around, but it was a perfectly reasonable scenario to appear in, given the poor conditions of the weather and the relative unpleasantness of the atmosphere and muggy air brushing against them, as though the air itself would soon begin to weep. Perhaps it would.

The soldiers arrived, finally, in the valley, and as their first action decried unto the world, they rode down a house, brushing the rock apart and bruising it. They hadn’t seen that move coming, the militiamen: now there were two soldiers underneath the rubble, partly exposed after the dust that had been coughed up into the air had been cleared out, whose bodies were now weak and trembling, and saw the end of the line at the end of a lance and a sword.

Whatever plan had been had was gone. Each house was just another bowling pin to knock down, with a small sequence of rewards behind each one. The soldiers looked at each other from behind each other’s houses, nodded together in something resembling solidarity, and rose together. Some split backwards and ran for the forest. A few cavalrymen were dispatched to chase them down. They wouldn’t make it far. The others, with spears and swords at hand, raised them and encircled the army from between each choke point of each house, guaranteeing at least one kill with every broken barrier. But instead, the cavalry mostly ignored the impetuous threat. Another house was shattered. One large brick struck a man’s arm and he fell; he and his partner were taken care of quickly. The organized lines of men were cracked apart, and a few seconds later the grounds of the village had become a frenzy of villagers fighting back pathetically or turning their backs and awaiting their turn.

Maisero was still hiding behind one of the houses, his arm wrapped over Sartore and pressing him against the back wall while the boy tried to squirm out of his grasp. The commotion hadn’t reached them yet. The soldier who’d been stationed with them had left. Sartore was weeping and screaming, but Maisero figured only he could hear it. His heart was beating so fast that his mouth and tongue felt warm and heavy.

“We’ll run, Sartore,” Maisero said. “We’ll make our way.”