the smuggler’s bible

La Cote Male Taile

The day has much to recommend itself. Sunshine lying brightly over green fields. Shaded woods, dappled and cool. A tower at the base of the hill with a lion trapped inside so excited by rage that its throaty roar is now more of a hissing pant which distracts only marginally from the gleam of fang and claw.

God’s own country.

The same tower, bars shattered. A woman screams. Twelve knights flee while La Cote Male Taile watches from the road.

“And here I was worried,” he says, scabbard landing in the dust, “that the world was running out of cowards.”