the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

The door is locked, but this is only a formality. He pulls the splintered boards away and steps into the dim hovel. Dust swirls in the thin light of dawn which seeps like water through the cheap paper window coverings. Someone is in the corner, shivering, with bedsheets pulled around them. Two dark eyes stare sullenly at him from between the folds.

He stops and breathes deeply, listens. Outside, the horses are whinnying. Insects crawl beneath the floor.

“He’s gone?”

The head in the corner nods slowly. “Gestern.” A woman’s voice. “Zu kampfen.”

“That’s fine,” Dromond says. “That’s just fine.”