the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

Dromond’s men—Swedes, mostly, with a few Saxons—collide with the imperials in a thicket about a mile off Gustav’s right flank. He spreads them out in two ranks and points with his sabre. No bugles, just thirty-odd horse panting and digging in to tear up great clumps of soil.

And then the shouting begins. Hard to see in the haze of pistol smoke. Cannons rumbling in the distance as the main event gets started back at the crossroads. Dromond hears a voice bellowing over the din. Terrible German, in an accent the big man never could quite shake convincingly.