the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

They advance through the churning tumult of the skirmish, all sound fading beneath the rumble of their own heartbeats rushing against their eardrums. At four paces, Dromond yanks free his last pistol and shoots the Gallowglass in the chest.

“You shouldn’t have stabbed me in the back.”

The big man touches the wound, smiles weakly and coughs. Then he collapses. “Fair play. You owed me one,” he mumbles. “I guess that settles it.”

“Nothing is ever settled. Not for good,” Dromond says to the corpse. He pulls the baldric over its shoulder, clasps Sharp Jenny’s worn hilt. “Not for us.”