The servant pressed himself into the damp moss of a limestone hollow, his breathing held shallow, measured with care. Below him, the forest floor had descended into slaughter.
The German mercenaries Francisco had hired were already breaking formation, slipping away into the trees with little regard for cohesion. In their place, the two professional "snatch squads" now clashed directly, their purpose no longer concealed.
The Spanish lead agent—a man whose cold, unyielding gaze recalled that of an Inquisitor—stepped over the body of a fallen mercenary, his saber still wet. Raising a flintlock pistol, he fixed it upon a British officer clad in a dark, unmarked greatcoat.
"Stand back, you island cur," the Spaniard hissed, his voice low and edged with venom. "Francisco belongs to the Crown of Spain. By blood and by birth, he is a subject of His Catholic Majesty. You trespass upon a matter of state."
