"So, Torstein..." Erik yelled loudly over the continuous roar of the gunfire, not taking his eyes off the terrified old man below. "How many more seconds do you think it takes to completely break a frog's mind?"
Torstein let out a laugh, pouring a fresh measure of black powder into the smoking barrel of his musket. "They are already tripping over their own feet! The rebels are routing!"
It certainly looked like it. The snowy slope was covered in fallen bodies, and the Viking charge had been shattered by the wall of lead.
The survivors of the first wave were scrambling backward, sliding down the ice to get away from the deafening thunder.
Down on the frozen lake, Halfdan yanked the reins of his warhorse, dodging a fleeing warrior.
The old man's sharp eyes darted past the white sulfur smoke billowing from the ridge. He listened.
The booming thunder had suddenly stopped.
A well-trained musketeer in the Iron Kingdom takes about twenty seconds to reload his weapon.
