Page 11 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Over the years Morfran had learned there were different types of violence. There was the violence of anger, which Ravana was prone to committing should anyone get on her nerves. There was the violence of punishment, which he’d inflicted on enemy spies, court lords and ladies who’d attempted to betray his rule, and citizens in his kingdom who’d refused to bow to him whenever he graced their presence with one of his visits. And then there was the violence of gathering information, which was what Brim and his men attempted to do now. Morfran didn’t enjoy it—a broken nose and blood stinging your eyes wasn’t fun—but he did respect it. Violence had to have intent. If it didn’t, he considered the inflictor a step beyond tolerable.

Because he had respect for what they were trying to do, he didn’t hate them. But he wasn’t grateful. Especially when they eventually resorted to taking breaks, because he still hadn’t talked, and he had to hang limply from the post (they still refused to untie him) while they panted and wiped their bruised knuckles clean of blood and looked to Brim for guidance.

After the fourth break, which took place long after night had fallen and a woman had to bring in lanterns so the men could see what exactly they were pummeling and that they weren’t in fact pummeling each other, Brim finally stood up from his seat on the crate and said, “Stop.”

Morfran raised his throbbing head, hopeful but not too hopeful that he’d finally convinced them he was innocent. Brim glanced at his men, who looked not just exhausted but also a little sickly, and left the hut. A few minutes later he returned. In his hand was Benjamin’s leash. On the other end was Benjamin.

Despite his rearranged bones, Morfran straightened at once.

Brim said, “There are thousands of us in these woods, split up into three different encampments.” The goat tried to wander up to Morfran, concern in her yellow eyes, but Brim held the leash firm. “Only a third are able-bodied men who can fight. An additional few hundred are able-bodied women and young boys who might have to. The rest—young children, pregnant mothers, and our elderly—cannot.”

He paused, and Morfran said nothing, because the man’s voice was strong and authoritative for a peasant, and yet there was something close to breaking in it.

“I refuse to lose even one of them,” Brim continued, his grip on Benjamin’s rope tightening as he looked down at her. “The reason we have been able to build up such an army is because we’ve remained tight-lipped about this dwelling. And if a spy were to walk into our midst, and if we were to let them go and they returned to tell Lord Morfran’s men, then all of us would die.”

Morfran fidgeted, uncomfortable. When he said nothing more, Brim knelt beside Benjamin, holding her gently with one hand and with the other placing a small carving knife against her throat.

All thought fled Morfran’s mind except: Tell him tell him tell him. He’d only known Benjamin for a month, but already she consumed his daily thoughts and prayers. He thought of the gentle happy bleats she belched whenever she was eating, his suspicions that she fainted constantly on the road only so she could be carried up over his shoulders, how she nudged his knee for another block of cheese, her wide, lazy-eyed stare peering up at him as if to say, I love you, Morf. Plus, there were her children. He was going to orphan two kids because he was too much a coward to speak.

Tell him!

Morfran’s jaw was nigh broken. That’s why he couldn’t open it. That’s the only reason he didn’t speak. It was them, it was their pummeling fists, it was their fault he couldn’t open his mouth and tell them something, anything, to satisfy their suspicions.

And yet the words still thundered through him like raindrops spitting against his back.

Tell him tell him tell him!

Brim’s grip on the knife tightened. His forearm flexed as he went to saw through Beni’s throat, and Morfran drew in a painful, quick breath—and that was when Brim shut his eyes and lowered the weapon.

The bearish man couldn’t do it. All the buzzing panic within Morfran instantly cooled as Brim turned to his men and muttered something, passing Benjamin’s leash over and then facing Morfran. Through the blood leaking into Morfran’s eyes, he could see the man’s glower.

“I know you’re still lying,” he muttered. “Many of Morfran’s men carry a sword just like the one you have. If you were who you say you were, you wouldn’t keep it. No one who considers Morfran their enemy would dare possess such a symbol of evil. Which means you’re either a spy or you’re untrustworthy, and we can’t release you.”

Morfran wanted to scream. Of course he shouldn’t have run off with his sword. Of course he should have kept it buried. It’d been a vain thing to do, he knew, but he was too attached to it and had had too many encounters where he needed it. Now, ironically, it was the thing that’d cut him down.

With that stated, Brim left the hut. The men who’d been pummeling Morfran followed closely behind, with Benjamin in tow. Morfran tried to get her to look at him so he could apologize, to no avail. They took the lanterns with them, abandoning him to the dark. Morfran slumped to the side, as far as the bindings allowed him.

Coward. He was too selfish to admit what they wanted to hear. He should’ve left his sword behind. He should’ve fought harder in Hugh’s net earlier to get away. Now he couldn’t feel his face, and Benjamin had almost died. He’d almost let Benjamin die.

Perhaps he was evil after all.

5

A Fiery Intervention

As much as he tried, Morfran couldn’t sleep. His tongue was coarse against the roof of his dry mouth, he was shaking from his lack of sustenance, and every muscle in his body felt like it’d been pulverized to nothing.

Ten days ago he’d been in his cottage with Benjamin, serenely plucking his lute as she dozed.

Now he could hear that same lute in use just outside the hut around some campfire, except it was squawking in protest. He sighed. Lutes were not to be throttled. You had to pluck it. He wanted to strangle the faux musician for making him suffer through such a racket.

He slumped down, wriggling his wrists in an attempt to get feeling into them. Brim and his men might not kill Benjamin tonight, but he’d seen desperate men before. He didn’t want to be tethered to a random post while Benjamin was at risk of being slaughtered. He’d been a coward earlier when he hadn’t spoken up, but he wouldn’t sit by. No, it was time to act.

Finally, when the laughter around the campfire faded, and that hellish, tormented scream from his lute died, he began to yank his hands free of Bronwen’s ropes. He hadn’t truly tried yet; he knew it would take him a good bit of time and that each movement was going to bring tears to his eyes. If Ravana could see him like this, perhaps even she would take pity on him. Take pity and then continue the torture, this time with an eyelid peeler and a sack of burning peach-sized coals she intended to make him ingest.

The ropes busted free on the third yank.

Morfran froze. Then, slowly, in severe disbelief, he raised his freed hands up in front of his face to confirm that it truly had taken just three measly jerks to escape.