Page 14 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

That settled it. Morfran hurled the stishovite dagger at the soldier’s back. It pierced straight through his armor and sent him sprawling against the trunk, dead.

Hugh let out a “Huzzah!” and leapt from the tree. “Say, you’re not such a bad fellow after all—”

Morfran bashed him on the head and stole back his sword, kissing the pommel before launching into the night towards the pens.

The animals were obviously upset about the commotion, with the pigs snorting in displeasure, the chickens squawking in distress, and the horses fidgeting in disdain. But it was the geese that came out in full-fledged battle, honking bloody murder and leaping up to bite his elbows.

He kicked at them in vain, searching for his goat friends. In addition to the wide pens, there was a lean-to shelter to keep the animals safe from the weather, and it was there, curled up by a bale of straw, that he found Benjamin and her kids.

“Beni,” he started. And that was when he saw it from the corner of his eye.

Untamed, naked fire. It burned on a torch held by a soldier who wore the glossy, rich armor of a general and a stout helmet with a magpie’s plume jutting out of it. He was headed to a tree with a rope ladder, unhindered by the assault of rocks from above. Other soldiers were dousing the tree’s trunk and surrounding ground with oily liquid, shouting threats to those in the canopy.

Above them, villagers—mostly women and children, Morfran noticed—were screaming, desperately flinging down items in an attempt to stop the torch-wielding soldier: pots, stones, sacks of grain, hand-carved toys.

Now is the ideal time to leave, a voice in his head urged. Steal a horse, put Beni on your shoulders and the kids in your bag, and get out of here.

Across the forest floor came Brim and his men, surging towards the torch-wielding soldier.

See? They can take care of their own. Morfran turned to leave.

Soldiers on horseback instantly intercepted the villagers, swiping their blades at several of the thick-necked men who’d pummeled Morfran just hours earlier, cutting some of them down like they were felling wheat stalks.

Morfran looked on, irritated. Now my men decide to be competent?

The torch-wielding man—one of his past generals, though he wasn’t sure which one—dodged a heavy stone hurled his way, now ten feet from the oil-doused tree. Morfran could visualize it: the tree going up like tinder, fueled by the oil, and the flames crawling up the ladder into the treetop platforms, igniting first the stout hut shaped like a witch’s hat and then spreading.

“Stop him!” Brim was screaming, but Morfran’s ex-soldiers had finally snagged on to some semblance of order and had created a wide circle of horses and soldiers that blocked the forest dwellers from breaking through, though try they did.

Morfran turned towards Benjamin, saying, “Time to go.”

She just stared at him with those yellow, watchful eyes. Time to act.

“I am,” he seethed. “I’m getting you to safety!”

She blinked. Or you’re just trying to save your own butt.

“I hate how I think you can talk.” Morfran groaned, casting one last look over his shoulder. The general was five feet from the tree, arm raised to feed the torch to the oil. Morfran cursed and gripped his sword with both hands.

“Fire,” he seethed. “What is your lot’s obsession with fire?”

The sword sailed beautifully, tip over hilt, as Morfran chucked it; it skewered the soldier through the gut.

Everyone watched—and even the geese, who’d been assaulting his ankles previously, ceased their mad hackling to gawk open-mouthed—as they waited to see if the general would either fall backwards with his torch, dead, or if he’d fall forward into the tree and set the forest aflame.

It was neither. The general just stood there, obviously shocked to have a sword imbedded in a kidney, and unsure whether to just die on the spot now or die after wreaking havoc on innocent lives. He then started teetering forward.

Morfran crashed into the general’s midsection, sending them both flying away from the tree and against the ground. The action sent pain through Morfran’s face, down into his rib cage. The general sputtered, coughing blood that spattered onto Morfran’s face, at which Morfran released an irritated growl in disgust and tore the man’s helmet from his head.

It was General Yerfra. The aged man was dying, his gray eyes trying to focus on Morfran’s. Out of all his generals, Yerfra was the oldest and most simplistic. “M-my Lord?”

Morfran didn’t know how he could tell it was him; his face felt like melted rubber and was likely broken in at least four places. “Your strategy sucked.”

“It w-was Killian’s.” His voice sounded like he was sucking up broth in the back of his throat.

Why was he taking orders from Killian? Unless…“He’s been promoted to Chief General?”

“Ravana…liked his fire.”