Page 16 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“I don’t like making excuses,” she continued, folding her arms around her. “We had to do what we needed to. You were suspicious, and although we still don’t know who you are, you helped us beat back Morfran’s men, and you saved more people than you know. And you didn’t run last night when you could have.”

I can’t see out of one eye and would only make it two days out there in the woods before Ravana’s men found me again. It wasn’t a hard decision.

“With that said, I suppose what I’m trying to say is…I mean to say…is…” She looked frustrated, as if something were preventing her from speaking. “You did…eh…you…”

This was the saddest attempt at an apology and a thank-you he’d ever seen. Give him de-armed men out on the battlefield wailing for their mothers, or the curses of soldiers who’d failed him as he tied them to the back of a horse and told the rider to go for a leisurely gallop over a field of goathead weeds. Anything but this awkward befuddling of tongues. He swiftly changed the subject.

“That dagger of yours.” His eyes fluttered to her skirt pockets. He wasn’t sure where it’d ended up, nor where his sword was. Likely back in the hands of her idiot brother. “Where did you get it?”

She paused, the slightest trace of sorrow in her eyes, and damn that hesitation, because the door opened and Brim, six or seven men, a withered old geezer, that little girl from earlier, and Hugh, who snuck in last, all entered, flooding the cottage with eyes that were focused entirely on him.

He shifted the bowl strategically on his lap—praying to the gods that he didn’t stink of piss as well, please—and waited. A question sat in all their gazes, turned into spoken word by Brim.

“All right, friend.” There was a heavy bruise turning plum purple above Brim’s eye and a mean-looking cut on his cheek that would likely scar. But his eyes were back to their muted sparkle as he asked, “Who are you?”

Morfran knew it was inevitable. They’d seen him chuck his sword with all the precision of a professional axe thrower. They’d seen him tackle Yerfra. They might’ve even noticed he and the general exchanged words as if they were familiar with each other. They knew he was not like them. And they were not stupid. They would know if he tried another outright lie.

So instead, he told them only half a lie.

“I was a general in Morfran’s army,” he announced, tired and sore and barely able to open his jaw. Those in the room inhaled as he confirmed it, their chests ballooning at the revelation. “I’ve fought in many battles, and killed many men, and watched many others die. Their blood stained my hands for weeks afterwards, and not a day went by when I’d take a sip of water and not taste that tang of death on my tongue…” He paused. Considered his next words. And said,

“And it was so boring.” His entire body deflated as he blew out a breath. “After the five hundredth death, they all start to look the same, you know? Don’t get me wrong. The dying bit wore on me as well, because have you ever tried to get bloodstains out of your cloak? Nightmare. I’ve gone through at least eleven over the years. And then of course you learn how much you’re hated all throughout the kingdom, but that fearful respect grew addictive. To tell you the truth, I believe that’s what kept me on the front lines so much—the respect they gave me—free ale at any inn? Yes, please. But it got to be such a headache with the people I was working with because they were exhaustingly dumb, and one of them turned into a lunatic when before they were perfectly lovely, and then, well, then the next thing you know, you’ve defected from your army and adopted a pregnant goat and learned how to make ridiculously delicious jam. And that is how you easily decide that that’s the life you want instead of”—decapitating anyone in your way, he was about to say, but quickly reworded it—“never-ending death.”

Morfran didn’t know what to expect after such a confession. He’d hardly said it in as many words to himself, had since tried to steer clear of writing down feelings in his journal. But they clearly suspected he was someone villainous, so he gave it to them. He just chose to be incredibly selective on his exact identity.

To his relief and surprise, it worked.

“You were a general in Morfran’s army?” Brim gaped, dropping his crossed arms. He wasn’t the only one shocked. Brim’s men were fidgeting, suddenly very interested in what he had to say.

“We tortured one of his generals?” one murmured.

“No wonder he didn’t break,” another added. “He’s probably been conditioned to withstand torture.”

Bronwen had quietly lowered herself into a nearby chair, apart from her father’s men. She seemed almost diminished and smaller somehow, and when she spoke, her voice was softer. “What is your name? Have we heard of you before?”

“You likely wouldn’t have,” he lied. “I was only a northern general for a time. It was a trivial position in a trivial land hardly the size of a township. Before that, I was a foot soldier of his for many years.”

“Why not just tell us you defected to begin with?” Brim demanded.

He stirred the broth to give himself something else to do than fidget. “Oh, you know. You all seemed so eager to hang me and eat my spleen thinking I was a mere spy. If you knew I was a general—”

“I say we still hang ’im,” Hugh commented. Morfran had been correct in that his sword had ended up back in this buffoon’s hands. Hugh pressed the tip into the floorboards and was using it to lean against, an act that made Morfran see red. “He chose to put his allegiance in that vile lord of a man.”

Morfran scowled. “I’m sorry, but were you not there when I saved your life from that soldier trying to shake you out of a tree?”

Hugh winced, his gaze briefly bolting down in shame before he countered, “You only saved me to take your sword back. Am I wrong?”

Morfran paused. He wasn’t.

“I vote he dies. Anyone who fights for that evil jerk—”

“Hugh.” Brim shoved a hand through his hair, obviously exasperated. “Why don’t you go outsi—”

“I agree with Hugh,” a man declared as he entered the cottage. The morning light shone so brightly around him that Morfran couldn’t see him until he stepped farther inside, and when he did, the air shifted.

Here was the specimen of a hero: golden corn silk waves of hair, eyes of royal blue, strong torso shaped like an upside-down triangle, and of course, a beautifully crafted face complete with cheekbones that could cut diamond, and even—get this—a butt chin. He also wore a blue cloak, which had a small gold shield sewn on the right breast that indicated that he wasn’t just a ridiculously handsome man. He was a K.N.I.G.H.T.

Morfran had either killed or corrupted all the knights in the kingdom during his Rage Against Knights stage. How had one survived his extermination? But then he thought of all these people here who had hidden away in this forest without him knowing. Yet another reason why the kingdom was too big for one Dark Lord to control.