Page 17 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Those in the room obviously revered him. The little girl Drezella smoothed down her messy hair. Brim grinned, as if proud of his presence among the rebellion. Hugh blinked, looking as though he’d wet himself at having someone—not just someone, but someone who clearly mattered—agree with him.

Morfran was well aware when someone was used to such attention. Ravana, for instance, absorbed attention like a sponge, letting it inflate her head until she was bloated with arrogance and superiority. He’d loved that about her at first. Such confidence! Such authority! Then it grew grating on him over the years. Yes, love, I know you’ve bested the Bowlmaster of Delprie in skull bowling forty-two times to zero. I was there. Or Yes, dear, I know you’ve been voted as the fairest one of them all in the kingdom for the tenth time now. Please pass the salt.

That same egotistical air was imbedded in this man’s butt chin, which he held high as he looked down at Morfran. “For all we know about this man, his inability to cover his tracks led Lord Morfran’s men right to us. He cost us the lives of several of our men. We need recompense. His death will give us that.”

Several of the men in the room vocally agreed. One even let out an animated “I’ll do it!” as he raised his trowel like a hand.

Morfran looked at them all sourly. “How will my death compensate you in the long run?”

The butt-chinned man gave a smile. Even that was blindingly gorgeous. “An eye for an eye, you nitwit. Knowing that the man responsible for our friends’ and families’ deaths has paid for it with his own life is a just reparation. And if you aren’t alive to commit more stupidities, you aren’t alive to further compromise our survival.”

That sounds like an argument I’d make. It was strange to hear the words coming from a rebel, however. Morfran opened his mouth in protest, but then a voice said,

“He saved my life.” This came from the gnarled old man hunched beside Drezella. His skin was dry as sandpaper, his meager hair wispy like dandelion puffs. He wore nothing but the simplest of tunics and hose and a tattered gray-green cloak draped over his shoulders like grasshopper wings. “If it wasn’t for him, my hut would have gone up in flames, and me with it. And he saved the lives of who knows how many people when he stopped that general.” He took a wobbly step forward, with Drezella as his crutch, and raised a finger as knobby as an elm branch towards Morfran. “Though he’s done wicked things in the past, I believe his heart has changed.”

I wouldn’t go that far, Morfran thought flatly, but outwardly constructed a pious, repentant expression.

The silence following this dragged. Almost as if the people within the hut were trying to compile the gentlest, most polite form of Hell no it hasn’t to say to the old geezer. Then another voice arose.

“I agree with Grandfather Tortoise,” Bronwen said with a sigh, as if it pained her to admit. “He could have fled last night while we were distracted. Instead, he saved us.”

“Yes, but who cares what she thinks?” the man nearest to Morfran muttered to his buddy. From Bronwen’s stiff reaction, Morfran knew she’d heard.

“My dear Bronwen,” the butt-chinned man responded to her, looking affronted. “He inevitably led them to us. They were searching for him. He brought the deaths of several of our men. Would you like me to name all those we lost?”

Her face hinted at long suffering. “No, that’s quite all right—”

“Alfred,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Gwilliam, Hestin, Roderick, Dominic, Bob—”

Bronwen released a cutting sigh, shutting her eyes. “We know who died, Gueldefore.”

“But he doesn’t!” Gueldefore snapped, and it was as if he’d slapped everyone upside the head. Even Hugh stiffened. “He doesn’t know the pain he’s caused. I doubt he’ll ever understand it. The families of those who died will want his death. They’ll want to know they got their vengeance. Reparations are deserved, and we will revel in witnessing his blood wet our crop and be of use to us in his last hours.”

A heavy quiet swallowed the room at the weight of the words. Morfran blinked. “I’m sorry, but are…are you saying you want to water your garden with my blood?” That was horrific. And unsanitary.

Gueldefore raised his majestic butt chin. Perhaps the man merely intended to be poetic, but after such a speech, both he and Morfran recognized he couldn’t backtrack now.

So he doubled down. “Your death will bring us abundance after we sever your arms and head from your body.”

Morfran nodded minutely, registering this. Then he announced to everyone else, “I request to be hanged.”

In the midst of numerous cries arising for how, specifically, he should die, it was Brim who managed to wrestle over the conversation as he waded into the center of the room. “He’ll not be hanged, quartered, curb-stomped, beaten over the head with a coined-stuffed sock, or killed in any other offensive manner.” Standing at his full height, he was like a weathered, stout obelisk that’d seen the test of time. “Nor will he be hurt.” He tossed a cutting look at those who’d seemed eager, including Gueldefore, who merely frowned. “Never before have we had someone like him in our company. This calls for a different kind of action.”

There was another shift in the room. Morfran noticed it at once. Brim wasn’t simply a leader of these forest dwellers, he realized; he was their moon. He controlled the tides and the way the waters moved, and Morfran already saw how the men yielded to him and regarded him with high respect. Even Gueldefore, who shone like a bright star, couldn’t compete with the moon’s light when it was at its fullest.

Interesting, Morfran noted. Not many peasants he knew could silence a room with a few simple words. Then again, most peasants he was in the presence of ultimately ended up headless shortly after, so what did he know?

“What is your name?” Brim demanded from him.

Morfran suddenly felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him, and although he was used to the attention, for some reason he began sweating now. He cleared his throat, trying to inconspicuously sit up taller. “Eh. Bernard.”

Brim smiled, though it never reached his eyes. It was more as if Brim had connived a suiting punishment for him, one he knew Morfran wouldn’t appreciate.

“We’ve been preparing for our kingdom-wide assault on Lord Morfran and his men for years,” the burly man began, facing everyone in the room. “With Gueldefore’s help, we managed to secure a mass shipment of weapons that will prove most useful in our fight.” Gueldefore, despite losing momentum earlier, puffed up his chest when cheers arose his way. “In the past Bronwen helped whittle away at their numbers and interfered with their war camps.” He gestured at his daughter, who seemed to shrink when all she received was cricket silence and rolled eyes. “And we’ve all worked tirelessly in order to build up a rebellion that will be effective in stomping out that infestation known as Morfran’s men.”

Many in the room leapt to their feet at this, cheering and hooting and thrusting their fists in the air.

“Now, we’ve all heard the rumors about Lord Morfran. That he’s holed himself up in his castle for reasons unknown and doesn’t come out for anything. Whether that’s because he’s sick or dying or perhaps not even there, it’s the timing that I find beneficial. We’ve spent years gathering supplies and men, but what we’ve needed and been searching for is a skilled battle strategist.”