Page 18 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Brim grinned, gesturing at Morfran. “The gods have put this man in our path. And this man, Bernard, happened to be a general of our greatest enemy. To become a general is not an easy thing, either. You must have intelligence, battle wit, and the willingness to die with your men. And with that same intelligence, he’s razed villages and stolen land and murdered innocents.” He paused, and Morfran unconsciously began shaking his head, ever so slowly, because he’d spotted that stupid sparkle in the man’s eyes that spelled mischief.

“Bernard’s done all this in Lord Morfran’s name. I believe the gods have placed him here, now, because it is time.” He paused for theatrical effect. “It is time to march on the kingdom and reclaim our lands. And as it is befitting, Bernard here will be the one to help us reclaim them. And not just to reclaim, but to avenge those who’ve been murdered, using the same smarts and battle savvy he used for Lord Morfran and his venomous queen, Ravana.”

Morfran was clawing his fingernails against the broth bowl, stiff as bone, as the entire room erupted into cheers.

“And when we have made ourselves a worthy threat”—Brim was outwardly grinning now, eyes glinting with something akin to madness—“Bernard will help us take Castle Atrago in Warshire and kill Lord Morfran and Lady Ravana himself.”

7

The Barn Armory

During his twenty years as the Dark Lord of Ruthven™, Morfran had spent many days doing what he fondly called “housekeeping.”

Just like an experienced, matronly woman who was preparing for the arrival of her extended family for the thanksgiving holiday, with which came the tasks of packing fresh straw into old mattresses, washing and drying bedsheets and tablecloths, and cooking a five-course meal including braised duck, gorgonzola-stuffed mushrooms, and cheesecake studded with little golden raisins, Morfran had prepared for the conquering of lands with that same astute attention to detail.

Three hundred soldiers needed new uniforms? He’d hit up all the local blacksmiths and collect a team of seamstresses to craft the finest, toughest stuff. They needed weapons? He’d place fast-express orders for top-of-the-line swords that’d arrive with plenty of time for his men to practice with them before battle. They needed fresh meals while on the road? He’d send out his special foraging team whose only purpose was to find fresh food from nearby farms. And lastly, if they needed a boost in morale before taking over a city, he’d go about the ranks and chat with every man, either patting them on the back in a manly way, butting foreheads with them in a manly way, or giving them a pep talk should he find one in tears at the prospect of being skewered by his enemies—in a manly way, of course.

He knew precisely what an army needed to win, and so when Brim dragged him to the dwelling’s barn to show him their war stock, he at first felt awe, and then petulant begrudging.

“Well?” Brim pressed for the fourth time. “Are the weapons any good for what we have to face, or not?”

Morfran remained very still as he stared at the massive stock of crates stacked like blocks against the barn walls. Several had been opened by Brim’s men, their tops thrust open like coffin lids. Inside the crates were long, two-handed poles mounted with axes and topped with pikes. Beside them were spear-like weapons nestled in beds of straw. Beyond that were many, many more unopened crates.

Halberds. Pikes. The very ones he’d ordered that’d been lost in transit along the southeast coast last year. This was where they’d ended up? His men had said it’d been the murderous warlords from the eastern isles who’d swiped them.

They’d lied to him? And what was more, the weapons had ended up in these dirty peasants’ hands?

I think I hate everyone.

Morfran quelled back his desire to scream, counted to fifteen, looked stoically at Brim, who appeared to be eagerly awaiting his reply, and nodded nonchalantly. “They’ll have to do, I suppose.”

Brim seemed at once to read right through him. He grinned, sly. “You know that’s not all we’ve collected, right?”

“You mean that’s not all you’ve stolen,” he replied sourly.

Gueldefore of the Beautiful Butt Chin appeared beside them. His blue cloak fluttered majestically behind him, even though there wasn’t any breeze and they were inside. Morfran eyed it in disbelief as the man laughed. “That’s exceedingly rich, coming from a general who served that despicable devil.”

Brim ignored Gueldefore’s comment. “There are at least four hundred weapons here. Halberds and pikes as we’ve shown you, but there are war hammers, claymores, maces, and longbows in our stock, too. Oh, and we did find a crossbow with stishovite bolts—”

Morfran couldn’t help but perk up. “A crossbow, you say?”

Brim gestured towards a lone crate sitting atop a hay bale. Morfran limped towards it—he was still bruised and bloody from last night’s torture, as Brim had whisked him from the hut immediately after Morfran told them who he was.

The crossbow was the crossbow: built of yew from the Forests of Gent, steel from the Timorian Forges, and the Linen of Lindell. Intricately carved designs swirled over the fine wood in patterns of woodland forests and foxes wielding war hammers. He’d had it commissioned last year, a birthday present to himself. He reached out to touch it.

A hand knocked his away. “Don’t lay a finger upon it,” Gueldefore snapped. He stood beside Morfran, and Morfran got the sense of just how large the man was. Not large like Brim, who had the frame of a great bear, but tall and majestic, like a stag.

“That is a spoil of war,” Gueldefore said. “I led the charge in which we stole that devil’s shipment. I claimed the crossbow.”

And I’ll claim your head—

No, no. No more of that. No matter how much he wanted to. Morfran withdrew his hand and said coldly, “A dozen apologies.” He purposefully spoke only to Brim. “You may have a decent stockpile of weapons now, but bear in mind that Lord Morfran’s army is four times grander than yours, even if you have your women fight. And they’ve trained since the cradle to be effective soldiers. It won’t be that easy—”

An eruption of noise and an earth-shaking vibration behind him robbed the boast from his mouth. He spun at once, gaping in wide-eyed shock at the billowing cloud of fire. Only when it died down, and he went closer to the edge of the barn doors to peer out into the grove of trees, did he utter the sentence.

“You lot have explosives, too?” That was preposterous. No one had explosives except his army. They were outlawed “because they were dangerous,” he’d decreed, but really, he just didn’t want these things in any of his citizens’ hands. Rebellions were much more serious if both sides could simply explode their enemies.

Brim stopped beside him, scrutinizing what appeared to be a crew of goggly-eyed men testing powder kegs in the middle of a clearing some three hundred feet away. “Yes,” he admitted, stroking his black beard. “The blast radius is supposed to be larger, but our chemists are working on that.”