Page 20 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“Let him sit,” Bronwen replied, and when Morfran noticed the glint in her eye, he knew she was saying it more to spite Gueldefore than for Morfran’s comfort. She softened her words as she added, “Grandfather Tortoise has to apply the paste to his face, and I don’t want him straining himself reaching up so high. Besides, I can wash the pelt later.” She tacked this last bit on with a forced smile aimed at the knight. Gueldefore clearly liked that.

“Good thinking, Bronwen. As smart as ever, and growing more beautiful with each passing day.” He leaned against the hut’s doorframe. Morfran scowled. He’d much rather not be audience to a painfully one-sided flirtation. Thankfully Bronwen asked Knight Butt Chin to fetch clean clothes with Drezella, which effectively got rid of the man.

Morfran collapsed into the chair, and the seat and pelt were so soft, so comforting, that he had to fight off tears. He was terribly tired, the stress of his situation was overwhelming, and all he wanted was to lie down and let Beni walk over his back to massage his tense muscles.

Grandfather Tortoise turned to him with a bowl full of green sludge.

“So…let me guess,” Morfran asked. “You consider yourself a healer, and this ambiguously green slime is going to go on my wounds, and it may or may not work in two weeks’ time?”

“Why do you say it like you doubt it?” Grandfather Tortoise’s gaze remained below Morfran’s eyes.

“Because in”—my army—“Morfran’s army, we didn’t heal wounds with backwater old wives’ mixtures. We had actual physicians setting broken bones and stitching up cuts. Our men were up and out of bed in just days.”

“Days?” Bronwen had leaned against the desk, arms crossed, something sardonic in her expression. “That’s impressive. Us poor forest folk don’t have fancy physicians, however. You’ll have to make do with paste.”

Grandfather Tortoise waved Morfran closer. He leaned forward, and the man scooped up a wad of the green sludge and smeared it over Morfran’s swollen face. It was cold and stank like mildew.

“This literally is just mud,” he dismissed. “If this is how you intend to win against Morfran and Ravana, you’re—”

The fiery pain in his head instantly died; the throbbing near his eye faded, the aches of his jaw receded, and the bruising along his cheekbone eased. He could actually feel the broken skin knitting itself back together. Soon enough he could open his jaw all the way—which he did in surprise—without it hurting.

Seconds later his swollen eye eased, and he was staring at Grandfather Tortoise through both eyes. The old man was smirking.

That stuff is incredible, Morfran immediately signed to him.

Grandfather Tortoise sat up with a grin before he began signing back, his hands moving in elegant gestures. You know how to speak gestural language?

Old language had both a verbal and a gestural form of speaking, and when Morfran was young he’d learned both from his father. But that might tip the man off that there was more to him than what’d already been revealed, so he lied. Morfran had all his generals learn. Not many know it, so it is a strategic method of communicating in public when you don’t want the everyday man knowing what’s being said.

Grandfather Tortoise’s smirk returned. He’s a villain, but a smart one.

Morfran grinned back. It was the first genuine one in days. How did a magic healer like yourself end up here?

The old man shrugged. I’ve known for a long time this is where I’m needed.

Bronwen had watched the exchange in shock. “You know old language?”

Morfran regarded her coldly. “Did you think I filled my journal with just gibberish? Yes, I know old language.”

“But—how did you even know Grandfather Tortoise has difficulty hearing? We speak to him orally and he answers fine.”

Morfran sat back. “He doesn’t stare at eyes. He watches lips.” Grandfather Tortoise was nodding once again, as if in approval. He faced the man. “Say, Tortoise. Can that paste of yours heal broken bones? I have a few ribs that your men knocked out of place.” He said it in challenge, and was pleased when the man seemed equally as pleased to challenge him back.

“Son, I can heal a detached limb with this paste,” the old man boasted. “Let’s see them.”

8

An Acceptance of Responsibility

Morfran stepped out of the hut and into the afternoon air, breathing in the scent of fresh pine and forest. His wounds were healed, he’d been given washing water to bathe in, and he wore a clean tunic and hose. It was the first time in days he felt physically comfortable, and with that physical comfort came a clearer head.

Yes, his wrists had been bound with a flaxen cord in front of him, and he was still expected to wage a rebellion against Ravana and himself, but he could appreciate the small things when they came.

He began striding down the skywalk bridge, Bronwen trailing behind him. She hadn’t let him out of her sight ever since he’d entered the hut, watching as Grandfather Tortoise applied that musty paste to the bruises and breaks of his body. The old man was a rarity. Not just a healer, but one capable of healing the direst of wounds within seconds. The only catch was the man had to craft something with his own hands to work the magic out, and so he quite literally stewed up mud as a conduit for healing.

The old man had insisted Bronwen help apply the mud, and so she’d stiffly swiped the mixture along Morfran’s bruised ribs, which tickled and made him fidget often enough to earn him an irked look from her that said Hold still or I’ll dump the entire bowl on your head.

The only time she’d turned her back was when he washed himself in a small basin of water and slipped into the clean clothes that Gueldefore dropped off. Even then she hadn’t left the tent.