Page 22 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“Perhaps next time you can give him a hate tap, amirite?” Hugh stated with a searching smile that hinted at desperation. No one replied, and Morfran winced. The idiot even still had his sword around his belt. Why had no one taken it from him?

Brim leaned back, carving into an apple with a small blade. “We were just discussing the rebellion’s efforts across the map to put an end to Lord Morfran’s reign, Bernard, and what our next move will be. Fellas, shall we enlighten him?”

“You want to hit the township of Ferndock?” Morfran paused, and then began to laugh.

His mockery must’ve been akin to a fork scrapping against a porcelain plate to the men, because their eyes slitted at him. He just laughed harder.

“Why not?” Brim asked, shrugging his massive shoulders, arms outspread in a self-deprecating gesture. “It’s a township right on Lake Dumast, has an immense supply of grains and poultry, and has great advantage due to both the lake and its geographical location on the map. There’ve been small riots in the kingdom, but Morfran won’t expect one of this magnitude. We’ll have surprise on our side. If we take Ferndock, we’re already off to a strong start.”

Morfran smiled nastily. His conquering of Ferndock had been a massive success of military strategy twenty years back, when he was just a young man of nineteen.

The township, comprised of half-timbered buildings, was the strongest center of commerce for the southern part of the kingdom. It was built along the lakeshore and heavily relied upon for its shipping trade. It was also fortified by tall walls, with beacon outposts on the outside that’d alert the inner township of invaders.

Morfran had seized the day with fewer men than the town had to defend itself. He’d taken control of a trading ship heading towards Ferndock, stuffed his men into crates that previously held fanciful clothing bound for the township sheriff’s residence, and made sure to pay extra to the undercover spy who was to pop the crates and release them into city.

Smeared in pig blood and shrieking like wraiths, he and his men had terrorized the township thereafter; everyone thought them to be demons. It wasn’t until after Morfran had taken the town hall, hung the sheriff in place of the church bell, killed off a third of the town guard, and held all the wealthy merchants’ daughters hostage in the library that the leaders yielded. Within days Ferndock was ruled by one of his many puppet magnates, and they’d moved on to conquer the next township.

It was wonderful daydreaming of his glory days, when his reputation was budding and people were starting to notice his competence.

“Morfran designed its defenses so it wouldn’t fall easily to those like him,” he said to Brim and his brutish men. “Yet you are not like him. You are less than him. You are outmanned. You have weaponry, yes, but your men aren’t trained. You’ll also have the Dumast navy to contend with, and you want to take a town that has fifty percent of its buildings sitting on the shores? It will be no easy task.”

Gueldefore tossed away a pine needle he was using to pick his nails. “Shall I tell him? I’m going to tell him. Look here, devil. You have not seen our full numbers out there. The city has been infiltrated with a group of rebels already, waiting on our command to act. And you boast about the Dumast navy? You shouldn’t. We forged a deal with the admiral herself to withdraw all galleons and warships from Ferndock on the day we ask.”

Morfran stiffened. Admiral Elena agreed to work with these peasants? She’d been a pirate he’d recruited into his ranks, and now she ruled Lake Dumast—which was more like a small sea—with her infamous fleet of fifty galleons. He considered her a good friend. Being good friends with someone was better than being just friends with someone, and that usually came with not betraying each other. Trying to hide his hurt, he demanded, “What could you possibly have promised the admiral that would persuade her to betray her lord?”

“Her son was in Sturnhul when Morfran’s men burned it to the ground,” Gueldefore said, then added with self-righteous aplomb, “Hard to back a man who kills your kin.”

The news, frankly, stunned him. Elena’s son, Oliver, had been a fine young man. They used to play chess and eat her secret stash of pastrami and aged Muenster in her ship cabin whenever Morfran visited. They used to skip rocks on the lake. Morfran had even taught him how to wield a blade, and how to shave. He hadn’t heard of his passing.

It was his victory on capturing Sturnhul that had opened Morfran’s eyes to the true atrocities of his rule. So much fire, so many burned in the flames. Morfran still felt the heat of that day, a heat that had illuminated his army in a harsh light as they cut down villagers. It was when Morfran saw a flower shop going up like tinder, the florist fleeing with her prized, wilted wildflowers in her arms, that The Thought flickered through his mind. The Thought that whispered…This is evil.

Despite the heat of that day, Morfran had felt cold. He wasn’t evil. He was dark and cunning, but he wasn’t evil. He was here to take Sturnhul for its people and economy, not to destroy it. How could he have let it get this far? But even when he told his men to ease up, none did. Ravana had been prodding them, steering them forward into wrecking Sturnhul, and they all listened more to her cruelty than his cunning. That was Morfran’s last battle before he fled.

“Believe us when we say we’ve done the hard part.” Gueldefore’s voice trickled back to him, dismissive. “All we want from you is a little strategy and a little insight on how to take back Ferndock.”

All eyes were on him. They were hard. Bitter. Waiting.

“Fine,” Morfran snapped, though not all of his anger was directed at them. “Get me your blueprints of battle. I need a list of all men and women who can fight, including details about their skill sets and experience. Then get me a formal list of all documented weaponry, including explosives and any mechanical engineering you have invested in or invented to this point. Comprehensive maps of Ferndock, too. And I assume you’ve been doing reconnaissance as well, so I need details of all you know about its defensive strategy.” He may have taken Ferndock himself and had the magnate report new updates to him, but Morfran had been gone for nearly ten months. He wanted to cover all his bases.

And though he still was loath to work with these peasants, he supposed his reputation could afford to lose Ferndock, if it meant ripping the city from his two-timing, disloyal ex-soldiers.

When he glanced from the smoldering firepit back to the men, many were half-stuck in surprise.

That only irritated him further. “Well? Don’t tell me you don’t have any of these things. You acted so sure of yourselves while you were insulting me.”

Brim recovered first. “We’ll get all lists to you by this evening.” He looked somewhat pleased, gazing from his men back to Morfran. “In the meantime, Owain? Escort him back to his tent, will you?”

Morfran sighed, knowing with no doubt that “tent” meant his hut prison.

9

Journey to Battle

Day two hundred and seventy

Dear Diary,

It’s been three days since we left the forest encampment. Interestingly, we’re moving in packs ranging from three to twenty, all of us taking different routes to the hamlet outside Ferndock. Such traveling packs aren’t uncommon to see in the countryside, so hopefully we don’t look too suspicious to outsiders. Apparently everyone is being chased out of their homes by Ravana’s men.