Page 24 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

With a handful of cottages, a ramshackle inn, and apparently only one outhouse, the hamlet outside Ferndock was so small it didn’t have a name. Or if it did, it wasn’t formally agreed upon or advertised in any way, so everyone just called it “The Hamlet Outside Ferndock.”

Morfran’s party arrived eight days after leaving the forest dwelling. By all accounts, he was utterly shocked they hadn’t been stopped by Ravana’s men as he suspected they would be. He’d been dreading that most of all. Now that they’d reached the hamlet, he found himself relaxing, despite knowing that the hard part would soon begin.

They’d arrived before several of the other parties, primarily so Morfran and the principal leaders could scout the area, contact fellow rebels in the city, and lay the groundwork for the invasion while they waited for all the others to arrive.

Brim led him into the hamlet’s only lodge, a single-story structure called the Cheshire Inn, with cramped rooms, low ceilings, and sallow lantern light. The floorboards leaked, and everything smelled like mildew and eight-day-old fish stew. Morfran would never pay to stay in a place like this if it were up to him. Brim, however, seemed to love it unironically. He sank down at a circular table in the common room that was shaped like an L, ordered something called “Glop ’n’ Frop,” and animatedly began going over plans with Morfran for the fourteenth time.

“Admiral Elena is prepared to withhold her ships.” Even in the sad, dank room, Brim was cheerily chatty, deep into his sixth mug of ale. “We just need to send a runner when we’re ready. Teams Eagle, Moose, and Ferret are already camped out in position. We’re just waiting on Team Llama and Team Stink Bug. Think we need to rearrange any of the teams? Ferret has the fewest men. Maybe we should put them closer to us—”

“Brim—”

“Don’t call me Brim. You haven’t yet earned that right.”

“Mr. Jon Brimble—”

“Don’t say my name, either.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s your name. What am I supposed to call you?”

“Don’t call me anything. Just tell me what you want.”

Morfran counted to five and released a breath. “You’re getting battle jitters and we’re still a few days out from battle. Are you sure you and your men are up to this?”

The bear of a man exhaled and sat back, his movements sluggish and sloppy. The small wooden chair crackled like an old man’s knee beneath his weight. “Yes, we are. Of course we are. Apologies. It’s been too long since my last battle.”

Morfran eyed him as the man admitted what he’d suspected. “You’ve fought before.”

Brim waved a beefy, dismissing hand, swallowing the last of his ale. When he lowered his mug, his voice was very quiet. “I once fought for Lord Morfran.”

“Did you, now?” Morfran raised an eyebrow. That was interesting. He shifted, pushing his own ale mug towards Brim. “Do the others know?”

“No.” Brim swung his head side to side. “Not even Bronwen or Hugh. Bronwen was twelve at the time I joined. Hugh was ten. Wee little things they were back then. My wife was still alive. We lived in Burbenbach, nice little village where I grew up. I was foolish back then.” He settled his shining eyes on the nearby mug, fussing with the handle. “Thought my family deserved all the riches in the world—and they do. I wanted the gold for them. But the glory of battle I wanted for myself.” His eyes flitted over to Morfran, not searching but affirming. “You know that feeling.”

All too well. But Morfran didn’t want to feel any warm feelings towards a man who’d allowed his schoolyard clique of beefy, brawny men to rearrange Morfran’s face, so he shrugged. “So what happened next? You joined a troop, got caught up in the thrill of conquering, killed a man or a dozen, saw the type of person you had become, and fled home?”

“I’m a cliché.” Brim took a swig from Morfran’s mug. “But I will never forget the one time I saw him. Lord Morfran himself.”

Morfran forced himself to remain relaxed, to not go stiff, to not sweat beads on the spot. “And?”

“It was at the Rally of Doone’s Peak. I didn’t see him up close. Only from afar—but even from a distance I could tell he was young. Arrogant. Overtly so. But by hell, when he spoke, we all listened.” Brim smiled dreamily. “He spoke of glory and forging a name for yourself, something that our little village always disregarded as superfluous fluff. He spoke of creating a legacy that everyone will remember centuries from now, passing down tales of your battle wit and strength and courage to your children’s children…He said history is the only way we exist into the future, long after we die.”

Brim was staring at the wall, his thoughts wandering into the past. Morfran hoped they didn’t wander for long. Sitting at a table with a man as intense as Brim, who was smiling mysteriously at cracks in the wall like they were whispering naughty things to him, was awkward, and Morfran hated awkward. Luckily, Brim snapped out of it, dragging his drunken eyes back to Morfran. “I’m not wording it as well as he did. He’s a cruel brute, but there was something authentic in his beliefs. If he’d been a just ruler rather than seeking vainglory, I’d be amazed at the man he would be today.”

Morfran remembered that day at Doone’s Peak. He’d just conquered three cities near Ferndock and solidified his partnership with Elena. New recruits were pouring in daily, some from across the sea. He was loved. He was feared. He was fearly loved. No. He was lovely feared? He was—

A sour-faced woman dropped a bowl of gray squirming muck in front of them. Brim hunched over it like it was a carcass sticky with flies and he a vulture with an affinity for the grossest of roadkill and said, “Well, there might’ve been hope for him once.” He picked up the bowl with his great hands. “Now I’m just excited to kill him.”

Between Brim’s wet slurping and his words, Morfran suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.

10

Friday Night Fights

The day of the attack Morfran was awakened to a sound not dissimilar to a thousand feral hogs screeching during mating season. He sat up so fast from his bedroll in such a state of panic that it took him a moment to realize he’d attracted the attention of all his tent mates—Hugh, Brim, and three of Brim’s schoolyard posse boys, Owain, Bill, and Theodore.

“Hogs. Mating season. We have to run.” He attempted to rush out of bed, but his hands had been tied together for the night, so he only got tangled in his blankets and fell onto his elbows, groggy and dazed.

Hugh sniffed in derision. He was gripping Morfran’s sword with both hands. Morfran wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d slept with it. “That’s only Pete on his new lute.”