Page 25 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Morfran, half-angered that this Pete fellow still had his lute and half-mortified from expressing his fears of getting caught between two mating hogs, shoved himself up to his knees. “Can I please go about today with my wrists unbound? I intend to fight—yes, you buffoon, that means I want my sword back—alongside you, and so I’ll be needing the proper conditions that’ll allow me this.”

Brim raised his eyebrow. He paused from rolling up his bedroll. “We didn’t agree that you’d be fighting. Only strategizing.”

“You trust me enough to make the plans, but not be a part of them?” Morfran growled. “Isn’t that counterintuitive? What if my strategy was to purposely see you all killed while I watched, and then allow myself an escape?”

“We know that wasn’t your strategy, because you thought you’d be fighting with us and would therefore need us to win,” Brim replied coyly, and Morfran realized the man had tricked him. “Look, Bernard. My men still don’t fully trust you”—Morfran glowered at the three, who glowered back, and at Hugh, who was attempting to glower but failed because it only made his eyelid twitch strangely—“enough to see you equipped with a sword at their backs. You’ll be watching the attack and supervising.”

“But I saved their wives and children from mass execution!” Morfran snapped.

“You also brought that threat of mass execution to our doorstep,” Hugh said, as if he considered Morfran a nincompoop.

“By accident!”

Brim was humming quietly to himself as he geared up in his leather armor. “You’ll be supervising. Isn’t that more of what a general does?”

Morfran paused. That was generally how battles went, yes. As Dark Lord he had overseen battles playing out, but he made sure to always leap into the nitty-gritty of the fight as well, as he considered it rude to sit idly by and enjoy cucumber sandwiches and tea while his men lost limbs.

“It is.” Morfran tried to swallow back his fury. He wasn’t angry at having to sit back so much as the fact that they still had yet to trust him. Once they trusted him, they’d unbind him, and once that happened, he’d stab them in the back and run away. His escape to a life far, far away hinged on them taking this town.

“Oh.” Brim finished tying his boot and said to Morfran, “I’ve also asked my daughter to supervise with you. She’s been asked not to fight.”

Asked not to fight? Why? “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because.” He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate the company as you watch us win the battle.”

Morfran did not appreciate watching the battle with Bronwen. For one, neither of them was a good sport when it came to watching the Elmswood Rebels versus Ferndock atop a hill with a great vantage point. Bronwen kept wincing and muttering curse words from her spot on Gueldefore’s horse (the knight got the lead offense position with Team Eagle), while Morfran kept shouting that fouls were aplay on Ferndock’s side and that his own team members were playing stupidly, all while still being bound at the wrists.

“They are following your plays. It’s your strategy that’s failing, not us,” Bronwen argued when he said Team Ferret had fumbled their attack.

Morfran only responded with an annoyed grunt. His strategy was good—superb even—and things had gone great for the first two quarters. He’d used the city’s defensive outposts to isolate the guards: first, he’d sent Team Moose to incapacitate each outpost (using only the stealthiest of fighters he’d hand-selected after seeing Brim’s lists) so they could control the beacon alarm fires. Second, he’d had Team Stink Bug set fire to the southern beacon, then had Team Llama do the same to the northern beacon four minutes later.

By the time half of Ferndock’s guards had scrambled to the southern end of the town, the latecomers saw that the northern beacon had been lit as well and raced to defend that end. But when each remaining beacon went up in flames, indicating that the city was surrounded, the order of Ferndock’s guards took a hit. The captain didn’t know where to send men and finally made a play on the northern end, where Team Eagle was the first group to emerge from the woodwork to fight.

Meanwhile, the rebels within the city had kicked off their offensive play, and had fought to take over the city center, where a tall flag of a magpie biting a marigold was mounted. If that flag fell, it would mean they’d won.

The flag had still not fallen. Right around the thirty-minute mark (the entire siege was to take about sixty minutes if all went according to plan), the inner-city guards rallied together and pushed the inner rebels back thirty yards, where the rebels had sought refuge within a blockaded bakery and licked their wounds (and possibly a few pastries as well).

The next fifteen minutes were equally painful to watch. Teams Moose and Ferret had met together at the western end as planned and had made a decent dent in the walls. However, Team Eagle was fumbling greatly—it was fighting the greatest number of guards—and the rebels in the city had failed to open the gates for the groups because there’d been a back-and-forth game going in which the gate would lift, the rebels outside would cheer, then Ferndock’s guards would manage to take control and lower it back down, the rebels would boo, and so forth.

Morfran paced, vigorously chewing a wad of grass as the third quarter of battle came to an end. He’d faced great fights before, but it’d been many years since one had made him sweat like this. He’d expected a tough battle; they were the underdog and outnumbered, Ferndock was well-guarded, and he knew that tiny things could go wrong and those tiny things would be the reason they might fall.

He’d taken the wins for granted for too long.

“Brilliant,” Bronwen muttered from atop Theopold the horse, gripping the reins as she continued to parse Morfran smack talk. “How long were you a general of Morfran’s for? And was that for only half a season before he fired you for your inadequate coaching skills?”

“We’re coming from behind, with fewer men and less firepower.” Morfran refrained from screaming only with great patience. “We’ve held up this long, which is a miracle in itself.”

“You call this a miracle? Look at the field. Half of us are lying about like we’re dead!”

“They’re not dead. Men play possum all the time. There’re always cowards in the ranks who do that.”

“Our men aren’t cowards.” She glowered. “In fact, I’ve known men with ten times the bravery you have—”

“You’d rather they be dead?”

She looked at him like she wanted to leap down and stomp his head. He looked up at her with a desire to tear her off the horse. “Cowards can become brave,” he proselyted. “The dead stay dead.” He paused, frowning. “Mostly.”

“Oh, look at that.” She’d turned back to the battle and now had her hands atop her head in distress. “Ferndock just intercepted Team Moose. Hastings was in that group. He was supposed to lead them to defend Team Stink Bug.” She said this like she was in mourning. “What a waste of talent.”