Page 26 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Hastings was her favorite player, judging by the sound of her disappointment, as well as her inability to shut up about him.

So, naturally, he began mocking her. “You in love with him or something?”

She didn’t even bother to shoot him a glower. Just tipped her chin up in derision and said, “I prefer my men gallant and of heroic character.”

He snorted.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Overrated,” he replied, glad for a distraction from the battle. “Heroes are. Nothing but blinding smiles and aggressive do-goodism. Villains are a lot more fun.” He found his gaze straying over her, from her braid to her boots. “In more ways than one.”

He didn’t realize how he sounded until her surprised gaze snapped to his.

Are you flirting with her, Morf? He imagined Benjamin’s astonishment.

No, he shot back. I’ve just spent too much time among these self-righteous gits and need her to know how boorish they are.

When he turned away from her, she muttered, “I know how to have fun.”

“You’d have to prove that to me,” came his reflexive response, and then he realized he needed to stop talking to her.

He stepped atop a rock and put his attention back to the battle. Team Moose was falling back due to the terrain, which was soggy and mucky with green moss. “No,” he said in mild warning to them, as if they could hear, as if they were children wandering too close to a cliff. “I know the terrain isn’t ideal, but we need you to hold that position. Stink Bug is just around the corner with the explosives— Damn it!”

Stink Bug was being rankled by a troop of soldiers. It wasn’t a large group, but it was slowing Stink Bug down, and they should have been in position two minutes ago. From his spot Morfran could see they’d been tardy due to a broken wheel.

He spun around, infuriated. They were losing. He never lost. He needed to be down there, on the field, fighting with these stupid rebels if they were to take the flag and win the city. He locked eyes on the sword Bronwen had been left in case she needed it, where it sat sheathed and tethered to the saddle.

But he’d never make that run on foot in time.

He stalked towards Theopold so quickly Bronwen didn’t have the chance to back the horse up. He swung his leg up and around the saddle, squeezing himself in front of her as she squabbled. “What are you doing?!”

“Get off.” He nudged his elbow back at her.

“I don’t think so.” She slipped her dagger against his neck, and he went still. This close, she smelled like posies. But of course, he was too focused on the blade to think much more about that. “Are you seriously running away right now? After you’ve doomed us to failure? What happened to the man who saved our village?”

Morfran snapped back, “He’s going down there to save your villagers’ butts once again!”

She went quiet.

“Well? Are you going to slit my throat or not? If I’m going to die, at least allow me the decency to die on the battlefield and not when I’m bound like a criminal.”

She then did something that utterly surprised him: cut his wrist bindings with one rough jerk and said, “Let’s go have some fun.”

Morfran hadn’t expected that. He even glanced over his shoulder to catch the look on her face. She was utterly serious, her expression set with resolve.

She mistook his pause for something else. “I swear, if you try to swat me off the horse, I’ll—”

“Hold on tight,” Morfran murmured, then with a kick urged Theopold into a horsey gallop of dire speed. Her arms squeezed his waist, and it felt as if they were flying down the hill, over the grassy fields leading up to Ferndock’s walls. It made Morfran long for his beloved horse, Skullthrasher. Skullthrasher was fast like Theopold, but cooler. And she also thrashed skulls with her hooves. Though Morfran doubted Theopold kicked in heads as a special ability, the horse did allow them to reach Team Moose in record time.

Morfran then turned his back towards the Ferndock soldiers and faced Team Moose, many of whom were lying limply on mucky ground the color of eight-day-old flu mucus.

“Get up!” he shouted, and he didn’t need to feign emotion because he was at all moments disgusted and furious at the men. He’d seen many of them open one eye as he rode by. Playing possum indeed.

But he might be able to make something out of this. A battle was also about its theatrics, after all. He went on. “Rise up, dead men of the Ferndock marshes! Your women and your children will become servants and slaves to these soldiers if you fail to stand as men before your enemies now. Your loved ones will be conquered and beaten down beneath their boots, and your mortal weakness will be their bane.” He’d urged Theopold into a run along the line that the still-standing Team Moose members were holding, shouting at the weak-willed ones lying on the ground, trying to sound threatening and ominous to everyone.

“Rise! You spent your lives to beat back the Dark Lord’s rule. His men have tormented you with great pleasure for two decades. No more! Get up, dead men, rise and kill these villainous men who keep that loathsome lord’s laws in place. Rise up now!”

Yes, Morfran was being dramatic, but at times histrionics were just what a beaten-back army needed. And when those playing dead heard his scolding words and were shamed by them, they groaned, rising, shoving themselves up out of the mucky green earth like zombies, shambling to their feet and trying to snag their weapons with mossy mud in their eyes.