Page 28 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“We should probably run,” Morfran said, to which Bronwen agreed.

Halfway across the field Morfran slowed.

“What? What are we doing? Did it die again?” She sounded strangely hopeful at that last bit.

“No. But now it’s time to walk,” he advised.

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

Bronwen clearly preferred running for her life, but ever since he’d leapt atop Theopold she hadn’t argued with him once. She slowed, shooting both him and the powder keg cart bewildered looks of concern.

Heat and light blazed against Morfran’s back as the kegs exploded, the flame lighting up the field like a miniature sun. It felt as though they were being flanked by fire, the flames creating angelic wings of glory that rose sky high behind him.

Both rebels and soldiers had stopped fighting to turn and gawk at them. Some looked impressed. Others looked envious. Others looked about ready to fall to their knees in worship.

Walking—not running—away from explosions was always something Morfran tried to indulge in whenever he could. It worked wonders for your reputation, since there was an inherent danger in getting pelted with flying debris or getting scorched to death. It told the world, I’m cool. And this is what cool people do.

Morfran couldn’t help but look over at Bronwen, impressed that she hadn’t run, that she’d instead stayed by his side. She was trying not to smile, but even still her eyes glimmered with a lovely sparkle.

That was when a flyaway brick conked him in the head.

11

The Victory Party

In the end it was Team Eagle who’d stolen the magpie and marigold flag, and as such, managed to take the glory of the win. The other teams had kicked and moaned, but their side had won, so the moaning didn’t last long, especially since the rebels now had an entire village of warm beds, home-cooked meals, and their first win notched in their belts. They celebrated well into the night with ale the villagers brought out in generous amounts, filling the village’s taverns and courtyards.

Morfran, who’d suffered a bad concussion after being hit in the head with a flying brick, was taken to the village infirmary, where two dozen other men were moaning or groaning or holding their limbless appendages. Grandfather Tortoise was brought in, with Drezella (who Morfran learned was also an apprenticed healer with slight magic of her own) following at his heels, carrying a large pot of his Special Paste and zipping to his side whenever he required her.

“I hear you miraculously brought back the dead,” Tortoise told Morfran when he finally reached him and began unwrapping his bandages to swipe a fat gob of paste against his bloodied head. “And that you and Bronwen were the ones to tip the battles for Teams Moose and Stink Bug.”

“Things started to go wrong,” Morfran admitted. “Improvisation was needed in order to win.”

“Improvisation?” He smiled. “You mean playing the long con?”

Morfran froze. “What do you mean?”

“Ferndock’s villagers are saying you raised the dead,” Grandfather Tortoise said, and at this Morfran relaxed slightly. “But necromancers have long been gone from the kingdom thanks to Morfran’s actions.”

Necromancers were indeed long since dead, as per his orders. Dead dead. He’d gone on a crusade to weed out every necromancer in the kingdom—they were like goatheads, they just seemed to grow everywhere—which resulted in a two-year war called the Two-Year War. It’d lasted two years. It’d felt like twenty. The necromancers had a bad habit of using their dead comrades as soldiers, so their army never truly died, they only lost limbs and on occasion a head or two, but they didn’t seem to mind. The dead, that is. He found it repugnant and an affront to nature, especially when the undead began kicking their severed noggins across the killing field as they doddered in an uneven line towards his men. It had to be stopped.

Eventually his men managed to burn the last of the necromancers at the stake after a six-hour siege at Necromancer’s Necropolis in the west near Redmoth. It’d calmed him, and satisfied Ravana, and they made love that night knowing that no halitosis-ridden corpse would be sent to their address to strangle them with its unwashed hands.

“Since necromancers are long gone, it means you managed to convince the cowards within the rebellion to get their butts up and fight for what’s right. And you managed to do so in front of Morfran’s soldiers, who’re still traumatized by necromancers. Impressive, impressive,” Tortoise murmured. “You think, my friend. You think well.”

Something about the way Tortoise was smiling at him made Morfran squirm. “Well. I was also the idiot who thought he could walk away from an explosion instead of wisely running. I’m lucky Bronwen didn’t get hit with that brick. Brim would have killed me himself.”

Brim had already been in there earlier, when Morfran was still seeing visions of dancing Pegasi and cakes that could talk. Brim had ranted about gratitude and brotherly love and pancakes (maybe not; that could have been the concussion talking), until he’d patted Morfran’s cheek, said, “I’ll come find you when you’re not cross-eyed,” and left while hooting and riling up the men in cots beside him by slapping their feet.

After Tortoise’s Special Paste did its special thing, and Drezella told Morfran he was a dreamboat and handed him a plucked petunia, which he sniffed and pocketed when no one was looking, Morfran was released from the infirmary and wandered outside.

Dusk had collapsed heavily over the sky, pushing out all light and rolling out a tapestry of black-blue across the heavens. The breeze was calm, and merriment drifted from every window—which surprised him. Villagers were celebrating, sharing their dinner tables and their spare beds with the rebels. Someone from a nearby tavern let out a cheer, intoxicated beyond coherence, spouting out, “Today is a great day!” This was followed by plenty of hoorays from nearby drunks outside neighboring taverns.

Amid the laughter and cheers, Morfran felt a great loss. He’d helped the rebels take victory, but he hadn’t expected to see Ferndock’s villagers so relieved and happy. He’d been ruthless, yes, but he’d been a stylish ruthless you wanted to become part of. Brim’s past was evidence of that.

This was Ravana’s doing, he thought. And his men’s. They’d surpassed stylish ruthlessness to become evil, and now the legacy he’d spent two decades building up was spoiled by their actions.