Page 33 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Day three hundred and one

Dear Diary,

We set sail about three days ago aboard Elena’s ship. Ferndock is now completely under the Elmswood Rebellion’s control, as are its surrounding hamlets and towns, thanks to the support of pissed-off farm folk.

In the wake of our success, we’ve begun to hear word from other rebels in hiding that they plan to launch assaults on their nearby townships as well. What have we started? I mourn daily for this loss, but at least with all the commotion I might be able to escape at some point.

Currently we are headed to the great city of Atlantis (the 2.0 version, not the one that fell into the sea in a horrific catastrophe that was entirely not my fault). Elena said that before Ferndock’s fall, she received word from Magnate Tritonia about uprisings from rioters and rebels popping up outside the city. Brim is hopeful that they can take the city with the help of these rebels. Ha! His optimism is pure stupidity at times. Atlantis 2.0 is a fortress on the lake, and Magnate Tritonia is as sharp as my old wardrobe attire (I mourn for that as well), and even with Elena’s navy the rebels won’t stand a chance.

Anyways, we have to cross Lake Dumast first. Once we get there, my plan is to sneak off while everyone is preoccupied with not dying. Beni’s future goatdom and the opening of my future jam shop (name idea: Damn Good Jam Goods?) could be just weeks away!

Someone plopped down next to him where he’d laid out a blanket to sit against the deck railing of Elena’s master galleon, the Fierce Feline. The ship itself was quite magnificent, built with rich cedar wood, strong sails, and copious amounts of windows. The sky and lake stretched on into one seamless color of spirited sapphire blue, and, with the warm breeze and gentle swaying of the ship as it cut through the waves, he felt lulled into a drowsy sort of peace.

“Another conquest?” Bronwen asked, looking down at his journal.

He flipped the cover shut. “No. Just logging all the locations Benjamin and her kids are hitting. Atlantis 2.0 has always been Benjamin’s dream vacation, although I don’t think she’s liking the ship ride over.” He looked to the she-goat on his right, who had stuck her head through the ship’s rails. “She gets seasick.”

Bronwen raised her eyebrows in surprise, as if she, too, noticed the green tint to the goat’s face. “Imagine that,” she drawled, before poking her fingers at the basket at his feet, where Baby Goats One and Two were snoozing beneath blankets. “And you still haven’t named these two?”

“I’m terrible at names,” he admitted.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one. Some within the rebellion had taken to calling themselves the Necromancer and His Dearly Dead, which sounded more like a punk bard group Morfran would have listened to during his teen years. Hugh had tried to name them the Rebellion of Rebels, which of course everyone shot down, and Gueldefore had offered the name Knight Gueldefore and the Magnificent Four, but as to who the four in reference were, no one rightly knew. Morfran guessed he was trying to broadcast himself as a knight and do so with a rhyme, which made Morfran think of the man as pompous as well as stupid, especially because you couldn’t rhyme fore with four. Morfran, who inwardly just called them the Elmswood Rebels, publicly suggested they call themselves the Fools of the Forest, or the Dumb, Dubious Dwellers, to which many thought he was joking. He wasn’t. Anyways, it was still up for debate.

“Let me hear what you have so far.” She leaned in, her long brown-gold braid falling forward over her shoulder. In the morning sunlight her eyes were a bright sea green, and he noticed her lashes were long and thick. He suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Hairy Henrietta.” He pointed to the brown-spotted female.

Bronwen nodded slowly but said nothing.

He pointed to the male. “Larkspur Larry.”

“Larkspur is usually purple,” she stated.

“Yes. And?”

“This goat is pure white.”

“Fine!” He tossed his hands in the air. “You try naming them.”

“No.” She sniffed a laugh, sitting back against the railing and crossing her legs out before her. “That’s your burden as the goats’ stepfather.”

He scowled, stuffing his journal into his pack, where his seductive black leather pants were wadded up at the bottom. Unfortunately, Bronwen happened to see them.

“Hold on.” She reached over him—once again, she smelled like posies—and tugged the leather pants out. She held them up like a banner, and he felt even more self-conscious, as if they were a baby blanket he took everywhere he went.

“Captain Elena should string these up with her pirate flag,” she said. “It’d send a message.”

“No,” he said before he could think. One, if Ravana saw these she might—she was clever—put things together and realize that Morfran was in cahoots with the rebels and officially announce to the kingdom that he had run away. Then everyone would be looking for him and he’d never escape. And two: he still liked the way his butt looked in them.

“No?” She lowered them, raising her eyebrow. “And whyever not?”

He tried to think of a lie that’d sound reasonable, but then she said, “Don’t tell me you wear these when you’re alone?” A smile quivered on her lips. “You do!”

“I do not.”

“Then why keep them?”

“Well, it’s just…” He looked at her. “So I can sport them for pretty women. Turn around and I’ll put them on for you.”