Page 4 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

As of now he had to rely on his savvy alone, and that meant noticing his surroundings: how countryfolk out here considered his cottage haunted, and as such, never visited. The way couriers and traveling merchants approached his house across the grass from the main road instead of taking the stone path, a habit he sought to eliminate by throwing up KEEP OFF GRASS signs everywhere. The fact that there was a legitimate boomberry bush by the burbling stream, which he’d stripped entirely of berries with leather gloves, then delicately transferred the berries to the barn where he ran his tests.

The large soldier was still screaming commands, but it was only when the second soldier blew up that the yard erupted into full-blown chaos. Men fled back to the tree line as others stepped on more bolts Morfran had left studding the grass. Then there were some screaming in horror at the detached appendages littering the area. Someone’s head had landed in his chickpea garden; an arm dangled over a fence post; Jerry’s hand waved at them from a tree.

“What a waste,” Morfran muttered. Not just of soldiers, but of a yard that had taken him weeks to de-weed and spruce up. Now it was just as gory and blood-soaked as any battlefield he’d fought on and sought to escape, and the burbling mountain stream was likely burbling red with their blood. A truly shameful waste.

Benjamin nudged his arm, a look of consternation (or not, she was just a goat) in her yellow-flecked eyes. You promised no more killing.

“They started this fight.” And as always, he’d ended it. He’d once found his men admirable; they always sought out the biggest man in the room and looked to best him. With Morfran’s help, they had. Now he was the biggest man in the room, and though they couldn’t kill him on their own, they had Ravana and her ruthless persistence.

He watched as the last of them scurried back towards the tree line as if they were an ant horde he’d just splashed water over. This would scar them, but they’d want revenge. Ravana would want revenge.

Which meant that if he stayed, the roots that he’d begun to plant here, the roots that were tiny and budding and promising, would be torn out by her. Maybe with just her bare hands. Maybe with a mace doused in something worse than boomberry elixir. Either way, he couldn’t be around to find out.

And if she did catch up to him, what would be left of him? He’d already had to leave behind his horse, Skullthrasher. His black monster of a steed was too distinguishable for them to travel together, and he’d had to tearfully part ways with her at Castle Atrago’s royal stables. He’d accidentally broken his crossbow during a tussle in Shovstead between a barmaid and a mercenary, and he couldn’t fetch his bolts now, not with the soldiers still occupying the yard down below, and not with Benjamin and her two kids tethered to him.

His portable armory was dwindling, and now all he had was his sword. His sword, his goats, and his wits. Those alone wouldn’t be enough to counter Ravana. She had the swords of all his soldiers, her own magic, and no moral boundaries she wouldn’t cross to get what she wanted. It was just his ill luck that the only thing she wanted was him.

“Come along, Benjamin,” he murmured, sheathing his sword. As he rose he shielded the kids’ eyes from the gore down below and quietly slipped away.

3

Forest Folk and a Sob Story

Day two hundred and fifty-six

Dear Diary,

Back on the move again. I’ve avoided the main roads and haven’t yet dared enter any villages. I will have to eventually, since my food supplies are running low, and you can only eat so many scorched rabbits before you start to hate yourself. My goal is to travel as far south as I can. I know there’s eventually a sea. I’ll pay a boat to take me somewhere else. Anywhere else. I’ll let Benjamin pick. Somehow Ravana is guessing where I’m headed, and I’m a little alarmed by her accuracy.

Bleat!

“Not now, Sweetheart.” He nudged Sweetheart gently aside before the little goat could chomp on his journal pages. By the fire Pumpkin had curled up on his cloak like a little pill bug, looking adorable as always, and— Damn it, he couldn’t name them Sweetheart and Pumpkin. Who was he, a matronly woman of sixty who crocheted pink tablecloths for a living?

Baby Goat One and Baby Goat Two would have to suffice for now, at least until he got the chance to think straight. It’d been eight long days since he’d fled his homestead, and seven long nights of camping out in thick forest and watching the darkness for any sign of humans.

The soldiers, unfortunately, had caught his trail a few miles from his homestead. It was foolish of him, truly, because he’d been out in a sugar beet field where they just happened to spot him fuming and pitching a fit: they’d lit his cottage on fire, and the thick plume of smoke rose up like a black, taunting banner.

Why burn down a perfectly good house? Out of all the faults that his—scratch that, Ravana’s—men had, this was one of the worst. They scorched houses, roadside inns, and villages with all the excitement of a child who’d discovered matchsticks for the first time, which drove him mad to no end. He’d spoken to them several times about the logistics of how such behavior serviced no one, and economically damaged his kingdom rather than helped it.

“If our goal here is to conquer a village for its people and resources, how can we do that if we chase out the people and burn down the resources?” he’d snap at them upon hearing of another township that had met the lick of a thousand flames. “I don’t want to rule a kingdom dotted with burn marks! I want to rule a kingdom thriving in economic bliss!”

Morfran knew he had his quirks, sure, to the point that beheadings had become a trademark of his, but even he considered pillaging a special sort of stupid.

He closed his journal and tucked it into his pack to prevent Baby Goat One from making a meal out of it. Admittedly, it was rather foolish of him to carry around a written document that’d alert anyone who read it of his true identity. But he wrote in old language for security purposes; most people in the kingdom couldn’t read old language. On the rare occasion someone could and did find his diary, he’d made sure the first three pages were the driest of compositions: a dissertation on the early-age husbandry of brussels sprouts.

He settled back against a tree, weary. The forest he’d been camping in for the past three days—which he’d creatively dubbed Elmswood, for all of its elm trees—was thick, black, and to be honest, eerie. His nighttime fire gave off all the light of a distant star, and he hadn’t seen or heard any sign of woodland creatures since entering. No squirrels, no birds, no crickets.

Nothing to see meant nothing to hunt, which meant nothing to eat. While Benjamin gorged on a plump bush, Morfran nibbled on a mushy apple core he’d saved for dinner, wishing he’d taken more time to listen to his court herbalist on which plants were edible and which weren’t. The way his luck was going, he’d probably eat a mushroom that’d give him explosive bowel issues before killing him.

He really should get some sleep. He was sure he’d lost Ravana’s men before entering Elmswood, and even if they were in here with him, the place was a congested mess of tree roots tangled together above ground like a mass of snakes, and everything looked the same. It’d be difficult to track him by foot.

He set his unsheathed sword atop his knee, leaned back his head, and allowed himself to lower his eyelids. He hadn’t truly slept for over a week. Just for an hour or so, that’s all I need. Just a few hours…

The noise that woke him sometime later was not a goat bleat. It’d sounded like voices whispering somewhere near. He scrambled up to his feet, groggy, bleary-eyed, sword in hand, already in a defensive stance.

Benjamin’s and her babies’ heads were raised, their beady yellow eyes scanning the forest. Yes, something…someone…was there. He swished his blade with a fancy flourish, announcing in his most commanding voice, “I know you’re there. If you value your life, you’ll come out right now.”

Nothing. He scowled. That usually worked.