Page 49 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Then Brim shouted, “Ambush!” All riders instantly began to panic. “Ambush! Take cover!”

It was decent advice, but there was not really anything to take cover behind, and soon arrows from the right side of the cliff began flying at them like angry horseflies with a vendetta against humanity.

Most rebels were wearing their armor. But it was made only of leather with thin scraps of iron, and all around him bodies were soon struck with arrows and knocked from their horses.

Morfran, who was wearing simple leather armor as well, knew that if an arrow did strike him, he’d quickly succumb to it and die in this barren land. It honestly wasn’t that horrid of a realization since his predicament was already horrid, and so he was capable of maintaining his head while glancing about to see what could possibly be done about this mess.

He quickly swiveled off his horse, using Dirtclobber like a shield. A cursory glance at the archers above them told him they were fleet-fingered and dark-armored. General Killian’s men. They’d beaten them to the pass after all.

Behind him Bronwen was still atop her horse, hands relaxed on the reins as she looked up at the archers. Arrows flew past her head by mere inches, and he had a panicked thought of one skewering her. “Well,” she said, too casually in the face of death, “what now?”

He stared at her for the briefest of seconds, at the arrows zipping past her ears. Why was she asking that, instead of taking cover? Was she trying to get hit—

Something in his head clicked. He asked, “Where’s that shrub Gueldefore tried to woo you with earlier?”

She looked somewhat surprised. “You noticed that?”

“Bronwen.”

Her hands went to her pack, and she lifted it out. The leaves were more sage green than peridot green, but they’d do. “What next?”

But he was slightly distracted. “You kept it?”

“Bernard.”

He shook his head. “Raise it high, so the archers can see—” An arrow streaked inches past his head. He glowered up at the cliffside before continuing. “—and then I want you to try your hardest to get shot while you ride down the trail.”

She went pale. “You want me to get shot?”

“You won’t get shot if you’re doing everything you possibly can to be shot. Your hex, remember?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” The slightest of smiles lit her face. “But why the bush?”

“They’ll think it’s a boomberry branch. They’ll be distracted trying to hit you because they’ll think you’re trying to come at them. Pierre’s Pass is steep, but the canyon is short, and there’s an access trail on the right that’ll lead you right up to the archers.”

She nodded. “Right. And what will you do?”

“I’ll go around the other end to gain access to them while they’re distracted.” That sparkle in her eyes she’d inherited from Brim hinted at a return. Right as she put her foot into the stirrup, he blurted, “Bronwen?”

She paused.

“Try your damndest to be shot.” I don’t want to see you killed.

He swung back up into his saddle before he dared hear her reply and kicked Dirtclobber into action. Numerous others were already fleeing back down the trail. He passed Hugh, who was cowering behind a dead body, his stolen cutlass in his grip. The man looked away from Morfran as if ashamed.

He pushed the steed on, but the archers had flanked the entirety of the cliffside, and the arrows came pounding down like hail from the heavens.

One whistled past his ear. Two swept inches above his left thigh. Then something kicked him so hard in the shoulder that he nearly fell backwards off the horse. It took him several long seconds to find his breath, and several longer to realize an arrow was jutting from his left shoulder.

He panted through the pain. It was just a shoulder shot. Those were never lethal.

The pass was opening up. The Knolls of Knut were just ahead. He could swing wide to the left and gain access to the cliffs where the archers were currently holding target practice on the rebels.

Dirtclobber began to pick up speed. Those who’d fled had slowed, pausing to look back to see what could be done to save their friends. Morfran yanked out his sword—he was left-handed, but his left shoulder was now bum, so he had to use his right—and held it high.

“We can put a stop to their killing if we just go up this mound,” he shouted. “Who’s with me?”

Silence. Then: “Eh, Bernard.” Owain eyed the arrow piercing through his shoulder. “You’ve picked up a splinter.”