Page 52 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“And you know him so well to know he’d do that?” Gueldefore argued.

I’ve known him since he was a weaselly boy who still picked his nose, Morfran wanted to counter. Besides, I don’t want to get too close to him in case he might recognize me.

“Then what do we do, General?” Gueldefore practically spat.

Morfran hesitated; there was no denying that Gueldefore was strong. He’d only seen him fight in passing, and there was no knowing just how great his skills were. Morfran didn’t want to publicly be on his opposing side, which was clearly happening more and more. But they couldn’t bum-rush Killian’s flank.

Morfran gestured to the dead enemy soldiers before them—or rather, their armor. “We suit up our fastest riders and rush to take the city before Killian’s army gets there. We close the gates. Inform the city guards that they’re rebels who’ve stolen the soldiers’ armor and we can’t let them in. We’ll get the city on our side, and take it from the inside afterwards.”

“And the city guards will believe that?”

Morfran dismissed his doubts. “The passwords to the city might be the same as last time I was there. I know what to say to whom. They’ll believe us.”

“What about our people?” Bronwen asked. “The second caravan has all the children. Wouldn’t we be trapping them outside the city with Killian’s army?”

Morfran shook his head. “Redmoth was built atop a ritual site of necromancers. There are caverns beneath the Knolls of Knut that lead into the city. I’ll draw up a map you can use to get them inside and away from Killian’s army.”

She smiled. Brim looked as if he wanted to bear-hug Morfran, and Morfran had traumatic flashbacks to Rapunzo’s grip. Before he could, Morfran spun and began calling out orders. “Who can still ride? We need our fastest on the swiftest horses. Can someone also go see where that bannerman went? We’ll need his flag and his uniform in addition to all these uniforms of the dead here. And lastly, shoulder shots aren’t fatal and all, but they do hurt like a bugger. Can someone please get me and Dirtclobber some of Grandfather Tortoise’s Special Paste?”

18

General Killian’s Tantrum

It was late afternoon by the time Morfran settled into a chair atop the gatehouse of Redmoth, and it was early evening by the time Killian’s army trotted up to the portcullis and began complaining and rattling the grating, whining to be let in.

They looked sodden; an hour ago the black clouds that perpetually sat above the city had decided to spit out torrential rain and drench anyone caught outside down to their underwear. Morfran surmised they were all in a foul mood, most of all General Killian himself.

When Killian plodded forward with squelching boots to the closed gates, tipped his wet head back to the city guards atop the gatehouse, and announced he was General Killian of Lord Morfran’s army and demanded they be let in, as there were rebels who’d soon be arriving to attack the city, he was met with a scoff from the gatekeeper.

“Nice try.” The gatekeeper smirked. “But we know rebels when we see them. I mean, look at you. Your men can’t be Lord Morfran’s. His men always arrive in style. Not whatever…this…is.”

He gestured at Killian’s men. Many of the soldiers looked like drowned ferrets. Some had taken off their helmets to collect the rainwater and drink it down, since their march had been quite rigorous. Others were slapping at their buddies’ faces with their wet gloves, bored out of their minds. Many more were moaning on their horses, holding soggy bandages to bleeding injuries or stumps where they’d suffered the wrath of boomberry explosions.

The gatekeeper was right. There was no style to this waterlogged, ragtag herd of just-defeated men who’d witnessed necromancy and watched their carefully laid-out ambush backfire. No. Morfran would bet everything that these men just wanted to go inside, toss on dry clothes, warm up with soup, and pass out.

In other words, they had no power here.

Killian stomped his foot. The puddle he stood in splashed brown muck up into his face. “We are Morfran’s men! We were just assaulted by the Necromancer on our way here, and that’s why we look like this. Now let us in. They’ll be coming anytime now!”

The gatekeeper leaned over the wall, quickly glancing at the men. “If you are Morfran’s men, then that would mean you were defeated once already and fled. Which also means you’re no match against this Necromancer fellow. Why would I want to let in a loser like you?”

Killian went white with rage. “I’m not asking you to open the gate. I’m telling you, by the order of Morfran himself!”

The gatekeeper snorted. “From the looks of it, Lord Morfran has either lost his touch with keeping cities under his rule or he has given up caring. We’ve heard he’s not been seen in over ten months. Not in the field, not at court. Why, there’s some suspicion that he’s actually dead, and his queen is managing everything from Castle Atrago.”

“Such blasphemy! Lord Morfran is alive and well and has merely given many of his duties to his trusted generals like myself! Now let us in, or we’ll be forced to use…force!”

Snickers arose from those atop the gate. The gatekeeper let them die down before asking the woman next to him, “What are your orders, Captain Ambrosia? He sounds serious.”

The stout captain scratched her head and then looked to Morfran, who sat cross-legged and cross-armed in a wooden chair beneath the shelter of a roof. “What say you, General Killian?”

Morfran smiled, quite comfortable in his seat since he was out of the rain. “Tell ’em to beat it. Or we’ll bring out our archers and show them what we think of their theatrics.”

While the gatekeeper went back to bantering with the true General Killian, Morfran glanced from the gatehouse down into the city’s streets. It was still raining, and it made the gray stone buildings and houses of Redmoth look aged and weathered and dreary. The streets were composed of that same stone, and on those streets was the subtle gathering of many figures in forest-green cloaks and leather armor.

A group of Brim’s best men and Morfran had suited up in enemy gear, raced to the city with the magpie and marigold banner, and arrived before the rainstorm that nuked Killian and his army. He’d spoken to Captain Ambrosia and the magnate of Redmoth, a pale, ghostly man who looked like a mortician, and managed to convince them that they were scouts sent ahead by Lord Morfran’s army to stop a rebel army masquerading as Lord Morfran’s men from entering the city, and that their main army was coming up on their flank and was just a few miles behind the rebels.

Morfran had sold the lies by providing the necessary password: “Multiple macabre murderers moseyed past seven serious superstitious soldiers,” to which the mortician-like magnate cracked a rare, ghastly smile and allowed them in.