Page 54 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

The Foundation of a Burned Cottage

They burned the magpie and marigold banner that night after a brutal, bloody battle for the city. The Redmoth guards were among the fiercest and most devoted to Morfran and Ravana’s rule they’d encountered so far. The fights had waged for hours until Morfran finally led the charge into Magnate Ramsley’s fortress—which was actually a mausoleum as large as a castle, complete with rooms stuffed with coffins and skulls—and, after the magnate refused to yield, killed the man, who put up no fight and seemed a little too into the whole dying thing.

The rebels had complained about the difficulty of this endeavor and the soldiers’ zealousness, but if they thought about it a little more, it’d make sense to them.

This was Morfran’s childhood home.

That night the celebration was muted in the wake of the casualties taken. The villagers, grateful to be freed from Morfran’s rule, offered them hot meals and dry clothing and spare beds, and most of the rebels slurped the soups, changed into the unbloodied new clothes, and passed out in the beds without much huzzah.

The exhaustion the rebels felt was a deeper exhaustion within Morfran. It genuinely bothered him to hear about Brim’s wife, just as much as it bothered him that Bronwen’s lover was dead and Rapunzo had been left in a tower for his brain to rot. These weren’t things he could fix. These weren’t things he could simply lop the heads off, or strike with a bolt of lightning, or sic his hounds on. He’d always been capable of solving his problems with what resources and smarts he had, but these weren’t easily addressed.

The best you can do is make amends, Beni seemed to say from her perch near his feet. He’d gotten a small inn room that allowed animals, and though the bed was tiny, Benjamin had insisted she take up half with Minny and Jak.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he murmured, lying face up, legs bent to accommodate her.

Are you using all in your power to fix things, or are you only doing it halfway?

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t want to. He hadn’t expected to be fazed by revisiting his childhood home. He thought he’d come to terms with what had happened here when he’d returned ten years back to bring it under his domain. But in addition to feeling like an uncool bastard for what he’d done to Brim, and Bronwen, and Rapunzo, and—why, the majority of the lot, to be honest—he also felt unsettled by the familiar streets of his youth.

Finally, after two hours of trying to sleep and being kicked by Beni for tossing and turning, he got up and started making his way towards the taverns and pubs. Redmoth was huge, and the person he was searching for might not even be here, but he needed to find a certain mercenary if he wanted to help the rebels march on Warshire’s three cities.

Along the way, however, he found his feet carrying him towards a different route, a route that led him out of the city towards a lot overgrown with grass and trees just off the road. If one were simply passing by, they might not notice the long-charred frame of a small cottage. They might not know that there had once been a large vegetable garden alongside the cottage, or that the yard had once been carpeted with sweet-smelling forget-me-nots, stalks of lavender, and the pale pink of heather.

“Is that you, Bernard?”

The frail voice came from down the road, and as he squinted into the cold, damp night, he made out the hunched shape of Grandfather Tortoise hobbling towards him. He wasn’t alone. Bronwen was following him, a cloak flung over her nightgown and her boots untied, as if she’d had to rush out in haste.

“See.” Tortoise turned to her, gesturing with his cane. “He has the same idea to go for a stroll.”

“A foolish idea, since it’s outside the walls,” Bronwen replied tartly, her face lined with fatigue. But she seemed to perk up when she saw him. “General Killian and his men could be out here waiting to attack the city.”

Tortoise snorted, dismissing this with a wave of a hand. “That man can’t think on his own. He follows orders down to the word. Now, Morfran, on the other hand, he’s a thinker.”

“And a murderer,” she added. “Honestly, Grandfather Tortoise. If I have to hear you compliment the man one more time, I’ll leave you to wander back to your tent alone.”

“Hush, girl. Don’t be so hasty to dismiss him. Yes, he’s a despicable human being who is likely to never redeem himself in this lifetime”—Morfran tried not to wilt on the spot at this—“but you could learn a few things about him. You must first understand your enemy if you want to defeat him. Right, Bernard?”

He forced a smile. “Absolutely.”

“You know a thing or two about him, don’t you, being one of his ex-generals? Why don’t you share something with us? Teach Bronwen a thing or two in case she ever does have the opportunity to stab him in the heart.”

That…just makes me not want to. But Morfran relented because he was in a morose, reckless mood, and gestured to the ruins of the cottage. “For starters, he was born here. Lived here until he was twelve.”

Both Tortoise and Bronwen jerked their gazes to him.

“I thought he was a prince?” Bronwen inquired.

“Lies,” Morfran replied. “He lies a lot. His parents were peasants.” He paused. “No, that’s not true, either. His mother is considered a Saint. Though most don’t like to connect the two.”

“Truly?” Tortoise asked.

“There’s a plaque in the city honoring her memory.”

“I read that one.” Tortoise nodded. “It said she died and came back to life twelve times. Remarkable.”

“Twelve?” Bronwen seemed impressed. “The gods must’ve adored her if they brought her back twelve times.”

Morfran snorted, looking up at the sky. The clouds were black wool tugged over the stars, although silver light from the moon bled through. “The gods had nothing to do with it. As you already noticed, those who put up the plaque cherry-picked only the good parts of her story. Her husband was a necromancer.”