Page 56 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

They were a bright, bloody red. As if he had indeed devoured a man’s still-beating heart and then snorted the residue up.

“Oh jeez, he’s coming this way.” Hugh stiffened beside Morfran, looking as if he were about to dive beneath the table. “What do we do? What do we— What are you doing? Don’t make eye contact!”

“You’ve a sword,” Morfran said, casting Hugh a quick glance. He did have a new sword that morning—this one a lovely blade in the style of Morfran’s. He’d probably swiped it from one of Killian’s men. “Show him you can use it.”

“You kidding? He’ll use it as a toothpick. You know what? Forget this. Forget him—” Hugh tore off the bench, slamming his knees against the table as he did so, and nearly rammed into the tavern wench on the way out the door.

The man had reached the table, and upon doing so slapped his palms on the surface, upsetting Hugh’s abandoned plate of pancakes. He leaned forward until his glower was eye level with Morfran. His breath reeked of greasy meat. His skin was filthy with dirt.

He reached out with a grimy hand and seized Morfran’s beard, tugging it forward so tightly that Morfran was jerked halfway across the table. Then the man spoke in a gravely, putrid voice. “So it is true.” Spittle came flying into Morfran’s eyes. He still hadn’t blinked. The man smiled. “You can grow a beard.”

They both erupted into laughter as the man released Morfran’s face only to tug him into a one-armed hug across the table, an embrace that Morfran wholeheartedly returned.

“And here I thought you’d always been a girl wearing breeches!” the man shouted, and what attention he hadn’t attracted from the room earlier he attracted now. He put a hand up against his red-stained mouth, dipping his voice as he murmured, “Glad to see you ditched the black pants, Morfran.”

“You were just jealous I could pull them off,” Morfran murmured in reply. The two of them went back decades—when Morfran was a fresh-eyed Dark Lord and the mercenary was a then-member of the court and bored out of his mind. The latter ditched his title (something Morfran took inspiration from when he, too, wanted out of his Dark Lord career) and made a notorious name for himself as a blood-drenched mercenary, quickly attracting an army that was equally as brutal and frightening to look at.

He was the only one Morfran had told about his plans to become a goat farmer. He’d supported him 100 percent of the way (though not without trying to recruit him into his army), and had even covertly helped keep Morfran’s men from chasing him in the north, which helped him escape Ravana’s grasp.

Everyone needed a murderous friend like him.

The commotion they’d caused brought several others to the table, all of whom appeared hesitant to approach.

The first was Brim. “Bernard.” He tipped his chin in salutation, then eyed his companion with wary curiosity. “This an old friend?” He scanned his armor quickly, and guessed with barely concealed hope, “A friend who happens to be a mercenary?”

He’d guessed correctly. “Brim,” Morfran said. “This is Skørnne the Face-Feaster.”

Brim held out his hand. “Jon Brimble.”

“A pleasure.” The mercenary took it. “But when I’m not working, I prefer the name my dear mother gifted me, bless her soul, wherever it ended up. Likely a hellish place, but whoever knows. Call me Reginald.”

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Morfran said to Reginald, and then explained to Brim, “He usually swings by Redmoth when he’s short on work. So if he’s here—”

“You’re looking for a job?” Brim straightened, hopeful and eager. “You got a few men who can fight?”

Reginald shook his head. “No, Jon,” he said. “I’ve got an army.”

Brim looked like he’d just been kissed by ten beautiful women. “Call me Brim.”

Bronwen waltzed by with a plate of pancakes. “Morning, Da.” She spotted Morfran and blushed. “Morning, Bernard.” Then she did a double-take of Reginald and his red-stained teeth. “…Do they have raspberry syrup for the pancakes?”

Reginald’s eyes widened at her. Morfran began introductions again. “Reginald, this is—”

“Unbelievable,” Reginald said. “You first land a beauty like your ex-wife, and now you’ve landed a beauty like this?”

Morfran felt his face heat. “We’re not—”

“You had a wife?” Bronwen sounded surprised.

“Do you want a new one?” Brim blurted, nudging his daughter forward, who shot him a silencing look.

Morfran studiously avoided looking at them both and instead glared at Reginald. “I had a wife, but we don’t talk about her. Ever. Reginald, this is Bronwen. You might know of her. She’s the Red Rogue.”

Reginald’s expression lit up. “It’s an honor, my lady.” He bowed his head, his teeth flashing bloodred with his wide smile. “Big fan of your work. I appreciate a ruthless woman. On that note, if you’re not with this guy”—he pointed at Morfran—“then are you single?”

For the first time since seeing his old friend, Morfran felt slightly annoyed. He sat back in his bench seat, where Bronwen and Brim joined him on either side, and interrupted Reginald’s flirting to ask, “I’m hoping you can help us. The rebels have done a superb job so far taking back land from Lord Morfran, but Brim is wanting to hit Warshire, and fast. We need an army like yours.”

Reginald went very quiet, passing a look to Brim, then Bronwen, then back to him. He pointed a dirt-crusted finger at Morfran. “You,” he drawled, “are helping them”—he pointed two dirt-crusted fingers at Bronwen and Brim—“lead a rebellion against Morfran?”