Page 57 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Morfran smiled a false smile, hoping Reginald would read between the lines. “It’s a long story that I can explain later. But yes.”

Reginald snorted, shaking his head. “I’m going to need something to drink to digest this. Lady wench! Some more ale over here, please!”

It took some time to work out the details and configure numbers, but they finally came to an agreement with Skørnne the Face-Feaster. The only problem was at the end, when he told them the total cost of his army’s services.

Brim paled. “We could probably come up with two-thirds of that, but as for the last third, I don’t think it’s possible.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the price of my army.” Reginald looked genuinely apologetic. “I’d leap into battle in a heartbeat for Mo— Bernard. He’s saved my life on numerous occasions, and I do owe him. But I’m afraid that without the full payment, I can’t convince the rest of my army to join you. Not for such an imbalance on the risk-reward scale of launching an attack on someone like Queen Ravana. My men are savage, but they’re terribly practical.”

Brim sat back, obviously conflicted and combing his mind for how to make up such a large amount. Morfran thought about offering half the gold inside Castle Atrago’s treasury, but they’d have to fight and win to get it, and he knew Reginald’s army would want half the cost up front. Perhaps if they sent word out to the treasuries of all the cities and townships they’d conquered so far asking for a cut? But that could take weeks, and they didn’t have—

Bronwen set her stishovite dagger on the table.

“Will this cover the last third?” she asked. “I’ve had several people over our travels ask to purchase it off me for a good price. I’m sure you could find someone willing to pay more.”

Reginald stared at her for a long moment, then picked up the dagger and turned it over in the light. “This yours?”

She nodded, unsmiling.

“It’s of rare quality, and a beauty,” he said admiringly, contemplating. “Not to mention it is a celebrity item. Many would pay a pretty penny for the dagger of the Red Rogue.”

“Wen, no.” Brim frowned. “You earned that at the academy. And you’ll need it for what’s coming next.”

“I know,” she said soberly. “But we need more help than what we have now.”

Her father seemed torn at the prospect of her giving it up. Morfran, too, had noticed just how precious it was to her; it went everywhere she went, and she was always touching it, a reminder of what she’d once been and had lost.

Even bloody Reginald seemed to understand its worth to her, taking it only with great reluctance. “I’ll make sure it goes to a buyer who’ll appreciate it—”

“Wait,” Morfran said, then shut his eyes. He reached for his sword strap and unfastened it and everything on it. Including his scabbarded sword. He gently, reverently, put it down on the table. “Take this instead.”

Brim scratched his chin. “Aren’t those a dime a dozen among Morfran’s men? I mean, you’d need Morfran’s actual sword if you wanted to pay his price…” His voice died down as he took in Reginald’s surprised expression and Morfran’s solemn one. Then he looked down at the blade. “You’re not serious. This is his actual sword?”

“I traded it out for a false one and stole it on the way out,” Morfran said, then, as spontaneous inspiration came to him, added, “Why do you think his men had chased me so far south?”

Brim eyed the blood amber in the hilt, looking as though he wanted to touch it, but thought better of it. “Now I know why you always flinched when Hugh dropped it,” he murmured, before letting out a laugh. “You really are full of surprises, Bernard.”

Bronwen hadn’t looked away from Morfran once. “Are you certain?”

Absolutely not. He needed a powerful sword he was comfortable fighting with, and his current blade was like an old friend to him. It’d seen hundreds of battles over many years, and although he’d buried it half a dozen times on his travels south, he always knew in the back of his mind that he’d be unearthing it because he couldn’t part with it.

And yet…he needed to do this. Bronwen had already lost so much. If she could keep a thing as small as her assassin’s dagger, well. That was a small but painful price he could pay. And perhaps it’d help him stop feeling so guilty about the whole beheading-her-true-love thing.

“When the Red Rogue makes her return, she’ll need all her gear.” Morfran managed half a smile.

She stared at him, speechless, her eyes shining.

“Stop it.” Reginald shook his head as he exchanged out the dagger for the sword. “You’re making me want to kiss you myself.”

With the deal made and the rest of the pancakes eaten, Reginald geared up to leave. He needed to cover plenty of ground if he was to fetch his army, which was currently bumming it up around the coastal kingdoms of the west, waiting for new jobs.

Morfran followed him towards the door, giving him last-minute details about where and when to meet. When he’d told him the last of it, Reginald reached out and squeezed Morfran’s shoulder. “I got it. And I’ll be there. I’ll always have a brother’s back.” He leaned forward. “Even if he’s not as dark as he once was.”

Morfran snorted as Reginald left and glanced back into the common room.

Owain, Bill, and Theodore were sitting at a round table near the front, flirting unsuccessfully with the tavern barmaid and having a hell of a fun time doing so. They’d clearly taken to Redmoth’s necromantic roots, and all of them had purchased matching maroon robes with cryptic words stitched into them from vendor tourist racks. Of course, Morfran could read the words and had politely chosen not to tell them they weren’t edgy incantations to dark art spells to summon the dead or conjure black spirits, but random words like Lima Beans and Hyperventilate and Cubicle.

They were idiots, frankly, but rather likable ones, and now that they’d actually started giving him genuine love taps on the shoulder and not thinly veiled punches to his gut, he was rather fond of them. He was rather fond of all the idiot rebels, though he’d tried hard not to be.