Page 67 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Morfran sighed. He didn’t have a plan. He had twenty-seven plans. All of them had flaws, holes big enough to stick an invading army through, and each one ended in one thing: the deaths of too many rebels.

They’d snowballed into a worthy resistance. People from all directions had flocked to the Valley of the Vale to join the last push into Warshire. They had ex-soldiers, spies, warriors. A collection of top-of-the-line weapons they’d stolen from more shipments. And heart. Morfran had been both repelled and enchanted by their heart and wholesomeness.

And yet Ravana had been hoarding armies meant for all of the kingdom up in Warshire. They’d be outnumbered two to one. No, three to one. And she had her magic ring; that alone would provide enough manpower to slaughter people by the dozens.

It didn’t help that they all had gold prices on their heads. There’d been Wanted: Dead or Mostly Dead posters littered throughout the inns and pubs of the Valley of the Vale. Brim was priced at 500 gold pieces, his men 250 apiece. Bronwen was priced at 175; apparently, his men didn’t know she was the Red Rogue, otherwise it would’ve higher. Morfran, or rather “Bernard the Necromancer,” was worth 1,000 gold pieces, which he was quite proud of, but which also meant they couldn’t waltz around in cities still belonging to his rule. It had to be a covert mission. But then how to sneak into the city?

“If you don’t have a plan, you can tell me,” Brim said softly, which surprised him, because the man was usually all about hard hits and boisterous tones. “You’ve carried us this far, so I understand if you’re burned out in the idea department. Let me make a few suggestions if needed. You’ve done so much already.”

I have done a lot, he thought. Perhaps he ought to just hand over one of the plans that involved him the least and then ditch them on the eve of battle with Beni and the kids. But no. He was doing this so he wouldn’t feel the crushing guilt of a thousand deaths on his back. It was better that he stay for the majority of the fight. Once it was clear they’d taken the cities, and they could bring down Ravana on their own, then he’d flee.

Morfran set a hand on Brim’s shoulder. “Thank you, Brim. You’ve been a good friend.” And he meant it, too. Ravana was right. He was changed. “But I’ve got a plan I’ll share tomorrow morning. Just need to work out the finer details.”

I’m going to be up all night.

Brim didn’t look entirely convinced, but still he gripped Morfran’s shoulder in return, passing him a quiet smile. When was the last time one of his generals looked at him like that? Not as a ruthless warlord who’d lead them to victory, but as a friend-at-arms, with all the trust in the world? It made him feel warm inside—and dead inside, as he had no intention of helping them kill Ravana. She’d expose him for who he was if it was the last thing she did.

“Thank you, Bernard,” Brim said. “I know we forced you into this at the start, and that you really did want to catch a ship south. But I am glad to have you on our side. You’ve given this kingdom back its hope.”

He squeezed Morfran’s shoulder and left him to stare down at the bloodied warning from his ex-wife.

Morfran had written through thirty sheets of paper, frustratingly kneaded all of them into little balls and tossed them over his shoulder, gnawed through four quills, cursed himself, cursed Ravana, and cursed his conscience, and still no plan came to him.

It was late, and the evening chatter around the fire had given way to the nibbling of flames licking charred logs. Most had turned in for the night, and he heard the low tones of conversations come and go—most on the topic of theorizing what exactly the plan was for the march on Warshire. They were waiting on him. Depending on him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmured, burying his hands in his hair as he gaped down at Benjamin. She was up as well, drowsily chewing on his discarded papers.

Do what you’re best at, Morfran, her droopy eyes seemed to say.

And what is that? Beheading people? Inflicting fear into men’s hearts?

No. Feeding me.

He was beginning to wonder if sleep deprivation was affecting his sanity.

Just as he fixed up a new quill and put the tip to paper, he heard it: something akin to the sound of twenty possessed llamas simultaneously hacking up phlegm at once.

Morfran’s first instinct was to tear his sword from its scabbard and take up arms against the noise. Then his ears adjusted, and he realized what it was.

The elusive Pete making a racket on his old lute.

Morfran shoved himself out of his tent. The lute was a reminder of what he’d lost when he’d been forced into the rebellion: anonymity, a carefree life where he was free to indulge in whatever hobbies he wished, and a life away from having to think about anyone other than himself and a few select goats.

This stupid Pete fellow was probably as ugly as he sounded on the instrument. Awkward and boil skinned, with eyes of different sizes and a bulbous growth on his nose. He likely had twelve clawed fingers, since one person alone couldn’t make such a hellish noise—

Sitting alone before the dwindling fire was a slight boy no older than eight. In his arms was Morfran’s lute.

I’ll be. It was Toothless the kid. Morfran had had no idea his actual name was Pete. His siblings just called him “Hey, don’t” and “Be quiet” and “Go over there and stay put.”

The boy was clearly frustrated with the instrument, as he was gingerly plucking the strings, trying to make sense of them, only to lose his patience and claw at them in such a way that it sounded like a hog being hauled off to the slaughter.

If he’d been making a racket like this back at Castle Atrago, he’d have had the kid strung up in the stocks. But Morfran was a better man now. He’d just leave him, perhaps make fun of him behind his back later—

There was a line of tears on the boy’s cheeks.

Morfran internally groaned. Then he dragged himself towards the kid. “Stop everything.” Toothless Pete startled from his log seat. “You’re damaging not just the lute but my ears as well.”

“S-sir Bernard! I didn’t know you were lis-stening!” Toothless Pete stammered, exposing his lack of an entire front row of teeth. It made his S’s whistle adorably, which made Morfran want to gag.