Page 69 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

At this mention, tears brimmed the kid’s eyes again, and Morfran cursed. Of course. Ravana, ex-dear, you’re an exceptional pain in my—

“It ain’t fair, is what it is.” A voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Hugh, walking across the campsite, flapping a paper at Owain and Bill, who were studiously ignoring him. “I’ve been in every fight you’ve been in, and you lot get to be on the posters? I want to have a gold price on my head, too!”

The man was complaining about the Wanted: Dead or Mostly Dead posters again. Everyone else was notoriously acknowledged except Hugh.

“You mean you’ve cowered in every fight,” Bill replied. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Morfran’s men don’t even know you exist.”

At that, everything in Morfran’s head clicked. Hugh. The lute. Warshire’s Jam Convention. Public executions.

Morfran looked down at Toothless, feeling suddenly light-headed, the same way he did when a grand thought was forming in his head. “Get back to bed with your sister and brother. And don’t fret about your parents—it’s all according to plan.” Or he’d make it according to plan. He strode in the direction Hugh and the others had gone. Owain and Bill had vanished into the tents, but Hugh was still standing alone beneath the waning light of the moon, looking down at the poster in his hands with deflated shoulders.

“Hugh,” Morfran called out. The man turned, blinking and pointing at his chest as if confused that Morfran was speaking to him. “Yes, you, Hugh. You’re just the man I need. Come back to my tent. I want to run an idea by you…”

24

War Preparations—and a Chicken

“This is your most ridiculous plan to date.”

“You want us to make how much jam? Most of it cherry? This doesn’t sound foolproof.”

“Couldn’t we, like, y’know, just bring our entire army together and launch an attack on the city like normal warring folk?”

“This sounds like I’m gonna die, and not going to have a fun time while doing it.”

These were just a sampling of the complaints Morfran received as he explained The Plan to the camp that morning. He expected them, of course, because he himself had questioned the sanity of it as he’d devised it all through the night, with Hugh at his side the entire time offering suggestions. The more outrageous, the better.

“Chickens?” Morfran had paused at one point, gaping at the man. It was difficult to believe that Hugh and Bronwen were siblings; Hugh’s tendency to spout stupid thoughts was habitual.

“Chickens,” Hugh had repeated, nodding sagely.

“Chickens it is,” Morfran had muttered, putting quill back to paper.

“I’m sorry, but this is Lord Morfran we’re facing,” someone argued while Morfran was in the middle of explaining. It was someone who’d marched with the rebels on the eastern side of the kingdom. “He’ll just hit us with lightning bolts the moment he learns we’re looking to cause a ruckus.”

“Morfran isn’t in the castle,” Bronwen shot back from her log seat at the massive fire. There was a chill in the air that gray morning, and steam poured from the fire coals, sending streams of fog-like smoke throughout the quiet campsite. “He’s not been there for months.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she replied, casting the idiot a scathing look that reminded Morfran that she was still the Red Rogue, even if her skill set had been hampered due to her hex. “Think about it. Why have we not seen any sign of him once? Why have we not encountered him in any battle? He’s been fonder of sticking inside his castle these past few years, it seems. But our success as a rebellion would surely have brought him out from behind his walls, wouldn’t it? He’s not here. My guess is either Ravana had him removed in secret, or he’s left the kingdom without fanfare.”

Many in the crowd seemed to nod at her explanation, but there were still a few naysayers with sour faces. “Right. I’ll believe that only if you can show proof.”

I’ll decapitate you, Morfran thought in aggravation. Would that be proof enough?

Bronwen rolled her eyes before looking back at Morfran. “Can we show them your pair of Morfran’s leather pants? Maybe that’ll convince them.”

“They’re missing,” Hugh whispered back. “I tried looking for them a few days ago.”

Morfran gave him a bewildered stare. “Why were you looking for them?”

“Because, Bernard. You’re not the only one who thinks they look good in black leather.”

“You—” Morfran nearly choked. “You’ve been sneaking around my tent wearing them?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point right now. The point is—”

“I have proof Morfran is no longer in the castle,” a voice said from the back. Morfran straightened, a smile already blooming on his face. They were here. Among the hundreds already gathered, he could make out a line of sour-smelling, muck-wearing, bloody-faced mercenaries approaching where he stood atop a stump. They wore necklaces made out of teeth and ears, their weapons razor-sharp and still lathered in dry blood from their last use. At the head of this horrific entourage was Reginald. But to these people, he was only known as—