Page 7 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Her stunned shock quickly faded into fury as she stared back at him, pushing up to her elbows. She growled, “Or perhaps I’ll just cut them off.” With one fluid motion she’d flicked her wrist, and a wicked little knife slipped out from her sleeve and into her grip.

It was a move that hinted at great skill, and to his surprise, the knife wasn’t mere iron—it was stishovite iron. The exact type of iron that his armor-penetrating crossbow bolts were made from. The exact type that only someone high up within his Dark Lord of Ruthven™ entourage could get their hands on.

What pleasure he’d derived from knocking her down faded into wary wonder. Where did you possibly get that?

Before she had the chance to act upon her urge to maim him, an older man the size of a bear stepped into the hut’s doorway, nearly blocking out the pale sunlight spearing in. His head was full of dusty, black-silver curls, and his face was coated in a thick beard. His blue eyes, which sparkled cheerfully—there was no other way to put it—landed on her first, and though he looked a merry man, his voice was despondent as he asked,

“Did you fall down again, Wen?”

She hastily pushed herself up to her feet, wiping the dirt from her skirts. Morfran saw her stash the stishovite dagger into a pocket before she faced the burly man, ignoring his question and saying, “I tied him up as you wanted.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and waved her away. She left, but not before shooting Morfran such a scathing look, he vowed upon his mother’s grave—at this point she had, like, twelve of them—she’d regret ever ambushing him in the woods and insulting his naming decisions.

The massive man lowered himself onto a crate in front of Morfran, looking him over with a deceptively casual glance.

“So,” he said. “My daughter told me you’re a spy of Lord Morfran’s they found waltzing in the woods.”

As satisfying as it’d be to tell them that he was Lord Morfran, Morfran chose to remain quiet in terms of that accusation. “Those two were your children?”

The man nodded.

“Well, your son is a thief, and your daughter is anti-goat. Now, who are you? Where am I? What will it take to prove to you that I’m not involved with him?”

He said him ominously, with the slightest disgust, awe, and fear, as Bronwen had said it in the woods. If it’d win him points with this large man, he’d happily disown his own name. He’d happily do most anything if they’d just let him go.

The man studied him, ignoring his questions before asking, “Hugh explained you said something about traveling south?”

Morfran perked up. “Yes. I was just passing through, got lost in the woods, and then met your lovely children. Question me as you must, but then please release me and my goats and let us be on our way.”

The man shook his head. “You know we can’t release you.”

I swear to all the holy gods, I’ve known this family for only an hour, and every one of them is trying my patience. He could just wait until tonight to break his bindings and sneak out. But he was tired of people always looking at him with suspicion, even when they didn’t know he was their murdering Dark Lord who’d ruled their kingdom with a strong fist for twenty long years now. He was Bernard the Goat Farmer, damn it. How could he be at all suspicious?

The bearish man raised Morfran’s sword, which he’d kept hidden at his side until now, and asked, “Where did you get this?”

Okay. That was a smidge suspicious.

Morfran told him what he’d told Bronwen and Hugh, added in a sob story about losing his wife in the tussle with Morfran’s men, and threw in a detail about her carrying his firstborn child for extra piteous measure. He didn’t cry, though—this burly fellow would never buy tears from a man who looked like Morfran—and when he was done, the stranger observed him, just like how his daughter had studied him: with a flat, unreadable stare that seemed more intelligent than Morfran was used to attributing to peasants, and then said,

“That must’ve been hard.” His jaw flexed. “Especially because you’re about to tell me you also had just put down your dog because he had rabies, and your mother contracted the plague and went blind, and your farm ground burned down and you lost every acre.” He then smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Is there anything else I’m leaving out?”

After that Morfran wouldn’t speak, and he wanted to write to his lawyer, but of course he didn’t tell the man that. Eventually the man, who introduced himself as Jon Brimble but everyone called him Brim, except Morfran because he needed to earn that honor, laughed at his pouting anger and left, shutting him in the dark.

Morfran woke to a bag being tossed at his feet. He leapt as far back as his awkward position allowed—he could no longer feel his hands or his wrists—and eyed the bag like it was a wild animal.

How had he fallen asleep? He was Morfran the Beheader, Dark Lord of Ruthven™, and here he was in some shabby hut, tied to a post like some pathetic peasant who’d stolen a crust of bread. He’d planned to get out of here the moment he was alone, and instead he’d passed out from exhaustion.

Eight straight days of little sleep will do that to you, he imagined Benjamin saying to him.

You’re not even here. Shut up.

The bag was his pack; the contents had been rifled through, and jars of his jams had rolled out onto the dirt.

Dread filled his gut, but he said nothing as he raised his eyes to meet Bronwen’s. She’d lowered herself onto the crate, eyes hard, mouth a tight line. She looked like a wildcat—intimidating, dangerous, and ready to pounce. He frowned. Usually, peasants didn’t get into glare matches with him, and if they did, their heads were swiftly removed from their shoulders.

Finally, he began to squirm—his butt was sore—and said, “Well? Have you come to boast about the incriminating evidence you’ve found against me, or are you planning to skewer me without the interrogation?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then reopened it. “So you make jam.”