Page 70 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“Skørnne the Face-Feaster?” The first naysayer gaped at him.

Reginald smiled. His teeth were red stained and vile. “This man here”—he pointed his blade, a long device with serrated edges with clumps of flesh imbedded in the edges, at Morfran— “purchased my army at a high price: the Dark Lord’s blood amber sword.”

Murmurs went up around the camp.

“Yes,” Reginald said. “He once was a general of the Dark Lord. But he saw his faults, ditched his ways, and while escaping his position stole Lord Morfran’s famed and feared sword. Which he then sold to me.” He smiled wider. “Which is why you bastards get to have the honor of fighting alongside Skørnne the Face-Feaster and his Bloody Mercenaries.” He bowed theatrically, and Morfran was reminded of their early days at court, when Reginald would eagerly take part in any play he could get his hands on. “So. If you don’t believe this lovely lady’s on-point deductions that Morfran is no longer a threat, then perhaps you can rest assured knowing that I held the sword in my hands, and that my men and I are ready to rip limbs off our enemies in battle alongside you sad sacks of guts.”

The naysayers who refused to go along with The Plan took one look at Reginald’s ear necklace and bloodstained teeth and quickly nodded in agreement with him, probably more out of fear of being plowed down by Skørnne’s men than admitting Morfran was no longer around to cause trouble.

“Good.” Reginald smiled. “Now. Who’s ready to eat some faces?”

Despite having the backing of hundreds of rebels and a fearsome mercenary army that looked like it drank the blood of its enemies for pleasure, Morfran couldn’t help but feel anxious as he geared up in his leather armor in his tent.

He was relatively certain that The Plan was a decent one. No, it was a good one. If it’d been a year ago, and Morfran were leading the rebel charge, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so troubled at the thought of facing Ravana and his ex-men. Men were expendable, past-Morfran would think, and he’d use them up like they were pawns on the board.

But these weren’t just any men. They were all his friends, and he didn’t want to see them hurt, much less die awful deaths. He didn’t want to see their dreams of freeing Ruthven go down the drain. He didn’t want any of that.

And so, with battle nerves he hadn’t had in over a decade, he fumbled with his armor straps and gnawed his bottom lip until it was bleeding.

“Don’t tell me you of all people are nervous?”

He turned towards Bronwen, who stood in the tent doorway, one hand lifting the tent flap up. She was in nothing but her chemise again. He twisted his lips down at that.

“No,” he said. “You’re wearing armor this time. It’s too risky—”

“Bernard,” she replied, stern. “It’s too risky to wear armor. If I need to try everything I can to get hit with arrows and swords, it doesn’t make sense to wear anything that’ll protect me.”

“But the loophole has limits,” he argued. It was true. They’d been experimenting with it and discovered that while at times it did defy physics, she couldn’t do outrageously impossible things beyond that. Like, for instance, she’d tried to stumble into a house where Ravana was inside chained to a wall, or she’d tried to hurl an axe into the sky with the hopes of bludgeoning Ravana a hundred miles away. The only thing she’d succeeded in was nearly axing Hugh in the butt and disappointing herself.

“It does have limits, and I know them now,” she said. “But I’ll be fine with no armor. In fact, I thought maybe if I didn’t wear anything at all—”

He felt blood rush to his face. “That’s— Let’s not have you do that—”

She bit back a smile as she entered the tent. It wasn’t all that big, and he suddenly felt nervous for an entirely different reason, especially when she shooed his hands from his leather straps and fastened them up with nimble fingers.

“I like The Plan,” she said as she attended studiously to his armor. “It’s…bizarre like your other plans, but I like it. I know it’ll work.” She glanced up at him, all the light and trust in her eyes. It gutted him.

He swallowed. “Bronwen. Have you thought that perhaps after Ravana is dead, you just leave it at that?”

She knew at once what he was talking about, because she seemed to take a long breath, her eyes falling distant. “You really don’t want me to kill him, do you?”

“It’s just that he could be anywhere. He could have fled the kingdom. He could already be dead. I like the theory that Ravana killed him, and honestly wouldn’t put it past her. He could have taken up a new name for himself, changed his ways—”

He was rambling. They both knew it. She’d stopped fastening the straps at his waist, though she hadn’t removed her hands yet. “I got something for you.”

His heart was slamming against his chest, and he feared she could feel it with her fingers. Thankfully she left the tent, but only for a brief second. When she returned, her hands were behind her back.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” she said.

He hesitated. With his luck she probably realized who he was and planned on hacking him down while he stood there like an idiot. But her cheeks were flushed, and she was starting to fidget, too.

He obeyed. Something cold was set into his palms.

“All right.” Her voice was nervous. “Open them.”

He gasped, audibly gasped, at what she’d placed in his hands. It was a sword. But not just any sword. It was ebony, beautiful, and surprisingly lightweight, with a shorter blade that tapered off to a needle-thin point, which meant it was made more for stabbing than slashing. He raised it up in slight disbelief, tilting it this way and that to admire the craftsmanship, the comfortable, snug weight and balance of it in his hand.

“It’s stishovite, like my dagger.” She patted the dagger hilt attached to her belt. “I noticed you weren’t happy with any of the other swords you tried after you gave Morfran’s to Skørnne. So I called in a few favors. The Assassin’s Guild blacksmith is among us, and I had her do a fast order. I know it’s not as special as Morfran’s sword—”