Page 73 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“I do, but this guy is an idiot, and I don’t like the size of this caravan—”

“Come on, Phylis, let’s just let him through.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Phyl.” Hugh jumped in on the pleading. “It took me two hours and thirteen minutes to get me oxen to follow the ol’ lineup. Once they’re out of sync, it’s impossible to gather ’em back up, and I’d hate to clog up your line further. Do you want civil unrest? Because this’s how you get civil unrest.”

Customs Agent Phylis clearly loathed Hugh, and Morfran could imagine her glowering him down.

And that was when the basket at his feet clucked.

A pause. The first customs agent asked, “Was that…I thought that was a baby in your basket.”

“It is a baby.” Hugh groaned, likely from leaning down to pluck the basket up. “Baby Henni.”

An even longer pause. “Is that chicken wearing a baby bonnet?”

Hugh sighed, as if he considered them both dim-witted. “Really, you two. Henni insists on the hat. It’s the only way she’ll cough up the eggs for my egg jam recipe.”

Customs Agent Phylis must’ve stared at Hugh for a lengthy time, and he must’ve stared back with that stupid grin that always made Morfran question his IQ. “I can’t take this idiot anymore,” she muttered. “Get him through the gate.”

Morfran sighed in relief. Hugh began urging the oxen forward, and Morfran and Owain, who were suited up in the left oxen suit pulling Hugh’s cart, and Brim and Bill, who were suited up in the right oxen suit, began moving forward, tugging the cart along at a slow, oxen-y pace.

Morfran was the head, while Owain had the unfortunate job of being the rear, and they yanked the cart inside the walls and made their way through the crowded streets and came upon signposts that read 64th Jam Convention: Left and Public Execution of 30 Rebels: Right. As much as he longed to one day attend the jam convention, Morfran led them right.

By that time he was sweating profusely in the suit. Grandfather Tortoise, in addition to being a certified magical healer, was quite skilled at sewing, and he’d sewn realistic oxen costumes for them to don because there weren’t enough barrels to fit them all.

When they made it to the public square of Lestershire, the grandstands that encircled the stadium were packed. Countless others, including Hugh’s caravan of carts, were redirected towards the grassy field down below, which had once been a wholesome jousting field when Good King Richard was king.

To their luck Ravana had chosen a good ol’ hanging for the thirty captured rebels—although not without flashiness. A multi-person gallows had been constructed on the field, and carved into the beams were intricate depictions of decapitated men, men being gutted with axes, men vomiting blood, and increasingly more horrendous ways a person could die.

Behind him, Owain was huffing. “Next time, Bernard, I’m being the head,” he said. “I’m tired of looking at your ass.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s a fine ass.”

It wasn’t long before Morfran’s ex-soldiers held up signs that read Applaud or Die, followed by the mandatory clapping from the audience. He squinted through the thin screened fabric of the ox’s mouth, clear up to the royalty VIP seating at the top of the grandstands, feeling nothing but dread as his eyes landed on her.

Ravana. She was coming down the empty top row, robed in a gloriously jeweled purple gown of silk and wearing a black-silver crown—was that his old crown repurposed?—and came to a stop at the lone throne.

Once she was convinced all eyes were on her, she lifted her beautiful head, and with a loud, proud voice announced, “Today marks a new day!” The grandstands had been constructed to amplify voices at the top row, and her words carried straight to him. “Today we celebrate the capture of thirty rats who thought they could breach the great tri-city area of Warshire.”

The Applaud or Die signs went up again, in addition to Cheer or Die, and the audience obliged.

“I know we’ve seen scum wage battles across the kingdom for these past several months, forcing individuals into so-called freedom from our rule. I know many of you have fought valiantly to destroy this blight that’s daring to raise arms against us. For that, I commend you.” Morfran heard Ravana’s smile. “And for that, I won’t have my corrupted knights sent to your homes to obliterate you in the night. But there is more I must officially address, namely your concerns about my dear husband and your Dark Lord, Morfran, and his whereabouts.”

Morfran tensed. She couldn’t possibly know he was here, could she? If she did, would she expose him right now? Not only would that be extremely awkward while he was stowed away in an ox suit, but it’d make the entire plan implode. Low-key panic began whittling at his nerves.

“The rumors that he’s spat in the faces of all those who’ve sacrificed their lives to serve him, deserted his throne, and fled into the wilds near the southern border are false.”

Morfran nearly buckled to his knees in relief.

“The reason you’ve not seen him for nearly an entire year is because my husband, the love of my life…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “…is dead.”

A great gasp went up among the crowd, and this one didn’t need the enforcement of a Gasp or Die sign to invoke it. Morfran shut his eyes in relief. She wouldn’t have called him out. If the civilians knew that he’d joined the rebellion, it might inspire them to join as well. It might give them hope. Ravana got hives whenever hope was involved.

“Yes, it is true.” She sounded sorrowful, looking downcast at her feet. “Rebels—just like the ones we will be hanging shortly—are the cause of his death. They murdered him. They poisoned him months ago, and I had to watch him wither away as it slowly took his life. That is why he has not graced you with his presence for many months.”

Well. Poisoning was a weaker way to die. He’d have preferred it if she’d told them he’d died in a cooler way, like being quartered by a dozen raging men, or consumed in a fire after taking down fifty of his enemies. But he could live with dying by poisoning—

“Yes, they poisoned his food, his daily favorites: his gentle lilac tea and his crumpets that he always requested I cut into little heart-shaped pieces like this—”