Page 74 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Gods damn her.

“—and so, it is with a heavy heart that I sit upon his throne now.” She sat down, looking quite pleased as she settled into the plush cushions of his seat. “And it is with an even heavier heart that I introduce a new man into my life, a man who stole my aching heart and replaced it with a soaring one, and one who has hope for the future of our kingdom, long may it suffer under our reign.”

There was a man coming down her row, a man with bright golden locks and ridiculously broad shoulders, and even from here Morfran could make out the glorious butted chin he’d long desired to punch.

“Is that Gueldefore?” he murmured in disbelief.

“Dunno,” Owain replied dryly. “Can’t see anything but your fine ass.”

“It is,” Brim muttered beside him, his ox head also turned towards the throne. “But…how? Was he truly so humiliated that he ran straight to the queen?”

Morfran squinted further. The knight was wearing a billowing white shirt, his blue knight’s cape, and—

Morfran gritted his teeth. Those were his pants. His seductive black leather pants. How were they suddenly on Gueldefore’s legs—

Realization struck him. Hugh had said they’d gone missing. Had Gueldefore stolen them out of spite?

“I am going to kill that man,” Morfran murmured.

“This man is none other than Sir Gueldefore, ex-knight of the rebellion, and he has been most helpful in capturing these thirty rebel prisoners.” She gestured towards a corner of the stadium, where a group of soldiers were leading a line of bound and gagged commoners out of an archway and towards the gallows. “These rebels will suffer for their insubordinations in a most horrendous fashion. They’ll be hanged…after we set them afire!”

Signs that said Rave or Die went up, and as the stadium erupted in panicked jeers, Morfran thought, Of course she couldn’t just simply hang them. I knew there was a catch.

The thirty rebels were shoved atop stools and fastened to nooses. Many were weeping. Others were cursing Ravana with colorful language. Some were staring blankly into the crowd, as if they didn’t believe they were there, that this was happening. Many were Hugh’s age, though there were others as old as Grandfather Tortoise or as young as Tad.

A white-blond-haired rebel woman was speaking to the man beside her, both silently crying. Even just by staring at them, Morfran knew they were the parents of the Fleet Foot Club children.

Soldiers were rolling barrels out, barrels with words stamped in red ink that read Caution—Flammable Oils.

Morfran paled, saying to Brim, “We need to act. Now.”

Brim glanced behind him, towards Hugh. His son was struggling to covertly crack open the jam barrel Bronwen was hiding in. The lid must’ve jammed—no pun intended. When Morfran looked back, soldiers had begun dowsing the gallows rebels in oil.

“We need her out first,” Brim murmured, half in panic. He had a horn he was going to blow to signal to everyone stationed in barrels or ox costumes that it was go time, but not everyone was in position. “She’s your shield.”

Morfran shook his head. There was no time. No time at all. A soldier was carrying a torch over, its flame flickering high and bright. Morfran had a quick bout of déjà vu, remembering the forest dwelling fight, only this time he could see the fire reaching the rebels, and they’d go up in flames in no time at all due to the oil, and they’d scream in agony while soldiers roughly kicked the stools out from under their feet—

Morfran moved; he tore out of the ox costume, leapt atop Hugh’s cart, and snatched the lute.

The dreadful silence of the stadium was cut through by the little minor jig that Morfran played, the random sound silencing the commotion and drawing all eyes towards him.

Aware he had the entire stadium’s attention, he settled into the cart seat, propping his feet up as he continued plucking a song in minor key, as if he weren’t at a mass public execution but in the back of a pub. He kept his eyes lowered on his fingers as he said, “I wouldn’t light them afire, if I were you.”

A long pause. Then the torch-wielding soldier, the executioner, realizing that he was being addressed, asked, “Why not?”

Morfran ignored the question. “I wouldn’t hang them, either.”

The executioner snorted. “I’d be refusing direct orders from the queen.” He waved for his fellow guards to come forward and take Morfran.

“Go ahead,” Morfran replied. “Kill me. See how long it takes for me to get back up.”

Now the executioner was just confused. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not excused.” Morfran halted his tune, leaning forward to glare at the man. “Do you not know who I am?”

The executioner returned his glower, though his gaze did wander back to the many carts and barrels behind him. “You’re…with the Damn Good Jam Goods company?”

“Doesn’t exist, much to my sorrow.” Morfran set the lute down and rose, sweeping off his hood. And that was when the first soldier began sputtering, backing away.