Page 75 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“No!” he wailed. “Not again. I survived the last time. I won’t be around for it a second time. I can’t! I can’t!” He dove into the crowd in a panicked frenzy. His fellow soldiers let him flee, bewildered.

The executioner narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

Morfran just smiled.

He scoffed. “Not gonna say? Then you’re a disturber of the peace, and we make quick work out of the likes of you.” Archers up on the stands drew their bows.

Morfran tensed, looking back for a brief second at Hugh, who was still struggling with the barrel. “Killing me won’t solve anything. And killing them”—he gestured towards the thirty rebels who were gaping in bafflement at him as well—“would be your bane.”

“Look, buddy, whoever you think you are—”

“I know who I am. But seeing as you don’t, I’ll introduce myself.” Morfran shrugged, resigned. He was out of time. “I am Bernard,” he said. “The Necromancer.”

Brim blew his horn. Soldiers nearby erupted into panicked shouts—“Shoot him down! Shoot him down!”—as dozens upon dozens of rebels exploded out from the jam barrels.

The rebels were horrifying: smeared in blood red from head to toe, growling and wailing and gnashing their jaws, hoisting their sharp weapons up high towards the heavens. “The dead!” the crowd was shouting. “He’s brought back the dead!”

Many of the soldiers had reared back as traumatic memories flew to their minds. They were shoving aside onlookers who were unsure whether to flee or cheer, for word of Bernard the Necromancer had spread to all corners of the kingdom by now, and they all knew he’d evaded Morfran’s slaughter and was enacting vengeance upon the evil forces of the land.

“Shoot him down!” the executioner was screeching as rebels caked in “blood” (really, it was Morfran’s favorite cherry jam) swarmed the soldiers or began rescuing the rebels in the gallows. Brim was at Hugh’s side, trying to use the tip of his sword to open the lid of Bronwen’s barrel.

In the chaos of most everyone fleeing, Morfran glanced up at his throne to see Ravana evacuating the stadium row, her expression pale and intense. She looked down at the field only once. Their eyes met.

“Shoot him, now!”

An arrow struck Morfran so hard it knocked him clean off the cart. He hit the ground flat on his back, pain lancing deep into his chest.

“Bernard!”

Bodies knelt beside him moments later; Brim and his two children, all wearing looks of deep concern. Bronwen was covered in raspberry preserves, her white gown stained red. She was holding his new sword. They’d gotten her out.

He tried to rise. Raw agony dragged its fingers across his chest, up his neck, and down his stomach. He set his head back down and groaned, “That’s not a shoulder wound, is it?”

Bronwen was white, fingering the arrow. “It’s near your heart.” She looked up at her father and brother. “We need Grandfather Tortoise. Now.”

“I’ll get him.” Hugh was already up and vanishing into the crowd.

“This isn’t an arrow,” Brim muttered. “It’s a crossbow bolt.” His eyes darkened. “Gueldefore.”

“He’s here?” Bronwen asked, before letting out a frustrated huff. “I’m sorry. I should have been standing in front of you. I was trying to open the barrel. I couldn’t. The hex, it jammed the lid—”

“Not your fault,” Morfran choked out, then just shut his eyes. Her hex was his fault. It was all his fault.

The pain was welling up inside him, bolting through every limb. It hurt to even take a breath. All around him he heard chaos. People screaming. Metal clanging against metal. Boots slapping the ground as many fled.

Finally, Hugh returned. But not with Grandfather Tortoise.

“You brought Drezella into the middle of battle?” Bronwen snapped, incredulous. “What were you thinking? She’s a little girl!”

“I couldn’t find Grandfather Tortoise,” Hugh countered. “No one can. That octogenarian probably bumbled off into a hole somewhere. But Drezella’s his apprentice, and—”

“How did you even get here?” Bronwen demanded of her.

“I hid in one of the carts,” Drezella started, and when Brim began to protest, she added, “I need to be here! I can help! That’s what a Fleet Foot does! We’re helpful in any possible way—”

“You’re going right back to camp,” Brim said.

The little girl huffed, shoving past them both to kneel beside Morfran. She scooped the Special Paste out of a satchel and hesitated. Then she said apologetically, “I can’t heal you, Bernard, if the bolt is still in you.”