Page 76 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Damn this. He couldn’t sit around any longer while The Plan went forward. He needed to help. Brim needed to help his men open the gates to allow Reginald and his mercenary army in. He and Bronwen needed to sow fear into the hearts of his ex-soldiers. He couldn’t do that if he was lying about half-dead.

In one swift motion Morfran shoved himself up and jerked the bolt from his chest. Then he proceeded to black out. By the time he could see again, the others were huddled around him, breathing sighs of relief, and the pain was lessened thanks to Drezella’s paste.

“I wasn’t dying, you idiots,” he grumbled.

“Well, it wasn’t a shoulder or thigh shot. Anything could have happened,” Brim said, before adding, “I need to get going towards the gate. You good, Bernard?”

“Go.” Morfran tossed him a careless wave as he sat up. “You’re wasting time.” As he rose pain blossomed beneath his chest where he’d been hit. It felt as if his lung was badly bruised.

“I’m not as skilled as Grandfather Tortoise is yet.” Drezella frowned, seeing his pain. “It’ll still hurt, but you won’t die.”

“You,” Morfran said, “have nothing to apologize for. But it’s time you get to safety.”

Then she did the one thing Morfran thought she’d never do. She frowned. “No. My parents are here. I’m going to find them.”

Bronwen lurched to grab her as the girl sprinted away. She ended up hitting her head against the cart wheel. Hugh attempted to stop her as well, but all he achieved was bear-hugging air.

Like brother, like sister. Morfran huffed. “Hugh. Go grab her and get her out of the city. And, Bronwen?”

She looked at him, looking miserable as she rubbed her head.

“You still want to play defense to my offense?”

Her smile returned at once.

26

The Battle of Warshire

The streets of Lestershire were flooded with the dead.

Or at least, that’s what his ex-soldiers were screaming as they fell back, running towards the gates that led into the second city of Mestershire. Rebels had pulled citizens aside and explained it was all a hoax, that they weren’t covered in blood but delicious cherry jam, and that Bernard wasn’t a legitimate necromancer. After that, citizens had joined the fray, terrorizing soldiers after lathering themselves in tomato juice from their pantries or strawberry preserves from their shelves.

Unfortunately, there were some braver soldiers who happened to be the most vile of Morfran’s men. They weren’t so fooled by the jammy ploy and saw Morfran as the ringleader who needed to be brought down. They hounded through rebel fighters to slaughter him.

It was in this chaos that Morfran was protected by Bronwen. “The Necromancer’s Shield-Maiden,” they were already calling her. Anytime a soldier came swinging a blade at Morfran’s head, she’d dart in the way, and the soldier would find his bootlaces suddenly untied and trip over his feet. An axe hurled through the air would slow to a hover in front of her, which she’d then pluck out of the air and hurl right back. She blocked while Morfran stabbed, parried while he dodged, and pretty soon they’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm, twirling and spinning and ducking around each other.

“Feels a bit like a dance,” Bronwen murmured as she spun Morfran around to expose her back to a spear flying at them. It veered off course, slowing enough that Morfran could reach out and grab it.

“I prefer my dances with less blood,” he muttered, thrusting the spear into the thigh of a nearby soldier.

She dodged a mace swinging at her head, and Morfran stabbed its owner with his new blade. “Well,” she panted. “Let’s survive this day, and then you can dance with me at the harvest festival next month.”

Guilt joined the residual wound pain in his chest. He wouldn’t be anywhere near her next month; he was going to be far away, where he couldn’t see the betrayal in her eyes when she inevitably discovered who he was. He met her hopeful eyes in the frantic commotion of battle. “Wear ribbons in your hair,” he said softly. “The green ones.”

She smiled. But it didn’t stay on her face for long, because they were approaching the gates to the second city, Mestershire.

It was barricaded by a team of Ravana’s soldiers; pikes and metal contraptions blocked the way, and standing atop the gatehouse was a line of archers.

“Halt, criminals!” shouted a voice. It was General Killian, mounted in the center. He looked smugly pleased to be on the higher ground of a gatehouse this time around. “Lay down your weapons, or we’ll shoot you dead! I have the queen’s express permission to do so!”

Morfran groaned. The man was insufferable when he’d been a lowly foot soldier. He was even more so when he was a general.

“Gentlemen!” Morfran hollered up to them. “The man you call general likes to eat bananas with ketchup.”

The line of archers balked, confused.

“He likes to fill his socks with peanut butter and go for mile-long hikes!”