Page 77 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“What, now?” one asked, lowering his bow.

“He triple-dips in the chip dip, and backwashes in his canteen, if he’s ever offered you a sip.”

One of the soldiers who was currently in the middle of drinking from a canteen spat it out at once to glare at Killian.

Killian blinked at them, then stammered down at Morfran, “You shut up now! I don’t do any of those things!”

“You steal your men’s boots, if you have holes in your own—”

“I do not!”

“—and you like to sneak into their beds and stroke their beards while singing ‘Mother Hen, Mother Hen, Come Home to Roost!’ ”

“I hate that song!” one of the archers complained, nocking an arrow at Killian.

“I— He’s lying, obviously! Shoot him down!” Spittle flew out from Killian’s mouth. “Shoot him down now!”

The archers grumbled but turned and drew their bows right on Bronwen, who stood in front of Morfran, straight and proud. Yet Morfran was still taller and larger than her, and if they loosed their arrows, there was a chance he’d be struck.

That was when someone stepped in front of her with an actual full-body shield. “Hiding behind a lady?” a voice asked. “Not very gentlemanly, is he, Red Rogue?”

“Skørnne?” Bronwen released a breath of relief as Reginald stood in the line of fire of the archers behind his massive shield. Her relief quickly became a gasp as mercenaries with the same tall, thick shields pushed ahead of them. Right behind them came another line of mercenaries, these ones holding the shields above their heads like a roof, and behind them was—

“Watch the log,” Reginald said as a battering ram with a wolf’s head was brought through the army by massive men large enough to rival Rapunzo. They were followed by even more shielded men, and together they advanced on the gate, slamming the wolf’s head into the doors. It only rattled them upon the first strike.

“My father let you in?” Bronwen asked, anxious. “He’s alive still?” Morfran found that he, too, was anxious to hear that the big man was still kicking.

Reginald nodded before yelling to his men, “Again!” He turned to Morfran as arrows pummeled his shield. “He and his men have taken over most of Lestershire. Ran into a bit of a trouble with some of the corrupted knights, but last I saw he was still on two feet. Again!”

The gate shook on its hinges as his mercenaries screamed bloodcurdling war shrieks, followed by a mass release of arrows that pelted down at them. The man standing beside Reginald was struck in the neck. He was dead before he hit the ground. The woman beside Bronwen was likewise hit and died just seconds after.

“Bernard?” Bronwen asked after the battering ram struck the doors once more. She’d peeped through a slit between shields, and her voice didn’t sound hopeful. “You need to see this.”

Morfran leaned over her to glance out. A massive plume of black smoke was trailing sky-high off in the distance. He’d seen dozens over his time as Dark Lord of Ruthven™, but not one of this size.

“What is it?” Reginald asked, raising his shield up as a fourth barrage of arrows came flying.

“Ravana,” he murmured, dazed. “She’s lit Warshire afire.”

“Now, why did she do that?” His friend snarled, clearly getting sick of all the arrows. One had nearly taken his eye after its tip pierced through his shield.

“She doesn’t want us to have it.” She doesn’t want me to have it.

Reginald huffed, passed his shield to Morfran, readjusted his helmet—a threatening piece of armor with spikes all over it, and said to Bronwen, “If you’ll excuse me, love.” He turned and joined at the front of the battering ram, screaming threats that he was going to eat the flesh around his enemies’ eye sockets after devouring the cartilage of their noses.

“Your friend is…peculiar,” Bronwen said.

“He hit his head as a child, repeatedly,” Morfran replied. “I mean, he himself smashed his head against a boulder to see if he could crack it, is what he always told me.”

An enormous crash shook the ground, followed by the jeering and banshee-wails of the mercenary army around them. They’d breached the gate. Morfran and Bronwen were tugged forward, pushed into the city of Mestershire, which was similar to Lestershire but with taller stone buildings and more trees.

It was strange, seeing it from a battle perspective. It was there, beneath that pine, that he’d kissed Ravana for the first time. That bakery there was where he was given a free hoagie sandwich whenever he visited. The royal barber lived in that cozy-looking house there. It’d been boarded up, with a sign placed in the window saying Go Away.

Mestershire’s defensive forces met them readily in the entry square. Morfran took a step forward when a man fell from above, landing right at his feet.

It was Killian; a mace was sticking out of his chest, but he was still groaning. “You.” He saw Morfran, his words slurring. “How’d you know all those things about—”

Morfran hastily kicked him in the head, knocking him out. Then he stabbed him for good measure.