Page 78 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Bronwen was waiting for him to finish. “Shall we?”

Morfran had been in hundreds of battles before. Some lasted anticlimactic seconds. Others lasted days. He didn’t know how long he’d been fighting Ravana’s soldiers in the city of Mestershire; all he knew was that his muscles were tight and tired, the taste of blood was imbedded in the back of his throat, and his hand felt permanently affixed to his sword.

He wasn’t sure they were winning.

It was a dire thought. They’d made it as far as the yard of City Hall, a three-story building shaped like a brick with a tall bell tower attached to it. Soldiers had smashed out the windows (wasteful, especially since they could have simply thrown up the sash) and were hurling assortments of weapons or items at them: arrows and daggers, but also quartz paperweights, ceramic vases, stone busts of his head.

The rebels were greatly fatigued, too. While they’d had a great start, it was a simple fact that they were fighting in enemy territory against geared soldiers who outnumbered them three to one. Morfran saw many of them fall—including Owain, who’d been trampled by a horse just feet from where he and Bronwen fought.

Each death stung like he’d been the one killed.

He tore his sword out of a man, kicking him to the blood-soaked grass. Beside him Bronwen had begun to fight as well—she was to the point that her exhaustion was inhibiting her skills; she couldn’t do anything 100 percent anymore, and so her hex was back in working order again.

“We need a break.” Morfran shoved back his damp hair. His gauntlet came back sweaty and red. “We can’t keep this up, and you need armor now.”

Bronwen was panting, wiping a smear of blood out of her eye. She’d received a nasty cut along her forearm, and her chemise was ruined with grime and blood. “If I can find a set that’ll fit me—”

Morfran scanned the yard, squinting at the nearby soldiers and appraising their gear.

“What about hers?” he asked, eyeing the soldier who’d just fallen out a window.

Bronwen hemmed and hawed. “Too tall. Anyone else?”

He pointed his sword at a soldier Theodore had just felled. “His?”

“Too bloody?”

Just then a screech came from behind Morfran, and he spun, blade flying, and skewered a soldier who was seconds from slamming a mace into Bronwen’s head. Morfran and Bronwen stared at each other, wide-eyed, before he gestured to the now-dead woman slumping off his sword. “Hers?”

She shrugged. “Looks just right, actually.”

While she ran off to gear up, Morfran fended off two other men—both looking like they were freshly sprung into battle—and killed an archer by chucking a spear at the annoying git who stood atop a roof.

While they did need a break, what they truly needed to do was reorder, re-form, and use strategy to hold the line. As it was, everything had devolved into chaos, and even when Morfran cried out to re-form, few heeded him.

That was when he saw, perhaps a street away, Reginald fighting one of Ravana’s corrupted knights. The mercenary was howling, slamming his mace fiercely against the knight’s breastplate. It dented it inward, staggering the knight back. But he was quickly pushing forward again, swiping and blocking Reginald’s attacks, moving with swift speed and strength. Unbeknownst to Reginald, a second knight was running towards the two.

Morfran began staggering in that direction; he’d taken a bad slash to his calf, and his chest wound was starting to flare up in greater pain than before. He’d never make it, and he was too far to alert Reginald. He still couldn’t stop himself from screaming,

“Reginald! Behind you!”

The first knight swung his sword; Reginald caught it, kicked the man in the knee, snarling out a breath—and then the second knight stabbed forward.

Morfran watched as Reginald was pierced through the chest. The mercenary’s eyes widened, his face caught in startled surprise. The first knight then struck him in the throat. His friend fell without noise.

Dead.

The two knights exchanged fist bumps over Reginald’s body. One of them even tossed the other a coin. A bet had been placed on who’d make the killing blow.

Morfran was already swinging at them before he realized what he was doing.

He killed the first without much issue. He’d caught him by surprise, and the knight fell, bleeding from his gut wound, the gold coin falling from his open palm.

The remaining knight before him was clearly not happy that Morfran had killed his buddy.

Back at you! Morfran wanted to scream, but the knight had already launched at him, swinging, slashing, and stomping forward whenever Morfran tried to land a hit. The way the knight moved, with hasty, chopping movements and emotional strokes, reminded him of—

“Knight Kyle?” Morfran questioned, trying to peer through the knight’s helmet slits.