Page 89 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Well. That answered his question about whether word was out about him. How did they find that out? Bronwen was dead. She couldn’t have told them. The realization stung so greatly that he didn’t much care what happened next. He slumped against the post, resting his head back as a stream of people began flooding the courtyard. Many he’d never seen before—citizens of Warshire, many equipped with big rocks, sharp farm instruments, and lit torches, despite the fact it was clearly morning.

One man spat a string of curses and pointed a torch right at him. Ah, those were for him. They were going to burn him at the stake. He loved the irony, even if he didn’t appreciate the gesture.

The rocks were hurled with great precision and glee, pummeling him in painful places, particularly his head. It was only when two women from the crowd began jabbing pitchforks at him that someone swept forward, shouting them down with a booming voice.

“Cut that out! What are you, a mindless mob?” It was Brim, of all people. He’d forced his way to the front, and his massive height and commanding voice made them all step back.

“That’s exactly what we are!” A man wielding a shovel raised it up high. “A mindless, pissed-off mob!”

“Don’t forget bloodthirsty!” a mindless mob member mentioned amicably.

“Oh, and unruly!” another added politely.

“Can you call us agreeable, too?” a third interjected pleasantly. “No, actually, I demand you call us agreeable—”

Brim just stooped down and picked up a fist-sized rock, looking nigh about to hurl it at the mob and their demands. “You’re all pissing me off, that’s what you are. Shut your yaps or I’ll do it for you.” All mob members instantly shut their mouths. “Thank you for complying,” Brim said, before lowering the rock and turning to face Morfran. From his position he blocked the light of the early-morning sun, and it cast a cold shadow on Morfran’s face.

“Say it.” Brim’s cutting gaze lacked any of the warmth Morfran had grown accustomed to seeing from him. That hurt almost as much as Bronwen’s pained anger earlier. “I want to hear you say it.”

Morfran sighed. Familiar faces had pushed themselves to the front of the crowd, and he saw the sober expressions of dozens of those he’d fought beside and laughed beside and lied to.

The grass at Brim’s feet was dewy. They were all waiting, in this painful, painful quiet, for him to give them the respect they deserved and confess. Well. He’d prolonged it long enough. The moment was due.

“The man and general you knew as Bernard doesn’t exist,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes on Brim’s feet so he didn’t have to look at anyone. “He was a lie I made up to fool you. But the man who tormented you these past twenty years, and whose men burned you out of your homes, you all well know he exists…” Then he forced himself to look Brim in the eye as he admitted it. “He is me. I’m Morfran.”

The crowd tittered like a flock of birds who’d just been shot at. More rocks were hurled his way, and even Brim couldn’t death glare them into stopping.

“A third of the people behind me want to kill you.” Brim’s tone was flat. “And another third want to watch.”

Morfran shut his eyes. He was spent; a charred log at the end of its life, more ash than fuel. But if they wanted to smoke the remains, he’d let them. He deserved far worse.

“The last third are vouching for your life.”

His eyes flew back open. Brim was unsmiling, a shadow behind his eyes. “Who?” Morfran dared to ask.

The big man gestured behind him, and to his shock there were people—a sizable number—who stepped forward. All of Brim’s men who had survived the fight, including Bill and Theodore. Hugh, who was leaning against Morfran’s new sword, which he’d stabbed into the grass. There were Drezella and Tad and Toothless Pete, the last of whom was standing between and holding the hands of a flossy-haired woman and man, whom Morfran surmised were their parents. Grandfather Tortoise, also—where the hell had he been?—and what looked like the entirety of Reginald’s mercenary army, all still freshly lathered in the blood of their enemies.

Lastly among them, his eyes fell to Bronwen, who stood flushed and watchful and alive, in a simple clean shift that was unstained by blood, and she in turn stared back with a quiet expression that was entirely unreadable.

All the breath inside him puffed out, and he deflated against the post. “She’s alive?” Tears of relief brimmed his eyes.

Brim passed him a conflicted look, and he hesitated before saying, “We’ve made a bargain with those who want you burned. If those who want you alive can share their reasoning why you shouldn’t die today and convince the rest to let you live, you’ll be untied. If not…” He looked at the many torches studding the crowd. “It’ll be an ironic end for you.”

When Morfran realized that he’d have to sit there and listen to those he’d lied to as they tried to spout any good qualities of his they’d noticed, he shook his head roughly. “No. Brim, please. Just kill me. I’d rather die—”

A tiny tic of humor touched Brim’s jaw. “I can’t. I’ve been appointed temporary leader of the city, and I have to abide by majority rule. Besides, I don’t yet know if I want you dead. I might have a good use for you.” He cast Bronwen a quick glance, which baffled Morfran further, before he stepped back to let the first speaker step forward.

What followed was what Morfran could only describe as cringingly painful and worse than any torture Ravana could have invented from her demented mind, and he found he could only stare holes in the grass as person after person came up.

“He recognized I was an idiot, and put me to good use for it,” came the first testimony, from Hugh, who nodded as if his words alone justified preserving Morfran’s life.

“He promised he wouldn’t punch me in the head while teaching me how to play the lute!” was Toothless Pete’s defense for him.

“He saved my parents from being publicly executed,” Drezella argued. “I wouldn’t imagine a Dark Lord would do that, but he did.”

“He’s fought by our side through thick and thin most excellently,” Theodore said. “He braved his own soldiers as he helped us take back our villages and cities all throughout the kingdom. Not to mention he had us fling him headfirst into a sea monster’s mouth in order to kill it. It was all like, ‘gharrar,’ and he was like ‘chuck me like one of your logs,’ and he flew like a fearless arrow into its gullet. Or beak. I dunno what it was. Oh, he did this all while drenched in wasabi, and—”

Drezella came up a second time. “Dark Lord Morfran also joined the Fleet Foot Club as a member. He took an oath to always be honest, helpful, and benevolent, and Dark Lord Morfran would never turn his back on that.”