Page 9 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“You aren’t understanding this, are you?” she said. “We’re not letting you go just because you’re suspicious. It doesn’t matter if you have a hundred alibis. No one can know we’re here, which is why you’re not ever going to leave this place.”

He sat up straighter, his own anger growing. “Why not?” he snapped. “Why are you all so secretive? Just tell me!”

“We’re not just some forest dwellers out in the boonies of the southlands.” She met his frustrated anger with triumphant anger. “We’re the official rebellion against the Dark Lord of Ruthven and his evil queen. There are thousands of us in these woods who’ve been burned out of our villages by Morfran and his men. But we’re not hiding. We’re building an army greater than his has ever been. And soon, we’re going to take the torch to him and burn him out.”

4

Torture Time

Bronwen didn’t return to the hut after their less-than-ideal conversation, which he wasn’t exactly happy about. After she’d dropped that tidbit about planning a rebellion to set fire to Lord Morfran (i.e., him), he’d argued with her about just about everything: how he doubted there were a thousand able-bodied men hiding out in the forest. How sharp sticks did not a sufficient weapon make, not when they’d be facing men with stishovite arrows and black iron swords and fancy siege gadgets called trebuchets. And lastly, he argued how much his “prison” was a pathetic makeshift, and that a true rebellion would at least have a deep, dark pit in the ground in which to stash its enemies.

Her glower had only darkened. “We do have shovels out here. We can make such a prison happen.”

“Make it happen, then!” he argued.

“I will. And I’ll have you dig it,” she shot back, to which he—childishly, he admitted afterwards—snapped, “Make me!”

She hadn’t bothered to reply, and frankly, he was embarrassed. He was left alone after that, still fastened against the center pole, his leather journal tucked covertly under his butt. He didn’t get the chance to wiggle free, however. He soon had visitors.

First it was three little children with hair so blond it looked like flossy, sun-bleached hay. They peeked in through the hut’s door flap, drawing the cloth back with dirty fingers and peeping at him with wild, round eyes. The fresh scent of pine and elm floated towards him, and he gladly breathed it in.

“See?” said the eldest, a boy of around twelve. “Told you he was here.”

Morfran ignored them. They were the filthy spawn of people mounting a rebellion against him, and frankly, he was feeling a little insulted. Bronwen made it sound like they all believed it was him behind the pillaging and looting, when in reality, it was his men. He’d warned them about something like this. A burned home was fuel for vengeance, he’d said. Honestly, his men had started to grow too uncontrollable. He noticed it. They noticed it. And Ravana certainly noticed it. It was one of the one hundred and four reasons (he’d created a list of pros and cons) why he’d fled.

“And he really killed ’em all with his bare hands?” What looked to be the youngest child—a tiny boy missing the entire front row of his teeth—whistled. “He ain’t even wearing armor. You sure you heard right?”

“I hear right just fine,” the eldest boy replied. “They said he looks deceptive but is a flat-up liar, though. So maybe Brim is right and he just stole the sword off a dead man.”

“No honor in that.” The toothless boy shook his head sadly.

“What do you think of him, Drezella?” the eldest asked.

The third was the only girl, perhaps ten. She hadn’t blinked once since seeing him. She released a slow, breathy sigh. “I think he’s handsome, Tad.”

“I don’t mean it like that! Do you think he killed some of Morfran’s men?”

“I don’t see why it matters if he’s handsome…”

“Great,” the eldest boy—Tad—grumbled, irritable. “This is why we don’t like playin’ with you, Drezella. Whenever a question of great importance is asked, you always go off about how so-and-so’s eyes are dreamy, or how his muscles are so big, or—”

“Can you three please discuss this elsewhere?” Morfran asked, more polite than he should have been. His wrists had been tied to the post for hours, and all sensation up to his elbows was non-existent. Add that to the fact that he’d had nothing to eat or drink since last night and a headache was forming, and he was in no mood to sit and listen to them argue.

The three of them fell utterly silent upon him speaking. Then:

Drezella sighed again. “Oh, even his voice sounds handsome…”

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Tad announced. “If all you’re going to do is talk about how handsome someone is, then consider yourself no longer a Fleet Foot.”

She finally tore her gaze from Morfran to protest this. “I was the one who named us! You can’t kick me out of my own club!”

“It’s not your club. We created it together, and since I’m oldest, technically I’m the leader—”

“But that’s no fair!” Toothless cried. “Nana told me I get to be leader today, remember?”

I think I may tear my hair out, Morfran thought, then bemoaned the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, then bemoaned further how swollen his wrists had grown over the hours. “Children,” he begged. “Please.”

For once, good luck floated Morfran’s way in the form of someone outside passing by and saying, “You three shouldn’t be over here,” followed by the three children scattering away like sparrows spooked by a cat. Before vanishing behind the door flap, however, Drezella turned and gave Morfran a shy smile and a wave.