Chapter 8 An Acceptance of Responsibility
An Acceptance of Responsibility
Morfran stepped out of the hut and into the afternoon air, breathing in the scent of fresh pine and forest. His wounds were healed, he’d been given washing water to bathe in, and he wore a clean tunic and hose.
It was the first time in days he felt physically comfortable, and with that physical comfort came a clearer head.
Yes, his wrists had been bound with a flaxen cord in front of him, and he was still expected to wage a rebellion against Ravana and himself, but he could appreciate the small things when they came.
He began striding down the skywalk bridge, Bronwen trailing behind him.
She hadn’t let him out of her sight ever since he’d entered the hut, watching as Grandfather Tortoise applied that musty paste to the bruises and breaks of his body.
The old man was a rarity. Not just a healer, but one capable of healing the direst of wounds within seconds.
The only catch was the man had to craft something with his own hands to work the magic out, and so he quite literally stewed up mud as a conduit for healing.
The old man had insisted Bronwen help apply the mud, and so she’d stiffly swiped the mixture along Morfran’s bruised ribs, which tickled and made him fidget often enough to earn him an irked look from her that said Hold still or I’ll dump the entire bowl on your head.
The only time she’d turned her back was when he washed himself in a small basin of water and slipped into the clean clothes that Gueldefore dropped off. Even then she hadn’t left the tent.
She’s worried you’ll attack me, Grandfather Tortoise had told him as Morfran bathed.
If I did, does she really think she could stop me? he’d asked. It wasn’t in arrogance. While she was lithe-limbed and athletic-looking, she had proven to him that she couldn’t fight all that well, despite those out-of-place moments when she showed promise.
She’s more skilled in maiming than you think, he said. She’s actually an assassin.
Morfran gawked at him.
But she’s on sabbatical, Tortoise added. After her last job, she believes she’s lost her touch at killing people, and needed an extended period away from work to find herself again.
Morfran snorted at that, tossing her a look from the tub. Assassins don’t lose their touch. You sure she didn’t just lie to you for the kicks and giggles of it?
You’re free to ask her about it yourself, Tortoise replied dryly. She’s standing right there.
Morfran hadn’t bothered. If she actually was an assassin, she wasn’t a very good one.
Aside from her ambushing him in the forest, he’d easily overpowered her even when he was injured.
Not to mention she’d failed at tying him up properly, and anyone could learn some fancy handwork with a knife.
But she did have that stishovite dagger, which was quite the costly, rare item…
He looked over his shoulder now. She’d said she was bringing him back to her father, who was waiting in the central clearing.
“If you trust me enough to help you carry out plans to kill our dear lord and lady, why am I still tied up?” He raised his wrist bindings.
“Because I know you’re still planning to run the moment there’s a chance,” she replied.
“Do you? You know, trust must be given for trust to be received. How are you to trust me if you don’t give me the opportunity to prove myself?”
“I have no problem not trusting you, so long as you’re bound.”
He sighed, exaggeratedly. “I thought we were finally getting along, you and I. You vouched for my life, you hand-fed me bread, you peeked while I was in the bath—”
“I did not.” She flushed, angry.
“—and did I not save your little dwelling…thing…and everyone in it?”
“You saved our village here,” she admitted.
They reached the weightlift, a clever contraption that allowed them to step on a wide platform of wood and counter the weight of sandbags it was tethered to on the other end.
Morfran couldn’t help but admire it as it slowly lowered them towards the forest floor.
“But the Dark Lord you willingly served burned us out of our actual homes.”
“That was his men who did that,” he argued.
“Lord Morfran despises the act of burning down anything. It takes great effort and years to build something great, and to see it all gone within a day…” He thought of his reputation, frowning.
“He told his men to cease their arsonist habits, to take control of the villages only, and with as little bloodshed as possible. He needed the village resources and the people within them to maintain the village. It was economy he wanted to build up. His economy. Flourishing and powerful, something no one could beat down. But then Ravana came and persuaded them to burn it all.” He paused, a great silence growing. “And here I am.”
They’d reached the forest floor, but she was still staring at him. He had the feeling she was studying him, turning his words over in her head, holding them up to the light as if to inspect their authenticity.
She looked away suddenly. “The center clearing is right over there.” She gestured towards a grove with a massive fire and dozens of stumps and logs circling it as seating.
“My father and the village advisors are waiting for you. If you lie about anything, we’ll find out.
I will be far from pleased should you do that. ”
Her constant antagonism was grating his nerves. “Yes, but who cares what you think?” he said icily, repeating the words of one of Brim’s men from earlier.
Hurt flashed through her eyes before she could cover it up. He thought it’d be a triumph to rile her, but instead he just felt cold and empty as she pursed her lips, nodded her head towards the campfire to remind him he was expected, and left in haste. Almost as if she were fleeing.
He stared after her for a moment. An assassin on sabbatical? She did seem lost. And it was obvious Brim’s men held some resentment towards her. Perhaps she’d failed in some spectacular way?
Well. It wasn’t his problem. He shrugged these thoughts away and sauntered towards the massive firepit, where Brim and many others sat around.
They stopped speaking as he approached, their expressions ranging from accusing to suspicious to hateful.
The topic of discussion had clearly been him, and it was such an awkward situation that to break the tension he raised his hand—best as he could with them bound—and waved.
“ ’Lo there.”
“Sit him down,” Brim stated, and although Morfran was perfectly capable of sitting down himself, two ridiculously beefy men grabbed him by the shoulders, hoisted him up over a log, and slammed him onto it.
“Thank you, friends,” Morfran said irritably, staring straight ahead.
“Shut up.” One swatted the back of his head. It felt like he’d been kicked by a cow. He might’ve even gone cross-eyed.
Brim sighed. “Please remember, Owain, that he did desert Lord Morfran’s army, and that he did save your dear mother’s life when he stopped that general from blowing up the skywalk.”
The big brute known as Owain shrugged as he settled onto the stump next to Brim. “It was a love tap.”
“Perhaps next time you can give him a hate tap, amirite?” Hugh stated with a searching smile that hinted at desperation. No one replied, and Morfran winced. The idiot even still had his sword around his belt. Why had no one taken it from him?
Brim leaned back, carving into an apple with a small blade. “We were just discussing the rebellion’s efforts across the map to put an end to Lord Morfran’s reign, Bernard, and what our next move will be. Fellas, shall we enlighten him?”
“You want to hit the township of Ferndock?” Morfran paused, and then began to laugh.
His mockery must’ve been akin to a fork scrapping against a porcelain plate to the men, because their eyes slitted at him. He just laughed harder.
“Why not?” Brim asked, shrugging his massive shoulders, arms outspread in a self-deprecating gesture.
“It’s a township right on Lake Dumast, has an immense supply of grains and poultry, and has great advantage due to both the lake and its geographical location on the map.
There’ve been small riots in the kingdom, but Morfran won’t expect one of this magnitude.
We’ll have surprise on our side. If we take Ferndock, we’re already off to a strong start. ”
Morfran smiled nastily. His conquering of Ferndock had been a massive success of military strategy twenty years back, when he was just a young man of nineteen.
The township, comprised of half-timbered buildings, was the strongest center of commerce for the southern part of the kingdom.
It was built along the lakeshore and heavily relied upon for its shipping trade.
It was also fortified by tall walls, with beacon outposts on the outside that’d alert the inner township of invaders.
Morfran had seized the day with fewer men than the town had to defend itself.
He’d taken control of a trading ship heading towards Ferndock, stuffed his men into crates that previously held fanciful clothing bound for the township sheriff’s residence, and made sure to pay extra to the undercover spy who was to pop the crates and release them into city.
Smeared in pig blood and shrieking like wraiths, he and his men had terrorized the township thereafter; everyone thought them to be demons.
It wasn’t until after Morfran had taken the town hall, hung the sheriff in place of the church bell, killed off a third of the town guard, and held all the wealthy merchants’ daughters hostage in the library that the leaders yielded.
Within days Ferndock was ruled by one of his many puppet magnates, and they’d moved on to conquer the next township.
It was wonderful daydreaming of his glory days, when his reputation was budding and people were starting to notice his competence.
“Morfran designed its defenses so it wouldn’t fall easily to those like him,” he said to Brim and his brutish men.
“Yet you are not like him. You are less than him. You are outmanned. You have weaponry, yes, but your men aren’t trained.
You’ll also have the Dumast navy to contend with, and you want to take a town that has fifty percent of its buildings sitting on the shores? It will be no easy task.”
Gueldefore tossed away a pine needle he was using to pick his nails.
“Shall I tell him? I’m going to tell him.
Look here, devil. You have not seen our full numbers out there.
The city has been infiltrated with a group of rebels already, waiting on our command to act.
And you boast about the Dumast navy? You shouldn’t.
We forged a deal with the admiral herself to withdraw all galleons and warships from Ferndock on the day we ask. ”
Morfran stiffened. Admiral Elena agreed to work with these peasants?
She’d been a pirate he’d recruited into his ranks, and now she ruled Lake Dumast—which was more like a small sea—with her infamous fleet of fifty galleons.
He considered her a good friend. Being good friends with someone was better than being just friends with someone, and that usually came with not betraying each other.
Trying to hide his hurt, he demanded, “What could you possibly have promised the admiral that would persuade her to betray her lord?”
“Her son was in Sturnhul when Morfran’s men burned it to the ground,” Gueldefore said, then added with self-righteous aplomb, “Hard to back a man who kills your kin.”
The news, frankly, stunned him. Elena’s son, Oliver, had been a fine young man.
They used to play chess and eat her secret stash of pastrami and aged Muenster in her ship cabin whenever Morfran visited.
They used to skip rocks on the lake. Morfran had even taught him how to wield a blade, and how to shave. He hadn’t heard of his passing.
It was his victory on capturing Sturnhul that had opened Morfran’s eyes to the true atrocities of his rule.
So much fire, so many burned in the flames.
Morfran still felt the heat of that day, a heat that had illuminated his army in a harsh light as they cut down villagers.
It was when Morfran saw a flower shop going up like tinder, the florist fleeing with her prized, wilted wildflowers in her arms, that The Thought flickered through his mind.
The Thought that whispered…This is evil.
Despite the heat of that day, Morfran had felt cold.
He wasn’t evil. He was dark and cunning, but he wasn’t evil.
He was here to take Sturnhul for its people and economy, not to destroy it.
How could he have let it get this far? But even when he told his men to ease up, none did.
Ravana had been prodding them, steering them forward into wrecking Sturnhul, and they all listened more to her cruelty than his cunning.
That was Morfran’s last battle before he fled.
“Believe us when we say we’ve done the hard part.” Gueldefore’s voice trickled back to him, dismissive. “All we want from you is a little strategy and a little insight on how to take back Ferndock.”
All eyes were on him. They were hard. Bitter. Waiting.
“Fine,” Morfran snapped, though not all of his anger was directed at them.
“Get me your blueprints of battle. I need a list of all men and women who can fight, including details about their skill sets and experience. Then get me a formal list of all documented weaponry, including explosives and any mechanical engineering you have invested in or invented to this point. Comprehensive maps of Ferndock, too. And I assume you’ve been doing reconnaissance as well, so I need details of all you know about its defensive strategy.
” He may have taken Ferndock himself and had the magnate report new updates to him, but Morfran had been gone for nearly ten months. He wanted to cover all his bases.
And though he still was loath to work with these peasants, he supposed his reputation could afford to lose Ferndock, if it meant ripping the city from his two-timing, disloyal ex-soldiers.
When he glanced from the smoldering firepit back to the men, many were half-stuck in surprise.
That only irritated him further. “Well? Don’t tell me you don’t have any of these things. You acted so sure of yourselves while you were insulting me.”
Brim recovered first. “We’ll get all lists to you by this evening.” He looked somewhat pleased, gazing from his men back to Morfran. “In the meantime, Owain? Escort him back to his tent, will you?”
Morfran sighed, knowing with no doubt that “tent” meant his hut prison.