Chapter 9 Journey to Battle
Journey to Battle
Day two hundred and seventy
Dear Diary,
It’s been three days since we left the forest encampment.
Interestingly, we’re moving in packs ranging from three to twenty, all of us taking different routes to the hamlet outside Ferndock.
Such traveling packs aren’t uncommon to see in the countryside, so hopefully we don’t look too suspicious to outsiders.
Apparently everyone is being chased out of their homes by Ravana’s men.
Morfran paused, then began jotting down more.
Benjamin is doing well. One of the stipulations of helping them is I get to keep her close by, and so she and the kids are with my traveling group.
I’m still working on naming the children.
Who thought names could be so hard? So far Oaksmasher, Battlethumper, Arrowwhipper, and Craig are what I’ve come up with.
Oh. Have to go. Gueldefore of the stupidly majestic butt chin is looking my way.
Morfran dropped his journal into his bag and continued along the dirt road.
It jerked along like a rugged streak of lightning, washed out by spitting rain, and was flanked by dead fields of dreary gray-purple heather.
The sky was no more cheery: slate-gray and chock-full of heavy clouds.
If it started a downpour just to spite him, he wouldn’t be surprised.
Gueldefore trotted up alongside him on a gorgeous steed the color of prestigious copper and at least sixteen hands high.
Of course the man had a nice horse. Most of the villagers had to walk on foot (including Morfran), while a few lucky ones got to sit in carts hauling the battle gear.
It wouldn’t have bothered him much that Gueldefore had a horse and was clearly widely admired and loved, except for the fact that the jerk was a knight.
Once, when Morfran was so small he still had morals, he wanted to be a knight.
He even had an action figure of the kingdom-renowned Knight Knathan.
Knight Knathan was honorable. He was chivalrous.
He wore a long blue cloak and gave pretty ladies flowers and massacred other knights in jousting tournaments.
In other words, he was everything that Morfran had wanted to be, before Morfran had the chance encounter of meeting him when the man was coming out of the outhouse wiping his hands on his cloak and Morfran just happened to be standing in front of the outhouse door.
Knight Knathan had yelped. “How long have you been standing there?”
Morfran stared up at him with eyes that still sparkled with childlike wonder. “For all of it.”
Knight Knathan’s face expressed alarmed disgust that child-Morfran interpreted to mean he was impressed. “Well. I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Wait!” Morfran thrust out a quill and paper. “Can I get your autograph?”
Knight Knathan paused. He looked Morfran over like he was an ambiguous gray thing that’d attached itself to the bottom of his boot. Morfran took that as a compliment. “I don’t sign autographs for just anyone.”
Morfran was slightly taken aback. “But I’m not just anyone. I’m a big fan! I have your action figure back at home. I saw you skewer Knight Knicholas like he was a marshmallow! It was phenomenal!”
For a moment, Knight Knathan said nothing. Then a strange smile passed over his lips, and he held out his hand. “Then sure. I’ll sign it. Hand it over.”
Thrilled, Morfran obeyed. Then he proceeded to watch his hero snap the quill, snort like an ox, and hack a giant loogie right onto Morfran’s paper.
He wasn’t finished. The next thing Morfran knew, Knight Knathan had slammed the snot-laden paper right into Morfran’s face, smearing it whilst pronouncing, “Kids like you are the least savory part of this job. Go back to raking horse dung and stay out of us knights’ way, you pillbox.”
It hadn’t been the exact reason Morfran had added Dark Lord to his five-year career path, but that snotty experience had certainly set him on the road.
“What are you writing?” Gueldefore asked from high atop his mount. Strapped to his back was Morfran’s new crossbow.
Morfran wished he could ignore him. There was no dignity to this catty little squabble Gueldefore was dedicated to forging between them, and as such he kept his eyes on the bleak, gray horizon. “My grocery list.”
“Lies.”
“Fine. It’s a confession of my darkest sins, which includes slaughtering every knight in sight and feeding their carcasses to my goats,” Morfran said, nudging his chin behind him.
Beni was attached to his pack by a rope, and her kids were in his makeshift baby carrier across his chest. When they first set out, Brim’s men had gawked at him, right before erupting into laughter.
Their derision was palpable, if he had to endure it.
What he couldn’t bear was them thinking he was incompetent.
Before Gueldefore could reply, Morfran added, “If all you’re going to do is think I’ll betray you, then what is the point in having me be the man with the plan?”
Knight Butt Chin sniffed dismissively before speeding his horse up a few steps, where Bronwen was walking alone.
Morfran had spent the majority of the time on the road behind her.
He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was worried she was indeed a legitimate assassin and he didn’t want her behind him.
Perhaps it was the way her long braid swung back and forth like a pendulum, annoyingly mesmerizing even as it reminded him of the impending battle.
At these times he’d wanted to reach out and grab it—partially to stop its constant swishing, partially because it looked like burnished gold silk in the sunlight and he wanted to…
what? Stroke it? Unravel it to see what it looked like unbound?
It’s just hair, Morfran, he scolded himself. Go shove your head in a cold river if you must.
While Morfran glumly slogged behind, Gueldefore began serenading her, even plucking up a nearby daffodil to pass into her hand.
“My dear Bronwen, you look radiantly flush with this exertion of walking,” he said.
“I do love it when ladies get their exercise for the day. But as you’ve been walking so terribly long now, perhaps you’d care to sit with me atop my stallion, Theopold? ”
Morfran bristled, a grudge already blooming. That was actually a fine name for a horse. How come such things came easy for him?
“No,” Bronwen replied forcefully. “I’d much rather walk.”
“What was that? You’d much rather ride? I couldn’t hear you from so high up here on my noble steed.”
“I said—”
“He’s sturdy enough for both of us. Why, he once carried myself and two other women across the fields of Conatra when I rescued them from rakish warlords. Ho ho ho. That is quite the story. Let me start from the beginning…”
Morfran tipped his head back and huffed at the sky.
With a handful of cottages, a ramshackle inn, and apparently only one outhouse, the hamlet outside Ferndock was so small it didn’t have a name. Or if it did, it wasn’t formally agreed upon or advertised in any way, so everyone just called it “The Hamlet Outside Ferndock.”
Morfran’s party arrived eight days after leaving the forest dwelling.
By all accounts, he was utterly shocked they hadn’t been stopped by Ravana’s men as he suspected they would be.
He’d been dreading that most of all. Now that they’d reached the hamlet, he found himself relaxing, despite knowing that the hard part would soon begin.
They’d arrived before several of the other parties, primarily so Morfran and the principal leaders could scout the area, contact fellow rebels in the city, and lay the groundwork for the invasion while they waited for all the others to arrive.
Brim led him into the hamlet’s only lodge, a single-story structure called the Cheshire Inn, with cramped rooms, low ceilings, and sallow lantern light.
The floorboards leaked, and everything smelled like mildew and eight-day-old fish stew.
Morfran would never pay to stay in a place like this if it were up to him.
Brim, however, seemed to love it unironically.
He sank down at a circular table in the common room that was shaped like an L, ordered something called “Glop ’n’ Frop,” and animatedly began going over plans with Morfran for the fourteenth time.
“Admiral Elena is prepared to withhold her ships.” Even in the sad, dank room, Brim was cheerily chatty, deep into his sixth mug of ale.
“We just need to send a runner when we’re ready.
Teams Eagle, Moose, and Ferret are already camped out in position.
We’re just waiting on Team Llama and Team Stink Bug.
Think we need to rearrange any of the teams?
Ferret has the fewest men. Maybe we should put them closer to us—”
“Brim—”
“Don’t call me Brim. You haven’t yet earned that right.”
“Mr. Jon Brimble—”
“Don’t say my name, either.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s your name. What am I supposed to call you?”
“Don’t call me anything. Just tell me what you want.”
Morfran counted to five and released a breath. “You’re getting battle jitters and we’re still a few days out from battle. Are you sure you and your men are up to this?”
The bear of a man exhaled and sat back, his movements sluggish and sloppy. The small wooden chair crackled like an old man’s knee beneath his weight. “Yes, we are. Of course we are. Apologies. It’s been too long since my last battle.”
Morfran eyed him as the man admitted what he’d suspected. “You’ve fought before.”
Brim waved a beefy, dismissing hand, swallowing the last of his ale. When he lowered his mug, his voice was very quiet. “I once fought for Lord Morfran.”
“Did you, now?” Morfran raised an eyebrow. That was interesting. He shifted, pushing his own ale mug towards Brim. “Do the others know?”
“No.” Brim swung his head side to side. “Not even Bronwen or Hugh. Bronwen was twelve at the time I joined. Hugh was ten. Wee little things they were back then. My wife was still alive. We lived in Burbenbach, nice little village where I grew up. I was foolish back then.” He settled his shining eyes on the nearby mug, fussing with the handle.
“Thought my family deserved all the riches in the world—and they do. I wanted the gold for them. But the glory of battle I wanted for myself.” His eyes flitted over to Morfran, not searching but affirming. “You know that feeling.”
All too well. But Morfran didn’t want to feel any warm feelings towards a man who’d allowed his schoolyard clique of beefy, brawny men to rearrange Morfran’s face, so he shrugged.
“So what happened next? You joined a troop, got caught up in the thrill of conquering, killed a man or a dozen, saw the type of person you had become, and fled home?”
“I’m a cliché.” Brim took a swig from Morfran’s mug. “But I will never forget the one time I saw him. Lord Morfran himself.”
Morfran forced himself to remain relaxed, to not go stiff, to not sweat beads on the spot. “And?”
“It was at the Rally of Doone’s Peak. I didn’t see him up close.
Only from afar—but even from a distance I could tell he was young.
Arrogant. Overtly so. But by hell, when he spoke, we all listened.
” Brim smiled dreamily. “He spoke of glory and forging a name for yourself, something that our little village always disregarded as superfluous fluff. He spoke of creating a legacy that everyone will remember centuries from now, passing down tales of your battle wit and strength and courage to your children’s children…He said history is the only way we exist into the future, long after we die. ”
Brim was staring at the wall, his thoughts wandering into the past. Morfran hoped they didn’t wander for long.
Sitting at a table with a man as intense as Brim, who was smiling mysteriously at cracks in the wall like they were whispering naughty things to him, was awkward, and Morfran hated awkward.
Luckily, Brim snapped out of it, dragging his drunken eyes back to Morfran.
“I’m not wording it as well as he did. He’s a cruel brute, but there was something authentic in his beliefs.
If he’d been a just ruler rather than seeking vainglory, I’d be amazed at the man he would be today. ”
Morfran remembered that day at Doone’s Peak. He’d just conquered three cities near Ferndock and solidified his partnership with Elena. New recruits were pouring in daily, some from across the sea. He was loved. He was feared. He was fearly loved. No. He was lovely feared? He was—
A sour-faced woman dropped a bowl of gray squirming muck in front of them.
Brim hunched over it like it was a carcass sticky with flies and he a vulture with an affinity for the grossest of roadkill and said, “Well, there might’ve been hope for him once.
” He picked up the bowl with his great hands. “Now I’m just excited to kill him.”
Between Brim’s wet slurping and his words, Morfran suddenly didn’t feel that hungry.