Chapter 10 Friday Night Fights #3
Morfran saw it the exact same time Bronwen and the soldier did: sitting inconspicuously in the mud just a few feet behind her. She must’ve dropped it.
She laughed awkwardly.
The soldier began trying to buck her off.
Embarrassed for her, Morfran walked over and kicked the dagger within her reach. She took it, too humiliated to address him, and turned the dagger on the soldier.
Morfran was turning away when he heard the soldier giggling, then “Stop it, stop it! That tickles!” followed by her frustrated shouts telling him to knock it off and just let her kill him already.
Morfran shook his head as his attention returned to the battlefield.
Moose had helped clear a pathway to the back entrance, where they’d be using explosives to blow a hole in the gate.
But Stink Bug’s cart was still down a wheel, and the rebels were trying to simultaneously fend off straggling soldiers and push the cart forward.
Morfran hadn’t fought face-to-face in months.
Usually, he relied on tactics that prevented him from having to meet soldiers up close, as he feared they’d recognize him.
But it’d been many years since he’d last visited Ferndock, and in the meantime he’d grown a devilishly handsome beard (if he did say so himself) and had sadly but necessarily ditched his seductive leather pants, so he wasn’t too concerned about that.
Right then, his only concerns were 1) slaughtering men and demolishing their morale, 2) doing it with as much haste and disorder as possible, and 3) looking good while doing it.
With a broken mace that’d been sitting upright in someone’s back, he mowed through soldier after soldier, falling back into the same old routine of days past. On occasion he intervened when it appeared a soldier was about to take down a rebel, but he made sure that the rebel in question both saw him as an ally and saw themselves as a capable fighter.
When enough soldiers were cleared, the cart hauling the explosives began wheeling across the field again, the broken wheel having been patched up with nails and forest wood. Morfran eventually stopped hacking men with his mace and joined those pushing the cart.
They heaved it across the field, and once they reached the gates where Team Moose was holding the line, he shouted to Bronwen, who had joined in the pushing of the cart and was nearest to the flint and steel and powder kegs, “Light the wick!”
She nodded—a little hesitantly—and began striking the flint. It took her three times to light it, and when she did, the flame sizzled towards the powder kegs. Morfran and the men began to run.
“Wait!” Bronwen cried out. “It went out.”
Morfran and the men rejoined her. One fended off a soldier attempting to skewer her through with a sword. Morfran headbutted another and stabbed him in the gut. She stroked the flint thrice. The wick relit.
“Run!” Morfran shouted. The men started to run.
“Wait!” Bronwen cried. “It went out again.” She did two more strikes. The wick went up in a flare of healthy red. This time Morfran didn’t join the men who ran but stood and watched the wick. It let out a sputtering, wimpy cough and then gave up the ghost.
Bronwen thrust the flint and steel at him. Gone was that crazed battle look she’d had when she’d torn after the soldiers. Now she just looked embarrassed. “You do it.”
Baffled, he did exactly as she had done, striking the flint and lighting the wick. They both stood and stared as the flame ate through the wick at a harrying pace, showing no sign of stopping.
“We should probably run,” Morfran said, to which Bronwen agreed.
Halfway across the field Morfran slowed.
“What? What are we doing? Did it die again?” She sounded strangely hopeful at that last bit.
“No. But now it’s time to walk,” he advised.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
Bronwen clearly preferred running for her life, but ever since he’d leapt atop Theopold she hadn’t argued with him once. She slowed, shooting both him and the powder keg cart bewildered looks of concern.
Heat and light blazed against Morfran’s back as the kegs exploded, the flame lighting up the field like a miniature sun. It felt as though they were being flanked by fire, the flames creating angelic wings of glory that rose sky high behind him.
Both rebels and soldiers had stopped fighting to turn and gawk at them. Some looked impressed. Others looked envious. Others looked about ready to fall to their knees in worship.
Walking—not running—away from explosions was always something Morfran tried to indulge in whenever he could.
It worked wonders for your reputation, since there was an inherent danger in getting pelted with flying debris or getting scorched to death.
It told the world, I’m cool. And this is what cool people do.
Morfran couldn’t help but look over at Bronwen, impressed that she hadn’t run, that she’d instead stayed by his side. She was trying not to smile, but even still her eyes glimmered with a lovely sparkle.
That was when a flyaway brick conked him in the head.