Chapter 11 The Victory Party
The Victory Party
In the end it was Team Eagle who’d stolen the magpie and marigold flag, and as such, managed to take the glory of the win.
The other teams had kicked and moaned, but their side had won, so the moaning didn’t last long, especially since the rebels now had an entire village of warm beds, home-cooked meals, and their first win notched in their belts.
They celebrated well into the night with ale the villagers brought out in generous amounts, filling the village’s taverns and courtyards.
Morfran, who’d suffered a bad concussion after being hit in the head with a flying brick, was taken to the village infirmary, where two dozen other men were moaning or groaning or holding their limbless appendages.
Grandfather Tortoise was brought in, with Drezella (who Morfran learned was also an apprenticed healer with slight magic of her own) following at his heels, carrying a large pot of his Special Paste and zipping to his side whenever he required her.
“I hear you miraculously brought back the dead,” Tortoise told Morfran when he finally reached him and began unwrapping his bandages to swipe a fat gob of paste against his bloodied head. “And that you and Bronwen were the ones to tip the battles for Teams Moose and Stink Bug.”
“Things started to go wrong,” Morfran admitted. “Improvisation was needed in order to win.”
“Improvisation?” He smiled. “You mean playing the long con?”
Morfran froze. “What do you mean?”
“Ferndock’s villagers are saying you raised the dead,” Grandfather Tortoise said, and at this Morfran relaxed slightly. “But necromancers have long been gone from the kingdom thanks to Morfran’s actions.”
Necromancers were indeed long since dead, as per his orders.
Dead dead. He’d gone on a crusade to weed out every necromancer in the kingdom—they were like goatheads, they just seemed to grow everywhere—which resulted in a two-year war called the Two-Year War.
It’d lasted two years. It’d felt like twenty.
The necromancers had a bad habit of using their dead comrades as soldiers, so their army never truly died, they only lost limbs and on occasion a head or two, but they didn’t seem to mind.
The dead, that is. He found it repugnant and an affront to nature, especially when the undead began kicking their severed noggins across the killing field as they doddered in an uneven line towards his men. It had to be stopped.
Eventually his men managed to burn the last of the necromancers at the stake after a six-hour siege at Necromancer’s Necropolis in the west near Redmoth.
It’d calmed him, and satisfied Ravana, and they made love that night knowing that no halitosis-ridden corpse would be sent to their address to strangle them with its unwashed hands.
“Since necromancers are long gone, it means you managed to convince the cowards within the rebellion to get their butts up and fight for what’s right.
And you managed to do so in front of Morfran’s soldiers, who’re still traumatized by necromancers.
Impressive, impressive,” Tortoise murmured. “You think, my friend. You think well.”
Something about the way Tortoise was smiling at him made Morfran squirm. “Well. I was also the idiot who thought he could walk away from an explosion instead of wisely running. I’m lucky Bronwen didn’t get hit with that brick. Brim would have killed me himself.”
Brim had already been in there earlier, when Morfran was still seeing visions of dancing Pegasi and cakes that could talk.
Brim had ranted about gratitude and brotherly love and pancakes (maybe not; that could have been the concussion talking), until he’d patted Morfran’s cheek, said, “I’ll come find you when you’re not cross-eyed,” and left while hooting and riling up the men in cots beside him by slapping their feet.
After Tortoise’s Special Paste did its special thing, and Drezella told Morfran he was a dreamboat and handed him a plucked petunia, which he sniffed and pocketed when no one was looking, Morfran was released from the infirmary and wandered outside.
Dusk had collapsed heavily over the sky, pushing out all light and rolling out a tapestry of black-blue across the heavens.
The breeze was calm, and merriment drifted from every window—which surprised him.
Villagers were celebrating, sharing their dinner tables and their spare beds with the rebels.
Someone from a nearby tavern let out a cheer, intoxicated beyond coherence, spouting out, “Today is a great day!” This was followed by plenty of hoorays from nearby drunks outside neighboring taverns.
Amid the laughter and cheers, Morfran felt a great loss. He’d helped the rebels take victory, but he hadn’t expected to see Ferndock’s villagers so relieved and happy. He’d been ruthless, yes, but he’d been a stylish ruthless you wanted to become part of. Brim’s past was evidence of that.
This was Ravana’s doing, he thought. And his men’s. They’d surpassed stylish ruthlessness to become evil, and now the legacy he’d spent two decades building up was spoiled by their actions.
And was no one concerned there’d be consequences for standing up to him?
No one was worried there would be backlash of the most torturous kind?
Did they truly think he’d just take this lying down?
Perhaps it was the rumors of his absence that gave them courage.
Perhaps, if he emerged out of the woodwork and took back command of his armies…
But he didn’t want to go back to being the Dark Lord of Ruthven?.
He just wanted his legacy before Ravana ruined it to remain untarnished, like a trophy put behind glass.
Yet that wasn’t how it worked. He couldn’t have his dark reputation if he didn’t upkeep it, and he couldn’t keep it alive if he was actively helping take it down.
What he wanted was all so contrarian and frankly gave him an even bigger headache than he already had. Just as he began to turn back towards the infirmary to lie down and sulk there, a great arm went around his shoulders and squeezed him tight.
“Bernard!” It was Brim. He smelled like an entire brewery. “Why’re you wandering the streets all ’lone? It’s a time for celebrating! Come this way! We’ll get you some frothy beef and a roast ale sandwich.”
Brim led him towards the village center, where he nabbed him a mug of ale and pushed him into the crowd.
There were hundreds of people—including Gueldefore, who’d wrapped the magpie and marigold flag around his shoulders and was being fawned over by dozens of fans—out on the center’s large patch of grass, many of whom were dancing, singing, snacking, and all other sorts of -ings around a giant bonfire that blazed joyously.
Morfran wilted. Even the fire seemed happy to have thrown off the chains of his rule.
Brim sat him at an empty log before the bonfire, as if Morfran couldn’t be allowed to do anything for himself due to his concussion, and then sauntered off to find him a sandwich. Morfran just watched the flames, morose, until Bronwen joined him on the log.
“Hi,” she said after she sat, almost shyly. Unlike those around her, she seemed almost…disheartened.
“Hi,” he replied. Scratched his neck. Shuffled in his seat.
Sighed. “Thanks for cutting me loose earlier.” First thing he noticed when he woke was that he was no longer bound, nor did the men in the cots beside him act as if he needed to be.
Though that might have been because they were distracted with not bleeding to death.
“Thank you for not running.” She paused.
“I suppose I should stop thinking you’ll do that, since you’ve already proven you’re not that type of man.
Twice, now.” Her words irritated him a little.
Of course he’d flee, but only when the opportunity was ripe.
Right now he just wanted a little bit of respect and a sandwich.
“And for what it’s worth, thank you for helping us.
I know it isn’t what you want to be doing. ”
They fell silent again, and although it was slightly awkward, the animosity between them was mostly gone.
They’d been on the same page on the battlefield, despite her strange hiccups with the soldier and lighting the wick, and although he was still cranky about his fading legacy and being forced to actively demolish it, he was curious about her.
She was curious about him, too, it seemed, because she eyed him and asked, “How did you know you’d be able to rouse our men and trick the soldiers into believing they were zombies?”
Morfran snorted. “Sheer stupid luck and audacity,” he mumbled, not bothering going into much detail.
“But you.” He cast a side glance at her.
“You took that soldier down quite swiftly, even though you’d dropped your dagger.
It almost looked like you’ve had practice.
” He waited. What he was really asking was whether or not she was actually an assassin.
She finally admitted it, looking at her hands.
“I went to an assassin’s academy when I was younger.
Everyone from the forest helped pitch in to help pay my tuition.
I took all the extra courses I could, and joined all the sororities available—Death Zeta, Alpha Kappa Killers.
When I graduated, I got jobs all throughout the kingdom.
I was…I was quite good.” It didn’t sound like a brag. It sounded like she was ashamed.
He took a sip of his ale. “What was your assassin name? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”
“The Red Rogue.”
He choked on his drink. “You’re the Red Rogue?”
“Yes,” came her moody reply. “Why? You going to make fun now?”