Chapter 20 A Proposal over Pancakes
A Proposal over Pancakes
Morfran found who he was looking for the next morning while he was eating pancakes in a tavern called the Tin Man’s Hearth. Or rather, he found Morfran.
“That man over there who looks like he’s eaten a still-beating heart is staring at you,” Hugh whispered to Morfran as the latter was pouring syrup over his cakes. He glanced up at the common room to see who Hugh referred to.
In the morning light the world in Redmoth seemed more colorful, thanks in part to the sunshine spearing in through the windows and the multicolored rugs and drapes and dishware.
Morfran had forgotten that though the city’s exterior and scenery were bleak and gray, the city dwellers tried to liven it up with vibrant colors inside their dwellings: cranberry-tinted pottery, cyan and topaz glass, paprika shirts, and peridot dresses.
He appreciated the sentiment now more than he had as a child.
The man in question staring at Morfran was colorful, too, but in a not-so-friendly way, and only in one specific place on his body.
His armor was the standard metal breastplate strapped to his muscular chest, his shoulder pads and greaves the color of well water.
Affixed to his back were two swords crossing each other, and his long hair and beard were the color of wet wheat.
His eyes were mute colors, too—gray or mud-colored.
No, what was colorful on him was his teeth.
They were a bright, bloody red. As if he had indeed devoured a man’s still-beating heart and then snorted the residue up.
“Oh jeez, he’s coming this way.” Hugh stiffened beside Morfran, looking as if he were about to dive beneath the table. “What do we do? What do we— What are you doing? Don’t make eye contact!”
“You’ve a sword,” Morfran said, casting Hugh a quick glance. He did have a new sword that morning—this one a lovely blade in the style of Morfran’s. He’d probably swiped it from one of Killian’s men. “Show him you can use it.”
“You kidding? He’ll use it as a toothpick. You know what? Forget this. Forget him—” Hugh tore off the bench, slamming his knees against the table as he did so, and nearly rammed into the tavern wench on the way out the door.
The man had reached the table, and upon doing so slapped his palms on the surface, upsetting Hugh’s abandoned plate of pancakes. He leaned forward until his glower was eye level with Morfran. His breath reeked of greasy meat. His skin was filthy with dirt.
He reached out with a grimy hand and seized Morfran’s beard, tugging it forward so tightly that Morfran was jerked halfway across the table.
Then the man spoke in a gravely, putrid voice.
“So it is true.” Spittle came flying into Morfran’s eyes.
He still hadn’t blinked. The man smiled. “You can grow a beard.”
They both erupted into laughter as the man released Morfran’s face only to tug him into a one-armed hug across the table, an embrace that Morfran wholeheartedly returned.
“And here I thought you’d always been a girl wearing breeches!” the man shouted, and what attention he hadn’t attracted from the room earlier he attracted now. He put a hand up against his red-stained mouth, dipping his voice as he murmured, “Glad to see you ditched the black pants, Morfran.”
“You were just jealous I could pull them off,” Morfran murmured in reply.
The two of them went back decades—when Morfran was a fresh-eyed Dark Lord and the mercenary was a then-member of the court and bored out of his mind.
The latter ditched his title (something Morfran took inspiration from when he, too, wanted out of his Dark Lord career) and made a notorious name for himself as a blood-drenched mercenary, quickly attracting an army that was equally as brutal and frightening to look at.
He was the only one Morfran had told about his plans to become a goat farmer. He’d supported him 100 percent of the way (though not without trying to recruit him into his army), and had even covertly helped keep Morfran’s men from chasing him in the north, which helped him escape Ravana’s grasp.
Everyone needed a murderous friend like him.
The commotion they’d caused brought several others to the table, all of whom appeared hesitant to approach.
The first was Brim. “Bernard.” He tipped his chin in salutation, then eyed his companion with wary curiosity. “This an old friend?” He scanned his armor quickly, and guessed with barely concealed hope, “A friend who happens to be a mercenary?”
He’d guessed correctly. “Brim,” Morfran said. “This is Sk?rnne the Face-Feaster.”
Brim held out his hand. “Jon Brimble.”
“A pleasure.” The mercenary took it. “But when I’m not working, I prefer the name my dear mother gifted me, bless her soul, wherever it ended up. Likely a hellish place, but whoever knows. Call me Reginald.”
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Morfran said to Reginald, and then explained to Brim, “He usually swings by Redmoth when he’s short on work. So if he’s here—”
“You’re looking for a job?” Brim straightened, hopeful and eager. “You got a few men who can fight?”
Reginald shook his head. “No, Jon,” he said. “I’ve got an army.”
Brim looked like he’d just been kissed by ten beautiful women. “Call me Brim.”
Bronwen waltzed by with a plate of pancakes. “Morning, Da.” She spotted Morfran and blushed. “Morning, Bernard.” Then she did a double-take of Reginald and his red-stained teeth. “…Do they have raspberry syrup for the pancakes?”
Reginald’s eyes widened at her. Morfran began introductions again. “Reginald, this is—”
“Unbelievable,” Reginald said. “You first land a beauty like your ex-wife, and now you’ve landed a beauty like this?”
Morfran felt his face heat. “We’re not—”
“You had a wife?” Bronwen sounded surprised.
“Do you want a new one?” Brim blurted, nudging his daughter forward, who shot him a silencing look.
Morfran studiously avoided looking at them both and instead glared at Reginald. “I had a wife, but we don’t talk about her. Ever. Reginald, this is Bronwen. You might know of her. She’s the Red Rogue.”
Reginald’s expression lit up. “It’s an honor, my lady.” He bowed his head, his teeth flashing bloodred with his wide smile. “Big fan of your work. I appreciate a ruthless woman. On that note, if you’re not with this guy”—he pointed at Morfran—“then are you single?”
For the first time since seeing his old friend, Morfran felt slightly annoyed.
He sat back in his bench seat, where Bronwen and Brim joined him on either side, and interrupted Reginald’s flirting to ask, “I’m hoping you can help us.
The rebels have done a superb job so far taking back land from Lord Morfran, but Brim is wanting to hit Warshire, and fast. We need an army like yours. ”
Reginald went very quiet, passing a look to Brim, then Bronwen, then back to him. He pointed a dirt-crusted finger at Morfran. “You,” he drawled, “are helping them”—he pointed two dirt-crusted fingers at Bronwen and Brim—“lead a rebellion against Morfran?”
Morfran smiled a false smile, hoping Reginald would read between the lines. “It’s a long story that I can explain later. But yes.”
Reginald snorted, shaking his head. “I’m going to need something to drink to digest this. Lady wench! Some more ale over here, please!”
It took some time to work out the details and configure numbers, but they finally came to an agreement with Sk?rnne the Face-Feaster. The only problem was at the end, when he told them the total cost of his army’s services.
Brim paled. “We could probably come up with two-thirds of that, but as for the last third, I don’t think it’s possible.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the price of my army.
” Reginald looked genuinely apologetic. “I’d leap into battle in a heartbeat for Mo— Bernard.
He’s saved my life on numerous occasions, and I do owe him.
But I’m afraid that without the full payment, I can’t convince the rest of my army to join you.
Not for such an imbalance on the risk-reward scale of launching an attack on someone like Queen Ravana.
My men are savage, but they’re terribly practical. ”
Brim sat back, obviously conflicted and combing his mind for how to make up such a large amount.
Morfran thought about offering half the gold inside Castle Atrago’s treasury, but they’d have to fight and win to get it, and he knew Reginald’s army would want half the cost up front.
Perhaps if they sent word out to the treasuries of all the cities and townships they’d conquered so far asking for a cut?
But that could take weeks, and they didn’t have—
Bronwen set her stishovite dagger on the table.
“Will this cover the last third?” she asked. “I’ve had several people over our travels ask to purchase it off me for a good price. I’m sure you could find someone willing to pay more.”
Reginald stared at her for a long moment, then picked up the dagger and turned it over in the light. “This yours?”
She nodded, unsmiling.
“It’s of rare quality, and a beauty,” he said admiringly, contemplating. “Not to mention it is a celebrity item. Many would pay a pretty penny for the dagger of the Red Rogue.”
“Wen, no.” Brim frowned. “You earned that at the academy. And you’ll need it for what’s coming next.”
“I know,” she said soberly. “But we need more help than what we have now.”
Her father seemed torn at the prospect of her giving it up. Morfran, too, had noticed just how precious it was to her; it went everywhere she went, and she was always touching it, a reminder of what she’d once been and had lost.
Even bloody Reginald seemed to understand its worth to her, taking it only with great reluctance. “I’ll make sure it goes to a buyer who’ll appreciate it—”
“Wait,” Morfran said, then shut his eyes. He reached for his sword strap and unfastened it and everything on it. Including his scabbarded sword. He gently, reverently, put it down on the table. “Take this instead.”
Brim scratched his chin. “Aren’t those a dime a dozen among Morfran’s men?
I mean, you’d need Morfran’s actual sword if you wanted to pay his price…
” His voice died down as he took in Reginald’s surprised expression and Morfran’s solemn one.
Then he looked down at the blade. “You’re not serious. This is his actual sword?”
“I traded it out for a false one and stole it on the way out,” Morfran said, then, as spontaneous inspiration came to him, added, “Why do you think his men had chased me so far south?”
Brim eyed the blood amber in the hilt, looking as though he wanted to touch it, but thought better of it. “Now I know why you always flinched when Hugh dropped it,” he murmured, before letting out a laugh. “You really are full of surprises, Bernard.”
Bronwen hadn’t looked away from Morfran once. “Are you certain?”
Absolutely not. He needed a powerful sword he was comfortable fighting with, and his current blade was like an old friend to him.
It’d seen hundreds of battles over many years, and although he’d buried it half a dozen times on his travels south, he always knew in the back of his mind that he’d be unearthing it because he couldn’t part with it.
And yet…he needed to do this. Bronwen had already lost so much. If she could keep a thing as small as her assassin’s dagger, well. That was a small but painful price he could pay. And perhaps it’d help him stop feeling so guilty about the whole beheading-her-true-love thing.
“When the Red Rogue makes her return, she’ll need all her gear.” Morfran managed half a smile.
She stared at him, speechless, her eyes shining.
“Stop it.” Reginald shook his head as he exchanged out the dagger for the sword. “You’re making me want to kiss you myself.”
With the deal made and the rest of the pancakes eaten, Reginald geared up to leave. He needed to cover plenty of ground if he was to fetch his army, which was currently bumming it up around the coastal kingdoms of the west, waiting for new jobs.
Morfran followed him towards the door, giving him last-minute details about where and when to meet.
When he’d told him the last of it, Reginald reached out and squeezed Morfran’s shoulder.
“I got it. And I’ll be there. I’ll always have a brother’s back.
” He leaned forward. “Even if he’s not as dark as he once was. ”
Morfran snorted as Reginald left and glanced back into the common room.
Owain, Bill, and Theodore were sitting at a round table near the front, flirting unsuccessfully with the tavern barmaid and having a hell of a fun time doing so.
They’d clearly taken to Redmoth’s necromantic roots, and all of them had purchased matching maroon robes with cryptic words stitched into them from vendor tourist racks.
Of course, Morfran could read the words and had politely chosen not to tell them they weren’t edgy incantations to dark art spells to summon the dead or conjure black spirits, but random words like Lima Beans and Hyperventilate and Cubicle.
They were idiots, frankly, but rather likable ones, and now that they’d actually started giving him genuine love taps on the shoulder and not thinly veiled punches to his gut, he was rather fond of them. He was rather fond of all the idiot rebels, though he’d tried hard not to be.
As he turned to leave, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around his chest from behind. It was Bronwen, her head buried into his back.
“Thank you,” she said, or at least he thought she said. His tunic muffled her voice. She lifted her mouth so her words were clearer. “Thank you. I don’t— What I want to say— That is— The thing is— You are—”
He half laughed, facing forward. “Stop trying so hard to thank me, Bronwen. You are still hexed.”
She went quiet but didn’t release him, and he didn’t move away, either. It felt good to be hugged. She was warm and soft, and he found his sadness at losing his sword waning the longer the embrace went on.
She sniffed.
“Do I stink?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“No,” she hastily replied. “The opposite, actually. Your soap smells like…Never mind.”
He smiled. “I have battle maps to go over and plans to configure if we’re to take Warshire.
I’ll see you later today.” He didn’t tell her that he’d decided just now that he’d help the rebels take over the tri-city instead of ditching them at the front lines.
He also didn’t tell her that she was so soft that he didn’t want her to let go.
She did, however. Shooting him one last smile, this one accompanied by red cheeks, she left out the doors, stumbling the entire way.