Chapter 24 War Preparations—and a Chicken
War Preparations—and a Chicken
“This is your most ridiculous plan to date.”
“You want us to make how much jam? Most of it cherry? This doesn’t sound foolproof.”
“Couldn’t we, like, y’know, just bring our entire army together and launch an attack on the city like normal warring folk?”
“This sounds like I’m gonna die, and not going to have a fun time while doing it.”
These were just a sampling of the complaints Morfran received as he explained The Plan to the camp that morning.
He expected them, of course, because he himself had questioned the sanity of it as he’d devised it all through the night, with Hugh at his side the entire time offering suggestions. The more outrageous, the better.
“Chickens?” Morfran had paused at one point, gaping at the man. It was difficult to believe that Hugh and Bronwen were siblings; Hugh’s tendency to spout stupid thoughts was habitual.
“Chickens,” Hugh had repeated, nodding sagely.
“Chickens it is,” Morfran had muttered, putting quill back to paper.
“I’m sorry, but this is Lord Morfran we’re facing,” someone argued while Morfran was in the middle of explaining. It was someone who’d marched with the rebels on the eastern side of the kingdom. “He’ll just hit us with lightning bolts the moment he learns we’re looking to cause a ruckus.”
“Morfran isn’t in the castle,” Bronwen shot back from her log seat at the massive fire. There was a chill in the air that gray morning, and steam poured from the fire coals, sending streams of fog-like smoke throughout the quiet campsite. “He’s not been there for months.”
“Says who?”
“Says me,” she replied, casting the idiot a scathing look that reminded Morfran that she was still the Red Rogue, even if her skill set had been hampered due to her hex.
“Think about it. Why have we not seen any sign of him once? Why have we not encountered him in any battle? He’s been fonder of sticking inside his castle these past few years, it seems. But our success as a rebellion would surely have brought him out from behind his walls, wouldn’t it?
He’s not here. My guess is either Ravana had him removed in secret, or he’s left the kingdom without fanfare. ”
Many in the crowd seemed to nod at her explanation, but there were still a few naysayers with sour faces. “Right. I’ll believe that only if you can show proof.”
I’ll decapitate you, Morfran thought in aggravation. Would that be proof enough?
Bronwen rolled her eyes before looking back at Morfran. “Can we show them your pair of Morfran’s leather pants? Maybe that’ll convince them.”
“They’re missing,” Hugh whispered back. “I tried looking for them a few days ago.”
Morfran gave him a bewildered stare. “Why were you looking for them?”
“Because, Bernard. You’re not the only one who thinks they look good in black leather.”
“You—” Morfran nearly choked. “You’ve been sneaking around my tent wearing them?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point right now. The point is—”
“I have proof Morfran is no longer in the castle,” a voice said from the back.
Morfran straightened, a smile already blooming on his face.
They were here. Among the hundreds already gathered, he could make out a line of sour-smelling, muck-wearing, bloody-faced mercenaries approaching where he stood atop a stump.
They wore necklaces made out of teeth and ears, their weapons razor-sharp and still lathered in dry blood from their last use.
At the head of this horrific entourage was Reginald.
But to these people, he was only known as—
“Sk?rnne the Face-Feaster?” The first naysayer gaped at him.
Reginald smiled. His teeth were red stained and vile. “This man here”—he pointed his blade, a long device with serrated edges with clumps of flesh imbedded in the edges, at Morfran— “purchased my army at a high price: the Dark Lord’s blood amber sword.”
Murmurs went up around the camp.
“Yes,” Reginald said. “He once was a general of the Dark Lord. But he saw his faults, ditched his ways, and while escaping his position stole Lord Morfran’s famed and feared sword.
Which he then sold to me.” He smiled wider.
“Which is why you bastards get to have the honor of fighting alongside Sk?rnne the Face-Feaster and his Bloody Mercenaries.” He bowed theatrically, and Morfran was reminded of their early days at court, when Reginald would eagerly take part in any play he could get his hands on.
“So. If you don’t believe this lovely lady’s on-point deductions that Morfran is no longer a threat, then perhaps you can rest assured knowing that I held the sword in my hands, and that my men and I are ready to rip limbs off our enemies in battle alongside you sad sacks of guts. ”
The naysayers who refused to go along with The Plan took one look at Reginald’s ear necklace and bloodstained teeth and quickly nodded in agreement with him, probably more out of fear of being plowed down by Sk?rnne’s men than admitting Morfran was no longer around to cause trouble.
“Good.” Reginald smiled. “Now. Who’s ready to eat some faces?”
Despite having the backing of hundreds of rebels and a fearsome mercenary army that looked like it drank the blood of its enemies for pleasure, Morfran couldn’t help but feel anxious as he geared up in his leather armor in his tent.
He was relatively certain that The Plan was a decent one.
No, it was a good one. If it’d been a year ago, and Morfran were leading the rebel charge, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so troubled at the thought of facing Ravana and his ex-men.
Men were expendable, past-Morfran would think, and he’d use them up like they were pawns on the board.
But these weren’t just any men. They were all his friends, and he didn’t want to see them hurt, much less die awful deaths. He didn’t want to see their dreams of freeing Ruthven go down the drain. He didn’t want any of that.
And so, with battle nerves he hadn’t had in over a decade, he fumbled with his armor straps and gnawed his bottom lip until it was bleeding.
“Don’t tell me you of all people are nervous?”
He turned towards Bronwen, who stood in the tent doorway, one hand lifting the tent flap up. She was in nothing but her chemise again. He twisted his lips down at that.
“No,” he said. “You’re wearing armor this time. It’s too risky—”
“Bernard,” she replied, stern. “It’s too risky to wear armor. If I need to try everything I can to get hit with arrows and swords, it doesn’t make sense to wear anything that’ll protect me.”
“But the loophole has limits,” he argued.
It was true. They’d been experimenting with it and discovered that while at times it did defy physics, she couldn’t do outrageously impossible things beyond that.
Like, for instance, she’d tried to stumble into a house where Ravana was inside chained to a wall, or she’d tried to hurl an axe into the sky with the hopes of bludgeoning Ravana a hundred miles away.
The only thing she’d succeeded in was nearly axing Hugh in the butt and disappointing herself.
“It does have limits, and I know them now,” she said. “But I’ll be fine with no armor. In fact, I thought maybe if I didn’t wear anything at all—”
He felt blood rush to his face. “That’s— Let’s not have you do that—”
She bit back a smile as she entered the tent. It wasn’t all that big, and he suddenly felt nervous for an entirely different reason, especially when she shooed his hands from his leather straps and fastened them up with nimble fingers.
“I like The Plan,” she said as she attended studiously to his armor. “It’s…bizarre like your other plans, but I like it. I know it’ll work.” She glanced up at him, all the light and trust in her eyes. It gutted him.
He swallowed. “Bronwen. Have you thought that perhaps after Ravana is dead, you just leave it at that?”
She knew at once what he was talking about, because she seemed to take a long breath, her eyes falling distant. “You really don’t want me to kill him, do you?”
“It’s just that he could be anywhere. He could have fled the kingdom. He could already be dead. I like the theory that Ravana killed him, and honestly wouldn’t put it past her. He could have taken up a new name for himself, changed his ways—”
He was rambling. They both knew it. She’d stopped fastening the straps at his waist, though she hadn’t removed her hands yet. “I got something for you.”
His heart was slamming against his chest, and he feared she could feel it with her fingers. Thankfully she left the tent, but only for a brief second. When she returned, her hands were behind her back.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” she said.
He hesitated. With his luck she probably realized who he was and planned on hacking him down while he stood there like an idiot. But her cheeks were flushed, and she was starting to fidget, too.
He obeyed. Something cold was set into his palms.
“All right.” Her voice was nervous. “Open them.”
He gasped, audibly gasped, at what she’d placed in his hands.
It was a sword. But not just any sword. It was ebony, beautiful, and surprisingly lightweight, with a shorter blade that tapered off to a needle-thin point, which meant it was made more for stabbing than slashing.
He raised it up in slight disbelief, tilting it this way and that to admire the craftsmanship, the comfortable, snug weight and balance of it in his hand.
“It’s stishovite, like my dagger.” She patted the dagger hilt attached to her belt.
“I noticed you weren’t happy with any of the other swords you tried after you gave Morfran’s to Sk?rnne.
So I called in a few favors. The Assassin’s Guild blacksmith is among us, and I had her do a fast order.
I know it’s not as special as Morfran’s sword—”
“No,” he murmured, gaping at it. “It’s more. It’s more special.”
Glad relief replaced her nervous gaze, and she let out a laugh. “Why do you look panicked—”
He didn’t know what happened. One moment he was staring down at her.
The next he was embracing her, his free arm thrown over her shoulder, clutching her tightly against him.
She smelled inexplicably like wildflowers again, and she was warm and soft and perfect, so perfect he didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve her.
He hugged her tighter. No, no, no. Of course he was falling in love with an assassin who wanted to kill him. Of course. But even knowing that, if he pulled away now he would kiss her. Damn it, he would kiss her, and then what would happen?
He’d want to stay, that’s what. And if he stayed, it was inevitable she’d find out. Whether on her own, from Ravana, or from a thousand other ways. He wouldn’t survive her.
“Bernard?” she murmured. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”
He pulled back, avoiding her eyes, rubbing his mouth with his free hand. “Thank you,” he managed to force out. “This sword—it’s— You—”
She was waiting patiently for him to get out what he wanted to say, the same way he waited for her when her hex made her stumble over her words. And she was starting to eye his lips.
Now he really had to leave.
“You’re the best of them, you know that?” he said, and then he fled, light-headed, dizzy, pleased, and above all, guilt-ridden.