Chapter 25 The 64th Jam Convention of Warshire （and Public ution of Thirty Rebels） #2
“I know we’ve seen scum wage battles across the kingdom for these past several months, forcing individuals into so-called freedom from our rule.
I know many of you have fought valiantly to destroy this blight that’s daring to raise arms against us.
For that, I commend you.” Morfran heard Ravana’s smile.
“And for that, I won’t have my corrupted knights sent to your homes to obliterate you in the night.
But there is more I must officially address, namely your concerns about my dear husband and your Dark Lord, Morfran, and his whereabouts. ”
Morfran tensed. She couldn’t possibly know he was here, could she? If she did, would she expose him right now? Not only would that be extremely awkward while he was stowed away in an ox suit, but it’d make the entire plan implode. Low-key panic began whittling at his nerves.
“The rumors that he’s spat in the faces of all those who’ve sacrificed their lives to serve him, deserted his throne, and fled into the wilds near the southern border are false.”
Morfran nearly buckled to his knees in relief.
“The reason you’ve not seen him for nearly an entire year is because my husband, the love of my life…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “…is dead.”
A great gasp went up among the crowd, and this one didn’t need the enforcement of a Gasp or Die sign to invoke it.
Morfran shut his eyes in relief. She wouldn’t have called him out.
If the civilians knew that he’d joined the rebellion, it might inspire them to join as well.
It might give them hope. Ravana got hives whenever hope was involved.
“Yes, it is true.” She sounded sorrowful, looking downcast at her feet.
“Rebels—just like the ones we will be hanging shortly—are the cause of his death. They murdered him. They poisoned him months ago, and I had to watch him wither away as it slowly took his life. That is why he has not graced you with his presence for many months.”
Well. Poisoning was a weaker way to die. He’d have preferred it if she’d told them he’d died in a cooler way, like being quartered by a dozen raging men, or consumed in a fire after taking down fifty of his enemies. But he could live with dying by poisoning—
“Yes, they poisoned his food, his daily favorites: his gentle lilac tea and his crumpets that he always requested I cut into little heart-shaped pieces like this—”
Gods damn her.
“—and so, it is with a heavy heart that I sit upon his throne now.” She sat down, looking quite pleased as she settled into the plush cushions of his seat.
“And it is with an even heavier heart that I introduce a new man into my life, a man who stole my aching heart and replaced it with a soaring one, and one who has hope for the future of our kingdom, long may it suffer under our reign.”
There was a man coming down her row, a man with bright golden locks and ridiculously broad shoulders, and even from here Morfran could make out the glorious butted chin he’d long desired to punch.
“Is that Gueldefore?” he murmured in disbelief.
“Dunno,” Owain replied dryly. “Can’t see anything but your fine ass.”
“It is,” Brim muttered beside him, his ox head also turned towards the throne. “But…how? Was he truly so humiliated that he ran straight to the queen?”
Morfran squinted further. The knight was wearing a billowing white shirt, his blue knight’s cape, and—
Morfran gritted his teeth. Those were his pants. His seductive black leather pants. How were they suddenly on Gueldefore’s legs—
Realization struck him. Hugh had said they’d gone missing. Had Gueldefore stolen them out of spite?
“I am going to kill that man,” Morfran murmured.
“This man is none other than Sir Gueldefore, ex-knight of the rebellion, and he has been most helpful in capturing these thirty rebel prisoners.” She gestured towards a corner of the stadium, where a group of soldiers were leading a line of bound and gagged commoners out of an archway and towards the gallows.
“These rebels will suffer for their insubordinations in a most horrendous fashion. They’ll be hanged… after we set them afire!”
Signs that said Rave or Die went up, and as the stadium erupted in panicked jeers, Morfran thought, Of course she couldn’t just simply hang them. I knew there was a catch.
The thirty rebels were shoved atop stools and fastened to nooses.
Many were weeping. Others were cursing Ravana with colorful language.
Some were staring blankly into the crowd, as if they didn’t believe they were there, that this was happening.
Many were Hugh’s age, though there were others as old as Grandfather Tortoise or as young as Tad.
A white-blond-haired rebel woman was speaking to the man beside her, both silently crying. Even just by staring at them, Morfran knew they were the parents of the Fleet Foot Club children.
Soldiers were rolling barrels out, barrels with words stamped in red ink that read Caution—Flammable Oils.
Morfran paled, saying to Brim, “We need to act. Now.”
Brim glanced behind him, towards Hugh. His son was struggling to covertly crack open the jam barrel Bronwen was hiding in. The lid must’ve jammed—no pun intended. When Morfran looked back, soldiers had begun dowsing the gallows rebels in oil.
“We need her out first,” Brim murmured, half in panic. He had a horn he was going to blow to signal to everyone stationed in barrels or ox costumes that it was go time, but not everyone was in position. “She’s your shield.”
Morfran shook his head. There was no time.
No time at all. A soldier was carrying a torch over, its flame flickering high and bright.
Morfran had a quick bout of déjà vu, remembering the forest dwelling fight, only this time he could see the fire reaching the rebels, and they’d go up in flames in no time at all due to the oil, and they’d scream in agony while soldiers roughly kicked the stools out from under their feet—
Morfran moved; he tore out of the ox costume, leapt atop Hugh’s cart, and snatched the lute.
The dreadful silence of the stadium was cut through by the little minor jig that Morfran played, the random sound silencing the commotion and drawing all eyes towards him.
Aware he had the entire stadium’s attention, he settled into the cart seat, propping his feet up as he continued plucking a song in minor key, as if he weren’t at a mass public execution but in the back of a pub.
He kept his eyes lowered on his fingers as he said, “I wouldn’t light them afire, if I were you. ”
A long pause. Then the torch-wielding soldier, the executioner, realizing that he was being addressed, asked, “Why not?”
Morfran ignored the question. “I wouldn’t hang them, either.”
The executioner snorted. “I’d be refusing direct orders from the queen.” He waved for his fellow guards to come forward and take Morfran.
“Go ahead,” Morfran replied. “Kill me. See how long it takes for me to get back up.”
Now the executioner was just confused. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not excused.” Morfran halted his tune, leaning forward to glare at the man. “Do you not know who I am?”
The executioner returned his glower, though his gaze did wander back to the many carts and barrels behind him. “You’re…with the Damn Good Jam Goods company?”
“Doesn’t exist, much to my sorrow.” Morfran set the lute down and rose, sweeping off his hood. And that was when the first soldier began sputtering, backing away.
“No!” he wailed. “Not again. I survived the last time. I won’t be around for it a second time. I can’t! I can’t!” He dove into the crowd in a panicked frenzy. His fellow soldiers let him flee, bewildered.
The executioner narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
Morfran just smiled.
He scoffed. “Not gonna say? Then you’re a disturber of the peace, and we make quick work out of the likes of you.” Archers up on the stands drew their bows.
Morfran tensed, looking back for a brief second at Hugh, who was still struggling with the barrel. “Killing me won’t solve anything. And killing them”—he gestured towards the thirty rebels who were gaping in bafflement at him as well—“would be your bane.”
“Look, buddy, whoever you think you are—”
“I know who I am. But seeing as you don’t, I’ll introduce myself.” Morfran shrugged, resigned. He was out of time. “I am Bernard,” he said. “The Necromancer.”
Brim blew his horn. Soldiers nearby erupted into panicked shouts—“Shoot him down! Shoot him down!”—as dozens upon dozens of rebels exploded out from the jam barrels.