Page 49 of What Fury Brings (Wrath and Fury #1)
S anos was exhausted from the effort of holding still. He’d watched Olerra take injury after injury and borne it. Now that she’d revealed her cousin’s treachery, she looked different. Radiant. Victorious. Even though the fight was ongoing.
“You’ve been an admirable opponent, Olerra of Amarra,” his father said calmly. “But I shan’t miss you.”
“The feeling is mutual, Atalius, but I would hardly call you admirable.”
Olerra unwound the rope coiled in her hands. She began to swing it over her head, like farmers might do to lasso livestock.
“Sanos, have you seen Olerra with the whipblade?” Ydra asked.
“No.”
“It takes years and years to master,” Ydra said. “Most never manage it. Most manage to kill themselves with it, so dangerous is the whipblade. But Olerra? She’s a natural.”
Before the king could get within sword range, Olerra snapped her wrist forward.
The blade hit the king on the side of the knee, sliding right through the gaps in the thick plating.
It appeared to imbed an inch or two deep before Olerra drew it back to herself by yanking on the rope and swinging first to her left, then to her right, in alternating arcs.
The blade moved so quickly, it was hard to follow, and those close enough were streaked with the king’s blood.
“It’s an old weapon,” Ydra was telling him conversationally now. “There was only one person alive who knew how to use it, until Olerra begged her to train her. She mastered the basics at a young age and has been developing her skill over time, in private.”
Olerra sent her arm out in an arc, and there was absolutely nothing the king could do to block a second attack from what was essentially a whip striking out with a dagger on the end.
This strike hit his arm, digging in at the elbow, hitting the gap in the armor once more.
Olerra’s aim was impeccable, and the king dropped his sword.
He pulled his dagger from his side with his off hand.
Atalius tried to leap forward with his knife, but Olerra struck out quicker, her reach longer with the rope.
A streak of red appeared on the king’s cheek, disappearing into his beard.
Amarra’s tits.
Olerra had been fighting with the sword only to get the king to reveal Glenaerys’s plans. Now the real fight was happening.
Olerra started weaving the rope over her arms and around her neck, spinning and turning impossibly fast.
She struck Atalius at the shoulder. Then again at the neck, too far off from his jugular for the strike to be deadly.
“Show-off,” Ydra muttered.
Atalius tried to dodge her strikes, but it was impossible for him to know where the rope would land. He wasn’t used to combating such a weapon. He couldn’t defend against it.
Sanos put his hands atop the wall and leaned forward. Everyone realized the inevitable conclusion to the fight, even his father.
The king dropped his knife, raised his hands high, and said, “I yield.”
“You cannot yield, Atalius,” Olerra said. “The fight was to the death. You can die with your weapon or without it. The choice is yours.”
The king craned his head over his neck, judging the distance to his waiting army.
He tried to run.
Olerra struck with the rope again. This time, it wound around his feet before the blade dug into his ankle, felling him in a tangle of rope. Olerra picked up the Kingsword, struck the tip into the dirt, and started to pull on the rope.
Tug.
The king inched closer to where she waited, armor rattling as he tried to find purchase in the dirt. Sanos didn’t blink. He didn’t want to miss a second of this.
Tug.
As she pulled, the rope coiled at her feet in a neat circle.
Tug.
Now the king was screaming. “Stop this!” he commanded of his troops.
“Brutish laws of combat,” Olerra reminded him. “No one can interfere.”
Tug.
When he was close enough, Olerra flipped the man over. This way he would have to look at her as he died.
She said, “You never should have touched them. Your children. Your wife. I avenge their pain with your death.”
And then she raised the man’s own sword high into the air with both hands and struck straight down, the point piercing through his neck.
Sanos could do nothing but stare. She could have used her own sword, but she hadn’t. She’d used the Kingsword, now Sanos’s sword, as if to give him more connection to this moment.
His massive, violent, horrible father was gone.
He raised his gaze and met Canus’s. His brother was too far for him to see his expression, but he knew it. He knew the princes all shared the same profound relief. Freedom. Joy, even.
“Tell them to open the gate,” Sanos said to Ydra. Then he ran down the steps of the wall. When the portcullis rose too slowly, he ducked under it, not stopping until he’d reached Olerra’s side.
She was swaying on her feet, so he wrapped her in his arms.
“You did it,” he said. The words may have been obvious, but his mind was still having a hard time processing the reality of Atalius’s death. “He’s gone.”
“Look at him,” Olerra said.
Sanos did.
His father’s mouth hung open from the effort of his last scream. His eyes were wide. The features that Sanos had feared and hated for so long were now still. Blood seeped around the sword at the dead king’s throat.
Sanos kept one arm around Olerra and drew the Kingsword from his father’s body with a squelch .
He raised his eyes to the waiting Brutish troops. They were leaderless. They were uncertain as to what to do now.
“I’ll be right back,” Sanos said.
Olerra nodded, nothing but trust in her eyes. He made sure she could stay on her feet before running toward the Brutes.
The armor-clad arms of his brothers felt cold against his skin, but he welcomed the hug they swallowed him in.
“She killed him,” Ikanos said.
“He’s gone,” Andrastus said.
“You’re alive,” Trantos said.
“You fucker,” Canus said. “We thought the worst had happened, but you’ve been here in Amarra getting sexed up all this time? Do you have any idea how miserable it’s been without you?”
“You don’t get to complain,” Andrastus said. “You’re not the one who’s been left alone with Father day in and day out.”
Sanos was so relieved to see them all intact. “Mother and Emorra?”
“They’re fine,” Canus said. “Perfectly fine back at the palace.”
To Canus, Sanos said, “I want you to ride home with all haste. Bring them here. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, but why?”
“There’s not much time. I need you to get them out before word of Father’s death spreads.”
“All right.” Canus left without another word.
His father’s advisers approached.
“Sire, we should attack now,” one said. “She killed the king, and the gate is opened.”
“No,” Sanos said. “My father agreed to peace. Select a number of guards to accompany you within the gates. It’s time to begin real negotiations.”
“You want us to go inside their walls with naught but a handful of guards?”
“We’re the ones who showed up with an army at their gates.”
“To rescue you!”
“And I’m fine. Thank you. Now, am I the next king of Brutus or am I not?”
“You are,” they agreed.
“Then do as I said. I can’t linger.” To the rest of his brothers, he said, “Return home with the troops, but I will see you all soon. Await my orders.”
And then, without seeing if anyone was doing as they were told, he ran back to Olerra. She was still conscious. Still bleeding. He couldn’t carry her and the Kingsword at the same time, so he dropped the weapon and scooped her up into his arms, smearing blood on his bare chest. He didn’t care.
“We need to get you to a healer.”
It was as if she’d had only enough strength to hold on until he’d come to her, for she passed out as he brought her back through the gate.
When Olerra came to, she was washed and dressed, and her wounds had been tended. Her aunt sat beside her bed, one of her hands clasped around one of hers.
“How do you feel?” the queen asked when she noticed she was awake.
“Like a pincushion.”
Lemya nodded, as though she suspected nothing less. As a warrior in her younger days, she knew acutely the injuries caused by Brutish steel.
“At what point did you make your own plan to keep your prince and challenge the king?”
“About ten seconds before I suggested it.”
“He almost killed you,” the queen said, voice accusatory.
“I could have beaten him at any time by drawing the whipblade.”
“But you didn’t draw it until the very end. You were meant to trade one prince for another. Get Atalius to admit Glen’s treachery while standing safely on the wall beside me. Instead, you risked yourself again for the sake of Atalius’s heir.”
Olerra tested her side, the deepest of her wounds. It was sore, and she couldn’t possibly sit up with the state of it. She’d have to say the words lying on her back, then.
“I love him.”
The queen raised a brow. She’d surprised her. “How can you trust him? After all that has happened?”
“One day at a time, I suppose. If he’ll have me.”
Her aunt crossed one leg over another. “Oh, he’ll have you. I’ve been in negotiations with the new king of Brutus and his advisers, brokering for peace and new terms regarding Shamire.”
Olerra was surprised by this.
The queen continued. “You accidentally stole the crown prince and made him fall in love with you. Now there’s talk of combining Brutus and Amarra into one country. Olerra, you singlehandedly gave us Brutus, and it couldn’t have worked better if we’d planned it in advance.”
Olerra laughed, but it hurt. She moaned as she put her hands over her stomach.
Lemya stood and leaned over the bed to kiss her cheek. “Rest well. There is much work ahead of you. You have until the anniversary of the Goddess’s Gift to be well. Then you need to be seen as the nobles officially declare you crown princess.”
Olerra swallowed. “Do you really think they’ll choose me?”
“After your cousin’s betrayal and with you dangling Brutus over their heads? Do you really have to ask?”