Page 11 of Brutal Fae King
“Enter!” I bark.
One of my war counselors walks in and bows his head lightly.
“Sire,” he says. “The magical assault on the Northern arena is being built by the court mages. They should have formed a spell large enough to destroy the Naga army by sundown.”
“Good,” I grunt.
“They… um… they would like to clarify that you don’t want to send the message to our soldiers in the Northern Murbyn Bridge territories until a few hours before.”
Anger courses through me—I twitch and glare at the war counselor. He recoils, staring at the floor like a kicked dog. His wings give a shiver of fear.
“You would question me?” I snarl quietly.
“N-no, Sire!” he adds. “I-I am just the messenger!”
I grunt.
“Yes,” I tell them. “I want them to send a message to our soldiers a few hours before. If the mages are ready with their spell by sundown, then send the message now.”
“Very well,” the war counselor murmurs. “We shall ready the steeds to send the message now, Sire.”
He bows and starts to leave. An idea hits me:
“Hold!”
He flinches and turns slowly.
“S-Sire?” he asks.
“What needs doing to get the horses ready to ride?” I ask.
“Um… much,” he replies nervously. “We had not expected to ride so early, Sire—we shall prepare our fastest horse.”
I think for a second.
“So there are no horses prepared?” I ask
“No, Sire. B-but we shall set many men on the task! It shall be done momentarily!”
“No,” I answer. “There is a woman in solitary confinement in the dungeons. Have her clean the stables and prepare our horses—starting with our fastest for the messenger, and then continue until every stable is spotless and every horse is groomed and shod.”
“Every horse?” he asks. “One woman?”
I can hear the bemusement badly hidden in his voice. I crack a smile.
“Yes., one woman.”
***
After several hours, I visit the stables. There she is, the usurper, on her knees, scrubbing the floor of the stables with a thick, bristled brush and a bucket of dirty water.
I can begrudgingly admit that a decent job has been done. In the morning, these stables were covered in hay, combined with some horse defecation, and now it has been restored to what it looked like when it was first built.
I wave my guards away and walk toward her.
“Impressive job,” I say to her. “Have you cleaned horse shit before?”
The usurper doesn’t answer. Instead, she just turns and looks at me. Her face is smeared in streaks of dirt, yet somehow, it does nothing to dull her beauty.
