Page 2 of What Fury Brings
The general’s word was law, and her soldiers chased their enemy back across the border. Meanwhile, Olerra helped carry her wounded to the healers and gave a swift death to any Brutes left injured on the battlefield. She placed her dead in carts so they could be returned to their families. She surveyed the damage to the outskirts of the city, assigning soldiers and townspeople to help with cleanup and repair any damage. She paid off families who lost livestock and businesses that lost income during the hour-long battle.
She was in the running to be queen one day. Olerra would do right by her people. Make them see thatsheshould be the one to sit on the throne.
Not her insufferable cousin.
When all was as it should be, Olerra returned to her tent, one last chore before her.
Atalius was strapped to a chair, bound and gagged. His wounds had been tended to, he’d been cleaned, given fresh clothing, and offered a hot meal. Not that he deserved it. Olerra, still filthy with dried blood and dirt, grabbed a chair from the war table, flipped it around, and straddled the seat with her arms resting along the back. She flicked her wrist at the king, and one of her captains stepped forward to remove Atalius’s gag.
He coughed once it was gone but said nothing.
For two years they had fought over this border city. Shamire was rich in resources, with golden fields of wheat and the Fren River running through it. The neighboring kingdoms of Kalundir and Ephennaoften brought their merchants here to exchange goods. It was a boon to whomever held the city.
Queen Lemya, Olerra’s aunt, had won the city decades ago from the Brutes, and it was Olerra’s job to maintain that control. When Vorika, the head of Olerra’s spy network, had told her of Atalius’s plans to attack, Olerra had rallied her forces to meet him with the might of Amarra.
The king and general were finally meeting face-to-face, yet the man had nothing to say.
Oh, she would get him to speak.
“Normally you take the coward’s way, Atalius,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on, “fleeing before we can be properly introduced. I didn’t know you had it in you to stay and suffer the consequences of defeat. Did you grow tired of running?”
When that didn’t get a rise out of him, she tried a different approach.
“My name is Olerra Corasene, queen potential of Amarra, and I have beaten you four times now in your attempts to reclaim Shamire. I think it’s time you admitted you can’t take it back.”
Atalius clenched his teeth, trying to prevent himself from speaking.
“Nothing to say? Perhaps this topic will interest you. Your fate. What should I do with you?” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could simply kill you, but I worry one of your many sons will take your place and declare a foolhardy campaign against my country to seek revenge. As much as I love our little border spats, I don’t think either of us wants a full-scale war. You especially. I hear you’ve already got your hands full with the Ephennans on your southern border. Do you really want your forces divided to take on a second country?”
It took a moment, but the bound man finally said, “I do not wish for war between us.”
At least he wasn’t a complete idiot.
“I could ransom you,” Olerra mused, “but we really don’t need the money. Shamire provides a steady income on top of all our other assets.Perhaps I should demand it anyway. Bankrupt your country so it’ll take you longer to attack again.”
Atalius didn’t look away as she thought aloud about his future.
“Or perhaps a trade,” she said. “One of your sons for your life.”
The king glared at her with such heat she might have thought it capable of melting his bonds.
“He’d be well treated, for the most part,” she continued. “A prisoner to stop a war from happening. Besides, you have plenty of sons. Isn’t that the whole thing with you Brutes? Your god blessed you with virility? More children than you could possibly know what to do with?”
Rumors also suggested that the god Brutus blessed the men born in his country with large cocks, but wasn’t it just like men to claim such a thing? Besides, that greatsword was evidence to the contrary.
Regardless, it was a pathetic gift in comparison to what Amarra gifted the daughters of her country: the ability to physically overpower men. It was a miracle that Atalius had lasted as long on the battlefield as he had.
“No,” the king spat.
“Your god didn’t bless you with too many sons?”
“You cannot have a trade,” he clarified.
Did I really find his weakness so easily?
“Can’t I? Are you saying you’d rather die than give me one of your sons? Are you willing to bet your kingdom’s future on that? I sure hope your heir is prepared to take your place, then. I hear he’s amassing quite the reputation as a general in your skirmishes with the Ephennans. What was his name? Stantos?”
The change was almost instant. One moment the king’s face was pale white, the next, purple. Was it the way she’d intentionally said the crown prince’s name wrong? Or was it the fact that his son was gaining more popularity than he was?
