Page 129 of What Fury Brings
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.
