Page 10 of The Fall of the Orc

But Gerrard shook his head, and shot a regretful glance over toward Bassey, who was industriously writing something in his notebook, while clearly also listening, too. “Sorry, sir, but I’ve been badly injured, and need to stay put here for at least a week,” he said. “Medic’s orders.”

Livermore barked an incoherent noise of outrage, and again launched into one of his usual tirades about Gerrard’s immeasurable failures, and the abominable disruption of him acquiring such an inconvenient injury. And instead of trying to argue or defend himself this time, Gerrard waited in blank, stony silence, allowing Livermore to rant and rave before a captive audience of all these watching men. Men who had all been wounded far worse than Gerrard, all of it beneath Livermore’s own inept command.

“So are you saying we’re not allowed to get injured, then?” Gerrard finally asked, clipped, before he could stop himself. “Or we’re just not allowed to do so at a time that’s inconvenient for you?”

It earned him another round of wild ranting condemnation, but perhaps it had been worth it — because when Livermore finally ran out of air and left, Gerrard didn’t miss the men murmuring to each other, their eyes on him gone sympathetic, or even appreciative. And when Gerrard twitched a knowing smile back, and maybe even a roll of his eyes, several of them snickered in return — and even Bassey’s mouth was quirking as he kept writing away in his notebook.

It left Gerrard lying there, breathing a little too fast, while his frantic brain belatedly caught up with everything he’d just said, and what he’d just done. Faking his injuries. Making up that tale about an investigation. Openly questioning and undermining his commanding officer. Bringing his men to his side…

Was he… was he starting a rebellion against Livermore? Amutiny?

But no, no. Full-on mutiny was a public, messy business, bad for image and morale, and very likely to lead to sweeping, brutal punishments. Punishments that wouldn’t only affect Gerrard, but his men, and possibly their families and children, too. And his men had already borne far too much of Livermore’s rubbish these past months. They needed a rest too, and most of them were already overdue for leave, weren’t they?

That unpleasant reminder seemed to settle Gerrard’s determination even deeper, harder in his gut. There was a damned broad spectrum between obedience and mutiny, and Gerrard was sick to death of obeying. Of despairing. Of being weak and defeated. And before he walked mindlessly into his death again, he could at least try. Could try to learn his foes, find their weaknesses, wield that knowledge to his gain. He just needed to be prudent. Wise. Cunning.

He made a face, and forcibly shoved that presumptuous orc bastard out of his thoughts — at least, until he cleared his throat, and glanced sideways at Bassey again.

“What have you heard of the orcs’ Captain Slagvor, Bassey?” he asked, without at all meaning to. “You’ve been on a few missions in these parts, right? Hear any tales about him?”

Medics usually heard all the best gossip, Gerrard knew, and he wasn’t surprised to see Bassey nodding as he glanced up again. “Well, by all accounts, Slagvor’s even more vicious than the rest of them,” he replied flatly. “Takes joy in causing pain, and making a mockery of the wounded. On one mission a few years ago, we had to retreat and leave the wounded behind. Our commander at the time ordered them killed, for their own sakes.”

His voice was clipped, clinical, but Gerrard could easily envision the sheer sickening horror of it, and his contrary thoughts again flicked back to the orc.Some kind of death, he’d said.Do not think of me or my fate in this, should you not wish…

Gerrard’s hand tightened on the sword at his side, and he forced himself to cast backwards, to draw up everything he’d himself heard of Slagvor. Huge, vicious, merciless, a brutal fighter. Not unlike the tales Gerrard had heard about the rest of the Bautul clan in general, perhaps…

“Have you ever heard of any weaknesses, on Slagvor’s part?” Gerrard asked Bassey. “Or have any men you’ve treated ever gotten close to him? Fought him in person?”

“If they did, they didn’t survive,” Bassey curtly replied. “But from what I’ve heard, he’ll often send out bands without him — like the one we’ve been fighting here — or if he’s present, he’ll camp at the rear and watch. Make his lieutenants do all his dirty work.”

Well, that all sounded unpleasantly familiar, and Gerrard’s thoughts were again on the orc, who was clearly one of those lieutenants. And he did not care about the orc’s problems with his own rubbish commander… did he?

“Don’t suppose you’ve heard any of those lieutenants’ names?” he asked now, too casually. “Especially the ones usually sent to these parts?”

Bassey shook his head, and Gerrard sighed and sank back onto his cot, frowning at the tent’s canvas ceiling. No. He wasn’t supposed to care about any of this, about that damned condescending orc. He didn’t need to know his name. He needed to focus on himself and his men, on resting and watching Livermore, and…

He groaned and flopped onto his front — and then hissed through his teeth, because his belly was still… rounded. Swollen. And he should be going out to the latrine to deal with it, why wasn’t he going to deal with it, why was he just shifting over to his side instead, squeezing his eyes shut…

Sleep came easily this time, and Gerrard drifted in and out of it, for what felt like a good long while. And when he fully awoke again, the tent was quiet and dark, illuminated only by a silvery shaft of moonlight, shining through the tent’s flap.

Gerrard gazed at it for a while, keeping his thoughts intently blank, waiting for sleep to swallow him again. But the longer he lay there, the more awake — and the more antsy — he felt. He needed the latrine, he needed to wash up, he needed to just — do something. Anything.

He carefully shoved up on his cot, wincing — his shoulder was still wickedly sore, and he was not thinking about that burn in his arse, or how the swell in his belly had considerably diminished while he’d slept. And instead, he focused on keeping quiet as he snatched for one of Bassey’s clean rags, and crept out the door. Escaping the tent without incident, and then heading first for the latrine, and then the closest proper creek, maybe a half-league away from the camp.

The creek was rocky and shallow, its bubbling water flashing merrily in the moonlight, and Gerrard eagerly knelt and drank, and then stripped off his grimy clothes, and began washing all over. Hissing at the feel of the icy water on his various injuries — not to mention his arse — but damn, it felt good to be clean, and he waded in a little deeper, ducked his head into the frigid water. And then arched back up to whip the water off, because his hair was getting too long these days, and…

A sound. A sound, curse it, a twig cracking, far too close. Someone was here, hiding,watchinghim, on the opposite bank. And fuck, had Gerrard destroyed all his plans with his recklessness already, betrayed his stupid injury ruse for a stupid bath, and —

Wait. It wasn’t a soldier, or even a human at all. It couldn’t be. Not with the sheer size of that bulk, now shifting forward into the moonlight. Not with the huge curve of that distinctive axe, glinting sharp and silver over a broad scarred shoulder…

It was the orc.

10

The orc was back.

For an instant, Gerrard froze all over, standing waist-deep in the creek’s rippling water, while his heart kicked and galloped in his chest. The orc had come back, just like he’d…

Like he’d… what? Surely neither of them had held any delusions about another meeting, after all that? Surely Gerrard hadn’t… wondered, even a little, if the orc might return? And surely, curse him, he hadn’t come out here alone on purpose, and stripped bare, and frolicked in a fucking creek?

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