Page 18 of The Fall of the Orc

Below ground. Gerrard blinked, glanced up at the bright sky — and then toward the close clusters of trees all around them. It wasn’t the best sparring spot, to be fair, and yes, anyone could be hiding and watching in the trees, but…underground?

“It shall only be us,” Olarr said quickly. “And should this alarm you, I shall bring you up again at once.”

Gerrard couldn’t hide his wince, because the bastard was coddling him again, and this time, he damn well deserved it. So he jerked a nod, gave an irritable wave of his hand toward — wherever — and thankfully, Olarr turned at once, and strode off. Leaving Gerrard to follow him a short distance through the trees, toward a rocky little incline, where Olarr promptly began pulling up what appeared to be a flat, heavy-looking boulder. Or rather — Gerrard stared — a secrettrapdoor, revealing a yawning dark chasm beneath it.

Gerrard had heard of hidden orc-tunnels, of course, but he’d never before seen one, let alone been inside one. And he was distinctly grateful when Olarr’s warm hand caught his, and drew him toward what appeared to be a set of rough, uneven stone stairs, disappearing down into the darkness.

Gerrard carefully followed Olarr downwards, the air noticeably cooling as he went, and soon found himself standing on solid, packed earth, in a narrow underground tunnel. And once Olarr had shut the trapdoor above them, he led Gerrard deeper down the tunnel, and into what appeared to be an actual undergroundroom.

It was lit with a faint flickering glow, thanks to an iron lantern hanging on the wall, and it was walled with earth all around, including a smooth, dry dirt floor. It was also surprisingly wide and open, without any furnishings to be seen — except for the far corner, where there was a large grey fur spread on the floor. Along with a basket, a full waterskin, and a pair of identical woodenswords.

Gerrard blinked at it all for an instant too long, his breath hushed in his throat, because had Olarr — brought this? Planned this? Set up some kind of… assignation? With — wait, was that apicnic basket?

Gerrard’s sharp glance toward Olarr found him purposefully looking away, that flush again staining his cheeks. Suggesting that yes, yes, this was exactly what he’d done. And Gerrard couldn’t think of a single thing to say in return, and he walked with jerky steps over to the fur, and plucked up one of the wooden swords.

“These are nice,” he said, his voice too loud in the silence. “You make them?”

It took Olarr an instant to respond, but then he rapidly shook his head. “No, I borrowed them,” he said, his gaze still fixed somewhere beyond Gerrard’s head. “From the Bautul fighting-pit, at home.”

At home. Gerrard’s eyes snapped wider, and he only distantly noticed his hand flipping the sword-hilt, testing its weight. “Wait, you went all the way back toOrc Mountain?” he demanded. “How many days’ journey is that, from here? Four? Five?”

Olarr shrugged again, though he still wasn’t meeting Gerrard’s eyes. “Ach, mayhap three, for orcs, with a full band,” he said. “And less than two, alone.”

Oh. So not only had Olarr spent three days trekking halfway across the realm to Orc Mountain, but then he’d turned around and made a two-day trip straight back here again. And hell, that must have been exhausting, and no wonder he’d been gone so long, and… and had he done it all just to see Gerrard again? Surely not?

Something hot was sparkling in Gerrard’s chest, simmering in his belly — and before he’d quite realized it, he’d set the wooden sword down again, and begun… undressing. Unbuttoning the front of his uniform jacket, stripping it off, setting it on the fur. And then kicking off his boots, too, and his trousers, and his undershirt. Leaving himself fully naked, except for — he swiped it back up from the fur — the wooden sword in his hand.

And all the while, Olarr just kept watching. Watching, his expression gone entirely, intentionally blank — but Gerrard knew better now, he did. And he didn’t miss how the flush had deepened in Olarr’s cheeks, or — yes — that still-growing swell, tightening the front of his trousers.

“So now, my cunning captain,” Gerrard said, his voice damnably husky, as he tossed the second sword over toward Olarr. “Will you come fight me? Show me just what you came here for?”

Olarr caught the sword with a swipe of his hand, a dangerous flash in his eyes — and before Gerrard could take another breath, Olarr raised the blade, and attacked.

15

This time, the fight was brutal.

Olarr’s strikes were focused, relentless, almost furious — and as Gerrard frantically dodged and parried and danced away, it occurred to him that maybe he’d pushed this a little too far. Not only by teasing Olarr with that too-flattering titlecaptain, but also by making it clear that he’d followed all Olarr’s surprisingly thoughtful efforts on his behalf. And maybe, most of all, by how he’d undressed for Olarr like this. By making it so blatantly clear that he was using his body to his advantage, knowing full well that Olarr wanted it. Olarr was… diverted by it. Olarr had lost, last time, because of it.

But even so — Gerrard grunted as he whirled sideways, just in time to escape Olarr’s next massive swing — Olarr damn well knew it, too. And last time, Gerrard had taken him by surprise with it, so this time he wasn’t. This time he was laying it out up front. Being more… fair.

“Been practicing, have you?” he asked, breathless, as he finally got in a passable hit to Olarr’s arm. “Finally figured out how to use a sword properly?”

He’d fully intended the double meaning in his words, waggling his eyebrows as he ducked and weaved beneath Olarr’s merciless attacks, but Olarr wasn’t smiling. He just kept charging in, swinging again and again with single-minded strength, and curse it, that comment of Gerrard’s had clearly been taking it too far, too. Taking aim at not only Olarr’s fighting skill, but also his virility, his dominance. While even hinting, maybe, at what they both knew was at stake this time, between them.

Should you defeat me again, Olarr had said, had promised,I shall seek to let you be in charge.

So Gerrard shut his mouth, gritted his teeth, and watched Olarr with his full focus, anticipating the next attack, dodging and blocking as quickly and efficiently as he could. While mentally overlaying all his memories from their last matches, all that time he’d spent lying in that cot and obsessing this past week. He needed to use his speed, needed to conserve his stamina, to tire Olarr out. Then he needed to knock him off-balance, somehow, and deliver the final blow.

And for that, Gerrard had fully planned on a repeat of last time — running his mouth, while blatantly flaunting what was on offer — but now he found himself revising that plan, too. Instead sinking his actions into a somewhat predictable pattern of movement, parrying and striking and dodging, until he could see Olarr settling into it, too. And yes, Olarr was slowly getting winded, the sweat beading across his broad chest, his swings not quite as sharp as before. And Gerrard kept repeating that pattern, parry strike dodge, again and again and again, until —

He charged. Rushing forward with all his speed and strength, ducking under Olarr’s arm, slamming straight into his upper body, while digging his sword into the earth behind Olarr’s foot. It was the exact same move he’d done last time in the creek, but Olarr again hadn’t been expecting it, and Gerrard crowed his victory as Olarr tripped backwards, and slammed flat onto the fur behind them. Very narrowly missing his picnic basket, and Gerrard swiftly shoved it to safety with his sword before dropping to his knees over Olarr, and pressing his blade flat into Olarr’s neck.

“Got you,” he gasped, both hands pushing on the blade, now, because this bastard was not taking this away from him this time, he wasnot. “My win, orc.”

Olarr’s big body was heaving beneath him, his face shiny with sweat, his eyes glittering on Gerrard’s with something not unlike fury. Because he damn well hadn’t wanted to lose this one, that had been very clear — but he’d lost all the same, and Gerrard had won it with no taunts, no games. Just good hard fighting, and if Olarr had been pulling his strikes all that time, well, too bad for him. He’d fucking lost, to a human.

“My win, Bautul,” Gerrard said again, flatter this time, his mouth pressing thin. “Right?”

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