Page 21 of The Fall of the Orc

Olarr’s grin flashed even broader, his eyes glimmering with amusement, maybe even appreciation, as they followed Gerrard’s gaze to his belly — and then he yanked out a small steel platter from his basket, and carefully began setting out food upon it. “I have brought dried meat, and cooked tubers, and carrots, and berries,” he said quickly. “We do not now have a garden or a working kitchen at home, so I have gained what I could for you, ach?”

His voice had gone a little uncertain, his gaze uneasy on the platter of food before Gerrard, because this was another admission, wasn’t it? Olarr had done all this himself, because he’d wanted to please Gerrard with it. And curse him, but Gerrard was already reaching for a piece of dried meat — venison, maybe — and taking a large, overconfident bite.

“It’s — great,” he said as he chewed, though in truth it was very tough, and rather charred, too. “Thanks, Olarr.”

He could see more obvious relief in Olarr’s shoulders, the tug of another smile at his mouth. “Ach?” he said, again almost shy. “Without the kitchen, it is rare that we cook meat, so I ken I have near forgotten how to do this. I feared it might not be fit for you to eat.”

Gerrard smiled and waved it away, and even took another over-eager bite. And then managed to find the wherewithal to ask Olarr what had happened to Orc Mountain’s kitchen, and the garden, too.

He’d half-expected Olarr to dodge the question, but to his vague surprise, Olarr took a breath, and gave him a surprisingly comprehensive answer. Mostly incriminating Orc Mountain’s vile captain Kaugir, who apparently — much like certain other useless leaders Gerrard knew — had chronically devalued and undermined the importance of proper sustenance for a strong fighting force, until his warriors had been left to fend entirely for themselves.

“It has meant that only the strong amongst us become stronger,” Olarr said, now frowning darkly down at his own meat, “whilst the weak or wounded are left to suffer, most of all if they have no close kin left to care for them. It is short-sighted and cruel, and breeds much anger and grief amongst us.”

Gerrard blinked at Olarr’s candour, at the blatant treason he was again laying out between them — but then again, they’d already come this far, hadn’t they? Lying to their superiors, fornicating with the enemy, sharing a damned picnic. Why the hell not be honest, too? Especially since Olarr surely knew, by now, that Gerrard wasn’t going to betray him in this? Even though — a distant rational part of Gerrard could still admit — he still shouldn’t just be recklessly trusting Olarr at his word, either. Olarr could still betrayhim. Right?

“So what areyoudoing about it, then?” Gerrard asked, or maybe challenged, around another bite of his tough meat. “I can’t see you just sitting back and watching your clan suffer like that?”

There was a flicker of surprise in Olarr’s eyes, but he was already nodding, letting out a sigh. “Ach,” he replied heavily. “Captain Kaugir has a son — Grimarr, of Clan Ash-Kai — who has long been working against this. He has been seeking out allies across all five clans, and gathering forces to his side. If any of us have the power and cunning to defeat Kaugir, and end this war” — another heavy exhale — “it shall be him.”

Huh. This Grimarr orc wanted to defeat Kaugir… and end the war. He wanted toend the fucking endless war.

“And you mean to say you’realliedwith him?” Gerrard demanded, sitting up straighter, his eyes wide and intent on Olarr’s. “Youwant to overthrow your horrible Captain Kaugir, and end the war, too?”

Olarr’s eyes had gone wary, now — and no wonder, because this was yet another whole level of treason, wasn’t it? — but he nodded, slow and careful. “This war has not been kind to any of us,” he said, his voice hard. “And mayhap to the Bautul most of all. We are wielded like chattel, sent off to the dregs of the realm” — his big hand irritably waved around them — “and commanded to fight and kill men likeyou, without question or complaint. Whilst orcs like Kaugir sit safe in the mountain, and hoard all our gains and glory — and ach, all our food — for themselves.”

He was almost growling by the end, the anger glinting in his eyes, and Gerrard felt his hand reflexively reaching to grip at Olarr’s bare knee, giving it a firm, familiar little shake. He knew. Fuck, he knew. He could have spoken it all himself, and meant every damned word.

“So what’s with bastards like Slagvor, then?” he asked, searching Olarr’s eyes. “He’s Bautul too, right? Why does he keep going along with Kaugir’s commands? What does he get out of it?”

Olarr’s eyes shifted, back into something much like surprise, and his hand gingerly slid toward Gerrard’s own knee, spreading warm and heavy over it. “Kaugir is cunning enough to keep Slagvor close,” he replied slowly. “We have already lost many Bautul, and mayhap a third of those yet living have run from our home, and now live deep in the south. So of the Bautul captains that remain here, Kaugir has granted them great power and plunder and rewards. And” — his lip curled — “the promise of much more, with each new victory against the men.”

Right. So this Kaugir bastard had paid the Bautul leaders off, then. Bribed them to sacrifice their own clan members, the ones who’d stayed and been loyal, for their own selfish gain.

“So are you… a spy, then?” Gerrard asked, still searching Olarr’s eyes. “Or… or more? Are you supposed to be finding a way to slip a knife into Slagvor’s ribs when nobody’s looking?”

He’d twitched a half-teasing smile as he spoke, but Olarr’s face was grim now, his breath hitching in his chest. “It is not… not so easy, for orcs,” he replied, low. “For any blade or poison betrays the scent of its wielder, and thus risks instant vengeance, and death. There are few ways to kill another orc in secret, and even fewer that make this seem… by chance. Most of all” — his brows furrowed — “when the orc does not fight in pitched battle, and instead sits safe at the rear, and commands the rest of us.”

Right. Gerrard remembered Bassey mentioning that about Slagvor too, and he made a face as he considered it, his head tilting. “So if close combat incidents are out, then,” he said slowly, “what about range attacks? A crossbow, maybe? Would the scent still carry on the bolt, even if the bowman didn’t load it himself?”

That surprise again flicked through Olarr’s eyes, but he gave a slow, resigned shake of his head. “Ach, the scent might be safe, thus,” he said, “but shouldyouwish to be the bowman in a tree, whilst a full raging orc-band seeks to sniff you out, and avenge their captain’s death?”

Right. Gerrard made a face, and found his thoughts oddly skipping, his hand tightening on Olarr’s knee. “But maybe it would be worth it,” he said, his voice thin, “if it saves your entire clan from… this? From being sold out to a horrible captain, and slowly starved to death?”

Olarr’s mouth twisted with a sharp, sudden bitterness, his head slowly shaking. “But you ken, human,” he said, “it is never an easy death, ach? Most of all if this… bowman… had close kin or lovers to witness this. And to know that they — and any others they care for — may be next.”

His voice had gone very quiet, his eyes fixed blankly to Gerrard’s hand on his knee. To where Gerrard had somehow begun absently stroking, feeling the coarse hair sharpen and soften as his fingers slid up and down. While his eyes kept searching Olarr’s face, and something new dipped, plunged, in his over-full belly.

“That happen to you, then?” he asked, hoarse. “Someone you loved?”

Olarr’s swallow was too loud, too incriminating, plunging even deeper in Gerrard’s gut. “Ach,” he said finally. “His name was Harja. He was one of our strongest fighters, and he sought to kill Slagvor by calling him to a Bautul duel. No true Bautul would refuse a call such as this, ach? And if Harja failed, it ought to have yet meant a clean and honourable death. But instead” — Olarr drew down a ragged breath — “Slagvor… made this last. For a full night, and a full day.”

His eyes had gone blank, now, gazing unseeing at the opposite wall, and suddenly Gerrard just felt sick, and wretched, and cold all over. “Fuck, Olarr,” he said, his voice a croak. “That must have been —fuck. I’m — so sorry.”

Olarr jerked a shrug, but his eyes were strangely bright, now, blinking at the wall. “Ach, it was many summers past, now,” he said, heavy. “And Harja well knew the danger in this, and would listen to naught that I said or begged upon it. He was never one to be... prudent.”

He’d choked a bitter laugh, his mouth crumpling, contorting. “But by the goddess, I shall have my vengeance,” he continued, a low growl in his throat. “No matter how long this takes, ach?”

Gerrard’s hand had stilled on Olarr’s leg, his fingers strangely numb, and he belatedly twitched a jerky-feeling nod. “You will,” he said thickly. “You know you will, Olarr. Your” — he took a shaky breath — “Harja will be so proud. Cheering you on from your goddess’ side.”

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