Page 31 of The Fall of the Orc

“And not just in bed,” he continued, very quiet. “But with the rest of it, too. Shit like — how long you’ll be gone, this time.”

The words seemed to hang there between them, bare and accusatory — and maybe horribly unfair, because it was Olarr doing all this travelling, wasn’t it? Olarr putting himself at immediate risk of death, by having Gerrard’s scent anywhere near him, and…

“Forgive me, Aulis,” came Olarr’s low, cracking voice. “I did not expect — ach. A moon or so ago, we killed a powerful orc — Kaugir’s Left Hand, Skald. And though we have so far kept this secret safe, since then, Slagvor has grown… wary. Angry. Mistrustful. It has not been easy, to get away.”

Oh. Gerrard’s breath seemed stuck in his throat, because — wait. A moon or so ago was — before they’d met, last time. Before Gerrard had asked Olarr how things were going with Slagvor. And when he’d asked what Olarr was doing with Slagvor, Olarr had… dodged the question. Said some trite, secretive rubbish about being strong for his kin. And nothing,nothing, about what had clearly been his real plans. About targeting Slagvor’s allies. Aboutassassinations.

No. Instead, Olarr had told Gerrard something… prudent.

“So you didn’t tell me any of this last time because… why?” Gerrard said, struggling to keep his voice low. “You didn’t trust me, maybe? Thought I’d leak it somehow? Or maybe you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

There was a horrible instant’s silence, punctuated by the uncomfortable sensation of Olarr’s now-soft heft fully retreating from Gerrard’s body, bubbling out a surge of hot liquid behind it. “Ach, no, Aulis,” Olarr replied, choked in Gerrard’s ear. “Ach, this was only — selfish. So much of my life is tangled in this war, in this treason, this threat of pain and death from Slagvor. And when I am with you —ach. You are so full of life, of joy, of peace, and I am loath to… taint this. To allow Slagvor anywherenearthis, even in thought or memory.”

His voice was strained, earnest, and Gerrard fought down the strange, unsettling urge to laugh. Damn it, he wasn’t full of life, or joy, or peace. He’d wanted to die, when they’d started this. And he’d spent the last three weeks in a towering dismal funk, over an orc. The orc whose big body was now squeezing Gerrard all over, clamping him tightly to the mat, as if he was at grave risk of running off at any moment.

“I am sorry,” Olarr said again, even quieter. “I missed you so, warrior. I thought of you so oft it ached. I grieved every endless day that passed, without you.”

The fervency was almost visceral in his voice, in his taut heavy body. And though Gerrard knew he should keep arguing, pushing this — Olarr had stillliedto him — he instead found his body sinking heavier into the mat, into the deep, undeniable relief of Olarr’s crushing embrace.

Olarr had still come back. He’d apologized. He’d abandoned his prudence — was still abandoning his prudence — for this. For Gerrard. Choosing Gerrard over his Bautul kin, over Slagvor and the war, over everything else.

Olarr still —cared. Right?

“Missed you too, captain,” Gerrard finally heard himself say, and he even felt his head lifting up, gently bumping against Olarr’s. “And oh, do I have some tales to tell you, too.”

Olarr’s relief shivered through them both, his body’s tension softening into a low chuckle, close in Gerrard’s ear. “Ach?” he asked, warm, eager. “Mayhap we can meet again underground tomorrow, then, and you can tell me all of this? And I shall tell you” — a slow exhale — “all else you wish to know of Slagvor, also.”

Gerrard instantly nodded, the relief settling even closer, deeper. And it felt easy, suddenly, so easy, so right, to twist his head up, to smile and kiss Olarr goodbye. And then to kiss him again, and again, and softly order him not to get caught on the way out, for the love of his goddess.

To his credit, Olarr seemed to escape the camp in passable silence, leaving Gerrard naked and sticky all over, and still smiling stupidly into the darkness. And firmly shoving down that distant nagging whisper — Olarr hadlied— as he slipped off into sleep. Into a night of heated, hungry, satisfied dreams, of big powerful bodies pressing him down, whispering filthy forbidden orders in the dark.

Gerrard awoke early the next morning, and after a thorough bath in the creek, he tore through the day’s list of tasks as quickly as he could. Drilling his soldiers, evaluating the newly repaired palisades, reviewing the much-improved state of the supply-wagon. And even managing to slip another few spoonfuls of mushroom powder into a fresh tin of tea while he was there, because Livermore was too damned greedy to share the tea with anyone else. And finally, after a quick word to both Cosgrove and Bassey — earning Bassey’s now-typical, too-knowing look — Gerrard swiftly escaped the camp, slipping through the trees, making his way to Olarr’s hidden underground room.

Olarr was ready and waiting by the trapdoor, his eyes lighting up as he dragged Gerrard roughly into his arms. And then he shyly tugged Gerrard into the larger room, to where the delicious smell of fresh cooked venison wafted through the air, and — Gerrard’s brows rose — a few new wooden practice weapons were propped neatly along the wall. A larger sword, a halberd, even a massiveaxe.

“Mayhap first we eat, and speak?” Olarr asked now, that eager warmth still shimmering in his eyes. “And then a rematch?”

Gerrard readily agreed, and soon they were sitting across from each other on the fur, digging into the tender, succulent venison and greens Olarr had cooked. “These are delicious, captain,” Gerrard told him, and he meant it. “Your cooking gets better every time, yeah?”

Olarr flushed and waved it away, but his smile was pleased, and he was eagerly eating, too. “Ach, it is naught,” he said. “Now tell me all, Aulis. All you have done, this past moon.”

So Gerrard willingly obliged, leaving out the bits about the loneliness and misery, and instead focusing on his work with his men, his improvements to the outpost, even his training, and his obstacle course. And finally, he launched into the full tale of Livermore’s mushroom-induced visions, from the bubbles to the fire to the honking geese. And he was thoroughly gratified by Olarr’s deep, helpless guffaws of laughter, his big hand repeatedly slapping his thigh.

“Ach, my clever warrior,” he said between chuckles, wiping at his leaking eyes. “This is even better than I could have dreamt. And I have been pondering all day what you meant last eve about the geese! I shall be sure to bring you more powder, next time.”

Gerrard grinned back, the warmth fizzing in his own chest — a sensation that swelled even higher when Olarr then began telling him, without prompting, how he’d spent the last few weeks, too. How he’d conspired with Grimarr and a handful of other orcs to support the secret assassination of this Skald orc, who was apparently a bastard just as vile as Slagvor. And though they’d successfully covered it up as a natural death, in a feat which had taken many months of planning, Slagvor had still rapidly descended into a furious state of suspicion and paranoia. Punishing and maiming his own orcs without cause, refusing to eat food he hadn’t hunted himself, and demanding that a constant rotation of his strongest warriors be within reach at all times, Olarr among them.

“I ken he yet wishes to keep a close watch upon me, for he has not forgotten Harja,” Olarr said, his voice gone quiet and grim. “I was also the only Bautul to witness Skald’s death, and this has not helped, either. Slagvor would not have allowed me to leave at all, had Grimarr not claimed he needed me for a mission.”

Wait. Gerrard sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing on Olarr’s shadowed face. “Are you saying — you mean this Grimarr iscoveringfor you right now?” he demanded, rather shrill. “Does that mean — does he know about me? About… us?”

Olarr grimaced, but then jerked a reluctant-looking nod, his eyes now dropped to the fur between them. “Ach, he knows,” he said heavily. “I did not… offer this to him, or wish for him to know. But he is a clever orc, who keeps clever orcs around him, and I could no longer hide this truth from them. And I helped them against Skald, so…”

His voice trailed off, his eyes still fixed to the basket, and Gerrard’s heartbeat lurched in his chest, his eyes intently searching Olarr’s face. So the orcs… knew. Some of the orcs knew. And he’d known that was a risk, of course it was a risk, and was this going to lead to blackmail, or exposure, or him being compromised, all his own plans exposed and doomed…

And worst of all, Olarr had promised him that no other orcs would know. He’d sworn it. Hadn’t he?

“Grimarr would not betray us to Slagvor,” Olarr said, low and urgent, as he reached for Gerrard’s hand, clasped it tightly in his fingers. “He knows he owes me a debt, and even without this, I know too many of his own deepest secrets. He would never wish to risk me proclaiming the truth of Skald’s death to all our kin, ach? Or the truth of how he plots against his own father? He needs the Bautul for this. He needsme. And thus he seeks to help me, as I seek to help him.”

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