Page 53 of The Fall of the Orc

“Corporal, go pull together a party,” Gerrard told Cosgrove. “Search the entire camp for orcs, and report back as quickly as you can. Arm yourselves, and becareful. Holler at your first sign of anything suspicious.”

Cosgrove instantly nodded and rushed off, and Gerrard returned his attention to a still-flailing Livermore. “What did the orc look like?” he demanded. “Could you identify any details in the dark? His clan? His weapon?”

Livermore frantically nodded, his eyes wide and terrified. “He had a big stick!” he replied, between panting breaths. “A big pointy stick! And he was wearing a bright yellow cape, and a tall beaver hat, and — and — a Preianuniform!”

His voice rang through the tent, through the entire listening camp, and Gerrard desperately fought to keep his expression as bland as possible, his eyes on Livermore’s wild face. “The orc was wearing auniform,” he repeated, deadpan. “And a beaver hat, and a yellow cape. And he had a… big stick.”

“Yes!” came Livermore’s sharp, shrill reply. “And he was standingright there, andleeringat me! Waiting to jab me with his stick!”

He flailed his shaky hand toward the spot where Gerrard now stood, several steps away from Livermore’s cot. And Gerrard looked down at the ground, and then back at Livermore, and then at the nearby Duke Warmisham, who was watching all this with bewildered, disbelieving eyes.

“Er, forgive me, General,” Gerrard ventured, carefully now, “but how… howdidyou see all this, in the dark? There was no light in here when I came in…?”

He let the question delicately hang there, its implication ringing louder with every breath — but Livermore didn’t let it go, the affronted fury flashing across his face. “The orc was lit up!” he shouted back. “He must have been carrying a light, so I could see him!”

The words again seemed to echo out around them, reverberating with damnable finality, and Gerrard couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as he raised his eyebrows. “The orc who came in here to attack you,” he said blandly, “didn’t just… do so, in the dark? Youdoremember orcs can see in the dark, right?”

Livermore sputtered and glared at Gerrard, perhaps finally following how his claims might be construed, and Gerrard exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with a still-staring Warmisham. “And orcs carry real weapons, too,” Gerrard continued. “Almost always axes, and curved swords. Not…sticks.”

There was more hanging, echoing silence, but of course Livermore was already babbling again, demanding that Gerrard go hunt down the foul invading beast at once — until Cosgrove slipped back into the tent, sidling over toward Gerrard, and shaking his head. “Nothing, Lieutenant,” he said, with a discreet little cough. “Gate’s closed, we checked all the tents, every last corner and wagon. No orcs in yellow capes and top hats. With — big sticks.”

His voice had quivered at the last bit, his eyes alight on Gerrard’s face, and Gerrard had to bite the inside of his cheek, and clear his throat. “Then search outside the palisades, just in case,” he said, under his breath. “And maybe go fetch Bassey too, will you?”

Livermore had clearly heard that, and he jerked upright in his bed, glaring viciously toward Gerrard. “I donotneed treatment,” he snarled. “The orc was here! I saw him! He washere!”

But thankfully, no one seemed inclined to listen at this point, and Warmisham had even nodded at Cosgrove, and waved him out of the tent with an imperious flick of his hand. Only to earn himself another round of increasingly shrill justifications from Livermore, until Cosgrove soon returned with Bassey. Who was wearing his best calm medic’s face, and carrying a large bottle in his hand.

“This again?” he said coolly, striding across the tent toward Livermore in the bed. “Not to worry, General. Just have a drink of this, it’ll help, like always.”

Livermore blanched, staring open-mouthed at Bassey, before launching into another furious tirade that no one listened to. Until finally Warmisham himself stalked over, plucked the bottle from Bassey’s hand, and thrust it in Livermore’s face.

“Drink it, General,” he snapped. “Now. We’ve had enough of this nonsense for one night.”

Livermore clearly wanted to keep arguing, but perhaps he’d realized who he’d be arguing with, and he grudgingly snatched the bottle, and drank. “This is ridiculous, Your Grace,” he said, plaintively, once he’d lowered the bottle again. “This is some kind of setup, or — or a misunderstanding! It’s Gerrard’s fault, he sent the orc to me, he’s been…”

But with that, his eyes went hazy, unfocused, and his body slowly slumped down onto the bed. While Bassey promptly went to collect the bottle, and then appeared to conduct a brief examination before turning back to Gerrard and Warmisham. “That should keep him sedated for the night,” he said smoothly. “My professional recommendation would be to keep him sedated until you can take him back to the city with you, where he can be sure to rest, and have the best possible care. This posting has been a difficult one, and many of our men have similarly struggled.”

Bassey didn’t wait for Warmisham’s answer, and swept out of the tent with haughty, devastating dignity. Leaving even Warmisham looking decidedly discomfited, glancing uneasily at Livermore in the bed, and back at Gerrard again. As if uncertain what to do next, or how to handle the situation from here.

And Gerrard was doing this, he was, so he flashed Warmisham what he hoped was his most reassuring smile. “Thanks for your help, Your Grace,” he said, as steadily as he could. “Livermore’s not an easy fellow at the best of times. If you’d be willing, I’d love to get you another drink, and tell you all that’s been going on down here.”

He sent up another silent prayer as he waited, as he watched Warmisham’s eyes flick up and down his form. Judging, weighing, and please, goddess, please…

“Very well, then, Lieutenant,” Warmisham finally replied. “Come into my tent, and tell me everything.”

36

By the time Gerrard was able to escape camp again, the sun was rising over the outpost, flickering its dappled orange light through the palisades.

And even as Gerrard tilted his face up toward its warmth, drawing in deep breaths as he slipped out of the gate toward the forest, he found himself thinking, oddly, of the moon, and its cool silver gleam. Of all the light and guidance and safety it had given him, all these past months.

He walked faster through the trees, following the familiar narrow path, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. It had taken so much longer than he’d intended to get away, and what if Olarr had gone. What if he’d given up, or been called elsewhere. What if he’d changed his mind, or…

There. There. The stone trapdoor was just up ahead, opening, crunching upward — and Gerrard sprinted forward, straight toward it. Nearly tripping on his way down the stairs, and hurling himself into Olarr’s warm, waiting arms.

“You’re — still here,” he gasped, into Olarr’s chest, and suddenly he was blinking hard, fighting back the wetness pooling behind his eyes. “Wasn’t sure you’d — stay.”

But Olarr yanked him even tighter, swaying him back and forth, his low growl rumbling into Gerrard’s ears. “Ach, I am here,” he croaked back. “Bautul do not leave our kin behind.”

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