Page 11 of The Fall of the Orc

No. No. Absolutely not.

“What the hell, orc,” he croaked, his voice far too loud in the darkness, even amidst the sounds of the bubbling creek around him. “Aren’t you supposed to be off cozying up to Slagvor, and pretending I don’t exist?”

But his heart was still thumping, his attention fully on the orc’s shadowy bulk, waiting for his answer. Watching as the orc shifted forward toward the bank, his axe-blade flashing, his broad bare chest burnished and gleaming, his grey skin almost silver in the moonlight.

“I wished,” came the orc’s deep voice, “for a rematch.”

A rematch. The words caught in Gerrard’s chest, and then escaped in a choked, disbelieving little laugh. “Youwon, orc,” he replied, too thick. “What the hell do you want a rematch for?”

The orc didn’t immediately respond, and too late, a distinct, breathless alarm blazed through Gerrard’s chest. This could be a setup. The orc could have been found out by Slagvor, and then sent back out to expose Gerrard, to kill him. Or maybe he’d thought better of all this himself, and wanted to get rid of the evidence — and that would be the smartest solution, wouldn’t it? Especially for someone who’d so firmly advised Gerrard to be prudent? Cunning?

And even without any of that, this was still damned dangerous. If anyone found Gerrard naked in a creek with an orc, he’d be finished for certain. Charged with treason, and hauled up before Head Command, before Duke Warmisham, maybe even before an angry mob. It only took one wrong witness, one sleepless soldier out for an evening stroll…

Gerrard couldn’t risk this again. He couldn’t.

He was already backing away in the water, his eyes darting over his shoulder toward his sword, still lying uselessly with his clothes on the bank. And what had he even been thinking, to come out here alone like this, this orc was a death-trap and Gerrard was indeed a reckless thoughtless fool, and —

And then the orc dropped his axe. The heavy steel thudding into the soft earth of the creek’s bank, while the orc himself lurched closer. His big body hunched, stiff, his skin still shimmering silver in the moonlight.

“It was a joy to spar with you, warrior,” his deep voice said. “And I shall not wound you or kill you. I swear this, before the Goddess of Bautul. She is our goddess of the moon, who even now watches over us.”

His big hand had come to his broad chest, closing in a tight fist against it, and his shaggy head lifted, tilting up toward the light of the full moon. Showing Gerrard his hard, craggy profile, his hooked nose and heavy jaw, the massive bulk of his heaving chest and shoulders. The way he looked almost… earnest. Reverent.

Gerrard swallowed, dragged for words, for rational thought. “You were the one who told me not to be reckless,” he countered, too sharp. “If evenoneof my men catches me out here with you, I’m done.Forever.”

The orc’s gaze dropped back to Gerrard, his heavy brow furrowing. “There are no other humans within scenting distance,” he said. “And no other orcs, also. You ken I would have come to you, otherwise?”

Oh. Right. The orc could smell these things. And he wouldn’t want to get caught, either, would he? He wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. He would be cunning. Prudent.

Gerrard twitched a shake of his head, searched for some kind of answer — and found that he could only blink in the moonlight, his heart hammering in his chest. His bare body shivering in the cold water, now, needing to do something, anything, and…

He moved. Not away from the orc, not toward the opposite bank, with his sword, his clothes, his safety. No, his treacherous feet were moving toward the orc. Toward the silty bank, as the water around him grew shallower and shallower. Showing his abdomen, his bare hips, the surely shrunken sights dangling at his groin…

“Fine,” he snapped, though his voice was hoarse. “But if you kill me, or betray me, I’m haunting you forever. With your goddess as my witness.”

He couldn’t have said why he tacked on the last bit, given his usual lack of interest in distant unhelpful deities — but he didn’t miss how the orc’s expression shifted in return. Looking uneasy, or maybe even alarmed, as he shot a brief, searching glance up at the watching moon — but then his chest hollowed, and his eyes darted back to Gerrard again. First to his face, and then dropping down to his bare chest, his abdomen, his groin. Holding there for a long, thudding moment, before slowly sweeping back up again.

Gerrard grimaced, his cheeks flushing hot, but he was doing this now, for better or worse. And when his bare foot kicked at a good-sized stick, lying there on the bank, he snatched it up, and settled into his usual fighting stance. But naked, barefoot, with a stick as his weapon.

It was absurd, utterly preposterous — but the orc still wasn’t laughing. Instead, he shook his big body a little, and then glanced around, and swiped for a stick of his own, before settling into his already-familiar fighting stance, too. His weight shifting low, his eyes wary and watchful on where Gerrard was already circling sideways, eyeing him, seeking an opening…

Gerrard rushed forward at full speed, aiming straight for the orc’s bare torso. And though the orc snapped up his stick to block it, it was a little too late, and Gerrard used the impact to twist his own stick up. Slipping above the orc’s guard, just enough to jab the stick’s blunt end into his sternum.

The orc blinked, glanced downwards — and Gerrard couldn’t stop the sudden, triumphant grin from flashing across his mouth. A grin that seemed to make the orc falter again, his eyes almost dazed on Gerrard’s face, and Gerrard took the opportunity to rush in again. This time swinging lower, and striking the orc’s bulky thigh with a satisfyingthwap.

“Even slower today, I see,” he said, far more cheerfully than was warranted, as he spun in again, managed another strike to the orc’s other side. “You tired, orc? Drunk? Hung over? Or…”

Or did Slagvor somehow get to you, he nearly asked — but then he bit off the words, just in time. Because he didn’t want to talk about Slagvor, he wanted to keep watching and dodging and dancing around the orc like this. Wanted to feel the inexplicable exhilaration thrumming higher through his chest, sparkling in his limbs. And he wanted to keep the orc looking at him like that, like…

“Ach, I am only… diverted,” the orc grunted back, as he belatedly jerked up his stick, blocked Gerrard’s swing for his neck. “You are…”

His voice hitched as he knocked away Gerrard’s next strike, and his eyes had unmistakably dropped to Gerrard’s groin again. Looking almost… appreciative, curse him, as his nostrils flared, and his big chest filled with his breath.

“What, orc?” Gerrard demanded, and he didn’t want to hear it, did he? “Faster than you? Better with my stick?”

The orc visibly startled, his eyes now darting between Gerrard’s face and his groin, and Gerrard fought down the bizarre blend of chagrin, disbelief, and amusement swarming in his chest. He was teasing this bastard, goading him with this, and — he grunted with satisfaction — jamming his stick into the orc’s undefended belly, and grinning as the big brute gasped, and actually staggered a step backwards.

“Definitely better with my stick,” Gerrard’s taunting, traitorous voice continued, as he darted in again, closing up the ground he’d gained, pushing the orc backwards toward the creek. “You like being poked with my stick, orc? Like having a human prick into you?”

---