Page 9 of The Fall of the Orc

And what the hell kind of rubbish was that? That great fool brute had apparently marked Gerrard,permanently, and for what? He’d risked his own position, his own entirelife, for a few moments’ relief in the damned dirt? With an enemy lieutenant? A human he saw as foolish and reckless and —

You are mayhap the most skilled human I have ever faced in battle. You have shown yourself strong, swift, skilled with a blade, sure on your feet. You are quick to learn your foe, to find his weakness, and wield this to your gain. You showed yourself a good lieutenant to your men…

Gerrard cursed again, and irritably hacked his sword at a clump of brush blocking his path. Surely the orc hadn’t… liked him. Hadn’t groaned and shuddered as he’d opened him wide and plunged inside, as his huge bollocks had slapped rhythmically against Gerrard’s skin…

Ach, human. You cannot want — may harm you —

There was a shameful stirring in Gerrard’s trousers, and even as he kept hacking at the path ahead, his other hand slipped to his waist, feeling the still-distinct, still-strange swell of it. The orc had… filled him.Wantedhim. Enough to forever mark him. Enough to risk his own life over it.

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Especially how, despite the utter disaster this entire day had been, Gerrard had almost begun to feel more… settled. More clear-headed, somehow, or even calm. More than he’d felt in weeks, or maybe months, or years. And had it been that long since he’d had a good hard pounding like that? Maybe… maybe it had?

But no.No. Gerrard was not thinking about that. Was not thinking about the inexplicable pleasure he’d found in it. Or that brief, fleeting feeling of rightness. Of… peace.

And most of all, he wasnotthinking about how he’d begun to limp as he neared the camp, dragging his foot, clearly favouring his left side. And even yanking at his grimy uniform’s neckline a little, pulling it further down, displaying the grisly ragged remnants of the orc’s bite in his skin.

“Lieutenant!” called a familiar voice, Corporal Allan Cosgrove’s voice, as Gerrard limped his way into the camp. “You’re back! What happened? We thought you —”

Deserted, Cosgrove had clearly been about to say, and his plump face flushed with red, his chagrin flashing across his round blue eyes. And for an instant, Gerrard eyed Cosgrove, weighing him — he was a jovial, hardworking junior officer, who often spoke longingly of his wife and young daughter back home. And, more importantly, he was also a notorious gossip, who made no secret of his rising frustrations with Livermore. So maybe — an ally. An opportunity.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Gerrard said, as easily as he could, with a cheerful clap to Cosgrove’s meaty shoulder. “Just went out on an early morning adventure. Took a few turns I didn’t expect, that’s all.”

Cosgrove’s blond brows rose, his curious eyes darting to Gerrard’s visibly wounded neck, and Gerrard huffed a light, self-deprecating laugh. “That huge orc with the axe stole my sword yesterday,” he said. “So I tracked him down, and fought him in single combat, and won it back. The bastard put up a good fight, so I’m sorry to say I didn’t finish him off — but I got some good intel out of it, though.”

Cosgrove’s eyes had gone even rounder, the shocked awe unmistakable on his face, and Gerrard gave another laugh, followed by a genuine wince. “Got myself pretty banged up, though,” he said. “Bastard evenbitme, too. I’m headed for the med tent next.”

Cosgrove rapidly nodded, his eyes still very wide, and Gerrard limped off toward the med tent, feeling strangely, grimly satisfied. It wouldn’t take long before the tale of his heroic exploits filtered around the outpost, ideally with a few embellishments thrown in, too. Hopefully enough to quash whatever rubbish Livermore had claimed about his unexpected absence, and hopefully enough to make the tale of his injury believable, too.

“Mind if I camp out here for a while, Bassey?” he asked, as he limped into the large tent, which still had a half-dozen wounded soldiers convalescing inside. “Got myself pretty beat up today.”

Bassey’s brown face frowned up from where he’d been tending to one of their wounded, and he strode over toward Gerrard at once. “What the hell happened to you, Lieutenant?” he demanded. “Rumour was you left?”

Gerrard gamely told the entire tale again, making rather more of a fuss about various injuries than was warranted. And when Bassey’s too-clever eyes began hinting at suspicion — not a surprise, because he was a damned good medic — Gerrard took a breath, and took a chance.

“And look, if you want the full truth,” he began, quieter, glancing around at the seemingly unconscious soldiers nearby, “I also met up with… a man from Head Command. One of Warmisham’s household guard. And he told me they’ve been hearing some tales about Livermore’s… ah…difficultieshere in the south. And they want us to… lie low for a while, while they sort things out on their end. File the paperwork, that kind of thing.”

Bassey, of course, knew all about paperwork, not to mention the depths of Livermore’s utter incompetence — and Gerrard was deeply gratified by the flash of understanding, or maybe even determination, across his deep brown eyes. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he said firmly. “And I’m placing you on bed rest here for the foreseeable future. At least a week. And also” — his eyes narrowed again as they caught on Gerrard’s neck — “did that orcbiteyou?”

Gerrard shrugged and waved it away, and in return Bassey harrumphed, and went to fetch a rag, and a basin of clean water. “You might as well try cleaning it,” he said, “but there’s something strange in orc-bites. From everything I’ve seen, it’s likely to scar like that. Permanently.”

Permanently. The word seemed to thud into Gerrard’s belly, and he had to swallow hard, and will down the abominable twitching in his trousers. So not only had that orc permanently marked him with his scent, but he’d done it with hisbite, too? And had he known it would scar? Surely he’d known, right?

“Thanks, brother,” Gerrard belatedly said, reaching for the rag, while Bassey jerked a nod, and strode off. Leaving Gerrard to clean the bite in silence, wincing not at the pain — in truth, it already seemed considerably less painful than it should have been — but at his own fool choices in this. Letting that orc bite him, mark him, and… influence him.

Stop fighting for a spell. Tell of how you gained some grievous hidden wound. Be prudent. Seek to better wield your wisdom and your cunning…

But curse it, Gerrard was still doing it. Still lying meekly here in the med tent, nursing his wounds, pretending not to notice how one of his ostensibly sleeping wounded men was now watching him with cautious, curious eyes. Having surely overheard everything Gerrard had just said to Bassey, and now even more rumours would begin to spread and simmer, as they always did in such close quarters. And then…

“Gerrard!” snapped a voice, one Gerrard had been fully expecting, and he sighed as he shifted around on his cot, and found himself facing none other than General Livermore. Who was looking typically enraged, his pointy face flushed, his shoulders stiff and high and square in his spotless blue uniform.

“Why the hell are you lounging around in here?” Livermore demanded. “And where the hell did you run off to this morning? You were supposed to be on duty!”

Gerrard didn’t need to pretend to look bewildered, though he also attempted a dismissive shrug. “Well, you demoted me yesterday, didn’t you, sir?” he said blandly. “Stripped me of my rank and my pay, and my duties here. So there was no reason not to go off after that orc bastard myself, and at least get my sword back.”

He patted the sword still at his side, feeling his shoulders slightly relaxing with the truth of it there — and watched with inward satisfaction as Livermore shot an uneasy glance around at the other soldiers in the tent. “I didnotstrip you of your duties, Lieutenant,” he retorted. “Or any other such nonsense. I told you I was writing Head Command about your failures, and letting Warmisham do as he willed with you!”

Ah, yes, of course, and Gerrard barely bit back his snort as he twitched another shrug. “Wasn’t how I heard it, sir,” he said, clipped. “So I’m not about to be flogged after all, then? And do you still have my lieutenant’s badge?”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, and Gerrard could feel the other injured soldiers’ attention, now, eagerly listening to every incriminating word. And even Livermore had grimaced, glancing again around the tent, and then waving Gerrard toward the door. “We’ll discuss this in my tent, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “Now.”

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