Page 26 of The Fall of the Orc

What we should do. We.Those words clamping and coiling tight in Gerrard’s gut, because it was even more presumptuous than what he’d said… right? But curse it, no matter what either of them said, it was never going to happen. It was a fantasy, a stupid ridiculous delusion, to think of someday living in a simple little cottage together, sparring and training together, going off on missions together. Raising a son together…

Gerrard swallowed, so loud he could hear it, and felt his head tilt sideways, settling onto Olarr’s shoulder. “Think we need to survive the next week first,” he said, his voice a rasp. “You’re probably off again for a while, right? Back to Slagvor?”

He couldn’t seem to look at Olarr, but he could feel Olarr’s shoulder rising and falling against him, could hear the weight of his breaths. “Ach,” he replied. “But I could come to you again, when next I can. Should you yet… wish for this.”

Gerrard did dart a look up at him now, brief and incredulous. “You have to ask?” he said, before he could stop it. “Of course I want it. I need” — he caught it just in time — “a rematch.”

He didn’t miss that shift in Olarr’s eyes, not unlike the look he’d worn when Gerrard had first come here tonight. When Olarr had thought, maybe — more comprehension flashed across Gerrard’s thoughts — that it really had been just about the rematch. Or the challenge of it, or the escape, or the treason, or any of the other dozen things Gerrard had thought maybe Olarr really wanted, too.

So Gerrard took a deep, shaky breath, drew up his courage, his truth. “And… to see you again,” he added, barely more than a whisper. “This is… nice.”

Nice. As if he’d been talking about good weather, maybe, or a decent night’s sleep, rather than… this. But he’d said it, he’d said something, damn it — and Olarr’s eyes had abruptly widened, looking surprised, and then pleased, or maybe even touched.

“Ach,” he said, with a sharp little nod, a stroke of his claws to Gerrard’s back. “This is nice.”

Gerrard couldn’t stop the hoarse laugh from escaping his throat, because it was so ridiculous, so preposterous. But he was still leaning against Olarr in the moonlight, his head tucked into Olarr’s shoulder, and Olarr was still stroking his back like that. Wanting him. Caring for him.

“So you’ll come back, then, captain?” Gerrard asked, a little steadier this time. “And until then, you’ll stay the hell out of Slagvor’s way? Be as prudent and cunning as you can?”

He tried to make it sound light and easy, but it still felt almost like a plea, like a request for some kind of… of promise.Keep yourself safe. Come back to me. Don’t betray me. Prove to me I’m not wrong, prove to me I can trust you…

And oh, Olarr was nodding. Nodding, his eyes flashing with resolve, with certainty, with… with affection. With care.

“Ach, warrior,” he said, a low, rumbling vow in his throat. “I shall.”

20

For the next few weeks, Gerrard threw himself into his bizarre new double life. Playing the part of a loyal, wounded lieutenant — whose injuries had conveniently continued to persist — while also actively conspiring against his commanding officer, and regularly fraternizing with the enemy.

It helped that Livermore was so damned belligerent, with so little empathy for his own men’s struggles. To the point where he’d openly raged over Head Command’s reply to “his” last letter, because — much to Gerrard’s surprise — Head Command had actually granted a few of the letter’s requests. Including home leave for all the soldiers who were wounded or overdue, and a commitment to send out more supplies within the week.

But it had also meant that those costs would be cut from Livermore’s own campaign budget, and therefore his own salary. And even worse — or better, to Gerrard’s mind — it had meant that the outpost would be severely understaffed for the foreseeable future, making new offenses against the orcs even more impossible than before.

“I cannot fathom what Head Command was thinking, with this leave order!” Livermore had loudly barked to Gerrard, as they’d watched the group of tired but relieved-looking soldiers marching out of the gate, carrying multiple wounded men on stretchers between them. “It’s making us unable to fill our mandate. Unable to pursue the orcs, and protect our home! It’s a stupid, short-sighted decision, and I’m sending a very strongly worded response back to Duke Warmisham himself!”

Gerrard had exchanged a swift, meaningful glance with a nearby Cosgrove, who — bless him — had managed a glimpse at said letter earlier that day. And after a brief consultation on the matter, they’d decided to let this one go north as it was, knowing that Duke Warmisham was unlikely to appreciate being scolded by a subordinate, especially after so generously fulfilling that subordinate’s previous request.

“Livermore is honestly his own worst enemy,” Gerrard irritably told Olarr, later that evening. “It’s fool enough for him to openly complain to his own men about giving them leave, but to grouse at Head Command? At Warmisham? At the filthy rich duke who’s financing this whole mess in the first place?”

They were back down in that underground room again — it had become their de facto meeting place, these past weeks — and they were both sweaty and sated from another intensive round of fighting and fucking. Olarr had taken the win this time, and with it, Gerrard’s arse — though Gerrard could admit that he hadn’t at all minded. And there was something almost satisfying in the way Olarr was now cradling him close on the fur, his big hand reverently stroking over the distinctive swell he’d made in Gerrard’s belly.

“Ach, this Livermore is a fool,” Olarr replied, his voice sharp with contempt. “He shall build his own pyre for you, and you shall only need to keep lighting sparks, ach?”

Gerrard shot a brief, amused smile up at Olarr’s hard face — his appreciation of Olarr’s unapologetic cunning had only grown, these past weeks — but then he felt his smile fading as he shook his head. “I still haven’t sorted out a way to actually get rid of the bastard, though,” he said, with a sigh. “Fucking with his letters is a start, but it doesn’t guarantee anything, right? I need something bigger. Something that’ll bring Head Command down on him, with no chance of it coming back on me. Or my men.”

He’d indeed spent far too much time creating and discarding plans around Livermore these past weeks — setups, blackmail, accusations, scandals — but his resources were so damned limited, and every viable plan he’d concocted so far risked exposing his own involvement, or endangering his men. And though he hadn’t liked to think of it, he’d finally begun considering more… violent means, after all. Maybe a late-night swim gone wrong, or a sudden inexplicable disappearance…

But this wasn’t the first time Gerrard had discussed this with Olarr — they’d gone through all his plans together, even his terrible old one of seducing Warmisham — and now Olarr was flashing him a rather devious-looking grin, and groping sideways for his pack. Drawing out what appeared to be a brown glass jar, the kind medics like Bassey used for salves and ointments. Except that it was full of… powder?

“Mushroom powder,” Olarr said, his devious grin twisting higher. “A new treatment from your medic, I ken, for your stubborn wounds. But…”

Gerrard’s brows were rising, his smile quirking, as Olarr thrust the jar into his hand. “But you must take great care with it,” he continued, “for even a small pinch — in your soup or your tea, mayhap — shall grant you great and wondrous visions. Visions that none but you shall see.”

This bastard. This brilliant, impossible bastard, and Gerrard couldn’t help his sudden, loud crack of laughter, or his bright, disbelieving grin at Olarr’s face. “You damned devious orc,” he said, between chuckles. “Visions? Really? Like ghosts and faeries, that sort of thing?”

Olarr shrugged, but he was still grinning, too. “Ach, mayhap,” he replied blandly. “You shall have to test it and see, ach? Mayhap where many others can see, also.”

Gerrard laughed again, shaking his head, but the implications of it — the possibilities of it — were already unspooling eagerly through his thoughts. He’d never heard of anyone using mushroom powder for such a purpose before, right? So it wouldn’t be familiar, or easy to pinpoint. And while such visions were a common enough ailment among soldiers in combat, Livermore had always treated sufferers with his usual threats and contempt, rather than the leave time and medical care they deserved. So along with undermining Livermore, this powder might well be a long-overdue lesson for him, too.

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