Page 29 of The Fall of the Orc

It had given Gerrard more than enough time to hop into Livermore’s empty tent, on a pretense of seeking him out for a question. And it had only taken a moment to pull out the powder, dose Livermore’s still-steaming soup, and hop away again.

Livermore’s shouts began soon after nightfall, and they were full of wild, fantastical claims about his tent melting, and boiling into giant purple bubbles. A situation that soon had multiple intrigued soldiers standing and listening outside the tent, while Gerrard desperately fought to be on his best lieutenant behaviour, and called for Bassey to be fetched at once.

Bassey’s verdict, loudly pronounced, was that Livermore was suffering from an acute but likely harmless fever, and only needed a good night’s rest. And when Bassey gave Gerrard a too-piercing glance on the way out of the tent, Gerrard only smiled innocently back toward him, and went about his business.

He dosed Livermore twice more over the next few days — once in his breakfast tea, and again in his supper. Both times leading to highly satisfactory results, the first with Livermore seeing green fire in his tent, and the second — far more entertaining — with him being fully convinced that his bed was being swarmed by a vicious gaggle of wild, honking geese.

“I’m being attacked!” he hollered, his panicked voice ringing throughout the outpost. “Get them away!Get them away!”

Gerrard almost felt sympathy at that one, but any fellow feeling he might have possessed toward Livermore was rapidly banished by the way Livermore subsequently raged at him, and then at Bassey, and then threatened to have Gerrard flog anyone unfortunate enough to walk by his tent. Leaving the entire camp irritable and on edge, Gerrard very much included, and he spent the rest of the evening smiling and speaking kindly to all his wary-eyed men, before skulking into the armoury in the dark, digging out any remaining whips or canes, and hurling them all down the latrine.

He was far too late getting into his tent, but once again, sleep wouldn’t seem to come. And instead, Gerrard found himself again lying there, gripping the jar of mushroom powder, and thinking, too strongly, of Olarr. Of how much he wanted to see Olarr, to talk to him, to tell him the success of his powder, and the whole ludicrous tale of the night’s events. To make him laugh, to see the warmth in his eyes. And then, strongest of all, to hear his comfort and commiseration and approval. His reassurance.

Good, warrior, Olarr would surely say.This was good work. This fool man is no match for your cunning, ach?

And then he would touch Gerrard with his big hands, and draw him close, and fill him with warmth and hunger and pleasure. While Gerrard did the same to him in return, told him everything he’d ever wanted to hear, until they were both wild with it, writhing and shouting in each other’s arms…

Gerrard ended up bringing himself off in the darkness — not for the first time that week — and then he stuffed the jar of powder into the hole he’d dug under his mat, and shoved over to sleep. Olarr would come soon. He had to come soon. It had already been a week, so maybe tomorrow, surely tomorrow…

But Olarr… didn’t come. Not that day, or the next, or the next. And though Gerrard fought not to keep counting the days — ten, eleven, twelve — they seemed to drag slower and slower, no matter how he tried to fill them. Focusing on drilling with his men, surveying the ongoing repairs to the camp, reviewing the supply situation, sending out more men hunting. And then just running himself ragged with his own training, sparring and jogging and working, challenging his men to as many matches as they’d accept, all while fighting not to be bitter at how damned disappointing they were.

“Gods curse it, Lieutenant,” gasped Corporal Ainley, one of Gerrard’s best single-combat fighters, once Gerrard had again pinned him to the ground, his forearm thrust against his neck. “How did you get so much faster? What the hell have you been doing?”

Gerrard had worked to keep the easy smile on his face as he’d gripped Ainley’s hand, yanking him up to his feet. “Just sparring with good strong fighters like you, brother,” he’d said, as lightly as he could, as he’d clapped Ainley on the back. “Thanks for the match, yeah?”

Ainley had half-laughed and limped away, leaving Gerrard staring discontentedly after him, rubbing at his face. Damn, he missed Olarr. Sixteen days. Sixteen fuckingdays.

He pushed himself even harder over the next few days, setting up an obstacle course outside the palisades to run and climb through, adding more and more challenges until he was the only one of his men left who could complete it. And then he joined in some of the game hunting, too, though it was tedious going, what with him constantly glancing around the forest, and jumping at movements and shadows, in pathetic hopes that Olarr might suddenly appear. And finally, after three days of increasing frustration, he gave up on the hunting altogether, in favour of staying up late into the night, so he could run his obstacle course alone until he was exhausted, without any of his men watching, or wondering at it.

Throughout it all, Gerrard had also kept being on his best lieutenant behaviour with Livermore, while regularly dosing him every few days with more mushroom powder. And while Livermore never made any mention of his new nighttime visions, he did roundly and repeatedly complain about how he hadn’t yet received a reply from Duke Warmisham to his last letter, and was still awaiting a reversal of Head Command’s previous irresponsible orders.

It at least meant they’d continued to stay put in the outpost, with no new orc attacks in sight — though by the twenty-third day without Olarr, Gerrard would have welcomed a scouting mission, a skirmish, even a full pitched battle. Anything to take his mind off Olarr, and the steadily rising foreboding that kept clouding his thoughts. Maybe Olarr had been caught by Slagvor. Maybe he’d been punished. Maybe he’d been hurt, tortured,killed.

Or maybe — maybe Olarr had just changed his mind. Maybe he’d come to his senses, and realized that this was too damned dangerous. Maybe he’d found someone else who called to him, another orc like Harja, perhaps. An orc he didn’t need to travel for days to see, an orc he didn’t need to hide from the Bautul kin he cared for so much. The Bautul kin he was putting at very real risk, by carrying on seeing Gerrard like this.

And it was that thought, that realization, that kept Gerrard lying awake long after dark that night, tossing and turning on his mat, frowning up at nothing in the pitch-blackness of his tent. Olarr cared for his Bautul kin more than anything else. And didn’t that mean that at some point, he would need to make a choice? He would need to choose between Gerrard and the Bautul. And despite that discussion they’d had about someday, about making a life together, even adopting a son… would Olarr really choose that, over everything else he cared about? Would he?

Gerrard grimaced and rubbed at his eyes in the darkness, fought to steady his too-rapid breaths. He’d known this wouldn’t last forever. He’d known. He was an adult, a lieutenant, it was wartime, he knew how these things went. So why the hell was he being such a damned mess over it, why was he nearly weeping in the darkness, what was —

What was — that. A sound. A movement. A rustle, quiet and close, just outside his tent.

Gerrard tensed all over, his eyes searching in the pitch-blackness, as his hand groped sideways for his sword. The noise was too quiet to be one of his men — they knew to call out if they needed something — and too heavy to be a wandering rodent or raccoon. And it was also far, far too purposeful, pausing just outside his tent door, drawing the flap back —

Gerrard was on his knees in an instant, whipping his sword up toward the looming shadow in his door — but before it could make impact, something grasped his wrists. Something big and warm and powerful, and… familiar.

Olarr.

22

Olarr was here. Inside the camp. Inside the palisades. Inside Gerrard’stent.

“The hell, captain!” Gerrard hissed, over his thundering heartbeat. “What the fuck are youdoing?!”

His voice came out sounding both furious and relieved — Olarr was here, he’d come back, he wasalive— but just as quickly there was alarm, surging cold and sickening through Gerrard’s guts. Why was Olarr here. Maybe Slagvor had found out after all, maybe an attack was on the way, maybe they needed to run for their lives —

“Ach, naught to fear, warrior,” came Olarr’s voice, hot and rasping in Gerrard’s ear. “I only came here earlier than I planned, and only longed — to see you. Should you — yet wish.”

Oh. Oh. Gerrard felt his rigid shoulders sagging, his shaky breath abruptly exhaling. Olarr just — wanted to see him. Still wanted to see him. Still here, still alive, his big warm hands now gently prying the sword from Gerrard’s stiff fingers, and setting it aside.

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