Page 32 of The Fall of the Orc

Right. Gerrard’s heart was still thumping, but he tried for a nod, his body sagging a little on the fur. Because it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter at this point, did he? And if Olarr, with all his prudence and his cunning, trusted this Grimarr that much, well — then surely Gerrard could try, too. Especially since by telling him this, Olarr was giving him all these secrets, too, and the power that came with them. Olarr was… trusting him. Being honest with him.

“So what if Slagvor does find out about us?” Gerrard finally asked, his voice thin. “What happens then?”

Olarr’s jaw tightened, but his eyes were still on Gerrard’s, glinting with dark, intent determination. “Then I run for you, and do my utmost to keep Slagvor from finding you,” he said flatly. “And if Slagvor kills me first, or wrests any truth of you from me, Grimarr has sworn to send word to you at all speed, so you might choose what best to do next, and how to keep yourselfsafe.”

Oh. So was Olarr really saying… he would die for this. For Gerrard. To the point where he’d madeplansaround it. He’d gained a debt from Grimarr, and used that debt to his advantage. To Gerrard’s advantage.

“So might you next wish… for a rematch, then, warrior?” Olarr asked into the silence, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Give me some good training with my axe?”

His gaze had flicked to the wooden axe still sitting innocuously against the wall, and at the sight of it, more comprehension flared through Gerrard’s thoughts. So maybe they weren’t doing this just for fun anymore, fooling around with sticks and swords. Olarr needed to be ready. Ready to face down Slagvor, and fight to the death.

Gerrard abruptly nodded, and attempted to smile back as he lurched to his feet. “Hell, yes,” he replied, as smoothly as he could. “I hope you’re prepared for a pounding, captain.”

Olarr’s grin back was instant, relieved — but that might have been a twinge of sadness in his eyes as he rose up too, and swung the huge wooden axe onto his shoulder. The sight of it doing strange, twisting things in Gerrard’s belly, calling up vivid memories of the last time Olarr had wielded an axe against him — but he swallowed hard, and attempted another smile as he snapped his own sword up into his hand.

But despite Gerrard’s best attempts to keep things light, the match still seemed heavier, harder than before. Both of them truly fighting for it, with all their strength and stamina, until Gerrard was bruised and aching all over, and Olarr’s chest was criss-crossed with fresh bloody cuts from Gerrard’s sword. And afterwards their lovemaking felt just as desperate, too, Gerrard showering Olarr with absurd earnest praises as he rode him, as Olarr gasped and begged beneath him, his blinking eyes oddly bright.

It turned out that Olarr had to leave again that night, a revelation that again sent Gerrard’s belly plunging — but Olarr kissed him again and again, and vowed that going forward, if he was waylaid any longer than a fortnight, he would find a way to send word.

“And to help this, Aulis,” he murmured, thick into Gerrard’s neck, “I should like to… speak to my closest kin-brothers of you. The ones I trust most, who share my aims against Slagvor. I ken this brings us yet more risk, but” — his breath exhaled harsh against Gerrard’s skin — “it shall bring more help, also. Not only in helping me slip away to see you, and send word to you, but in helping me hide this. In keeping yousafe.”

The foreboding was already rising again in Gerrard’s thoughts — the more people who knew a secret, the less likely it was to stay a secret, right? Especially when Olarr’s friends weren’t at all likely to approve of him having a secret human lover to begin with? And what if Slagvor decided to punish or torture Olarr’s friends, wring the information from them, and…

“My brothers shall not easily betray me, even under duress,” Olarr said now, almost as if he’d followed Gerrard’s thoughts. “Even if they do not agree with me upon you. They trust me, as I trust them. I swear this to you, before the goddess.”

Gerrard’s stomach was still twisting in his gut, his breaths too short and shallow. But this was clearly important to Olarr, it was clearly something he’d thought about at length, something he was being prudent and cunning about. And maybe — maybe it meant something, too, that Olarr wanted his most trusted brothers to know about this. That Gerrard was that important to him. That… he cared.

“Yeah, all right,” Gerrard finally replied, muffled, into Olarr’s shoulder. “If you really think it’s best.”

Olarr yanked back to grin at him, his eyes bright with relief — and then he leaned in again, kissed him again, again, again. “I thank you, my brave warrior,” he murmured. “And I shall see you again soon. As soon as I am able. Ach?”

Gerrard nodded, kissed him back, even managed a grin as he left, and a cheerful squeeze at Olarr’s arse. Olarr cared. Olarr was coming back. Olarr wanted this enough to tell his friends. Olarr was ready to die for this.

The renewed certainty of that did make the next few days easier, somehow, and Gerrard kept his focus on his men, on his own training, and his own goals. And especially on Livermore, who had now gotten into the fresh tin of tea, and had rapidly added faeries, giants, and swarms of flying orange beetles to his list of unwanted visions. A situation that Bassey had continued attributing to a stubborn infection — perhaps from insect bites — while also giving Gerrard amused, exasperated glances every time he walked past him out of the tent.

Together with Cosgrove, Gerrard had also continued to keep a close watch for Livermore’s letters, and the day after the beetle incident, he finally intercepted the latest missive from Duke Warmisham himself, tersely requesting a complete budget update and campaign report. Which Gerrard promptly returned with another highly insubordinate letter of his own, this time quoting a few of Livermore’s own favourite lines about his frustrations with this mission, and his inability to complete Warmisham’s request, due to his ongoing compromised health.

To make matters even more promising, Olarr returned the very next day, alerting Gerrard with the usual stick outside his tent. And after Gerrard had joined him for an intensive round of fighting and fucking — with Olarr just squeezing out the victory, thanks to that wooden axe — Gerrard again regaled him with the tales of his all his recent successes. While Olarr grinned and chortled and yanked him close, and then — as promised — handed over a brand-new jar of mushroom powder.

“Thanks, captain,” Gerrard said, tucking the jar into his pile of nearby clothes. “And how… how did things go with you, this week? Did you end up telling your brothers about us?”

He’d tried to keep his voice light, but Olarr’s eyes had gone suddenly wary, his sharp tooth biting his lip. “Ach,” he said. “And I have brought… one I should wish you to meet.”

Wait. He’d brought one of his brothers here?Now? But Gerrard was already jerking a nod, and he quickly dressed again, and followed Olarr up through the trapdoor. Out into the early evening twilight, where — there. Standing tall and armed and silent beneath a nearby tree, was indeed… anotherorc.

Gerrard hadn’t set eyes on another orc since they’d begun all this, and he couldn’t seem to make himself stop staring, comparing the differences between them. He’d perhaps begun to see Olarr as the default orc, the one that defined them all — but this new orc was noticeably leaner, his tightly coiled black hair neatly tied back, his skin a deep shade of rich pearly grey. And his black eyes on Gerrard looked just as wary as Gerrard felt, his full mouth pressed thin, his clawed hand clutching at the curved sword on his hip.

“Warrior, this is my Bautul brother Kalfr,” Olarr said, with a genuine-seeming smile toward this Kalfr, as his hand stroked reassuringly up and down Gerrard’s back. “I wished you both to meet, for Kalfr is likely to be the one to come to you if ever I am — delayed. And Kalfr, I have spoken to you of my — of Aulis. Aulis Gerrard.”

This Kalfr’s clawed hand hadn’t moved from his sword-hilt, but he nodded and inclined his head toward Gerrard, his other hand briefly closing over his heart. “I have heard many praises of you, human,” he said, in a low, accented voice. “It is an honour to meet Olarr’s mate.”

Olarr’s mate. Wait, what the hell was amate? And not only that, but Olarr had… spoken of Gerrard to this Kalfr? Praised him? Repeatedly?

It took Gerrard an instant too long to collect himself, but he kept his gaze on Kalfr, and even managed a nod and a smile back. “Good to meet you, too,” he said, as easily as he could. “Olarr often speaks of his kin, and what brilliant fighters you are. I could never hope to measure up, yeah?”

There was an unmistakable flare of surprise — and then warmth — in this Kalfr’s eyes, his hand’s grip on his sword slightly relaxing. “Ach, if Olarr’s tales are truth, I ken mayhap you could,” he replied, with a shrug. “He says you are the best human warrior he has ever seen, and that you hold no fear of even his axe.”

Gerrard huffed a wry laugh, a roll of his eyes toward Olarr. “Sure, because this stubborn Bautul never actually hits me,” he said lightly. “I’d probably be pissing my trousers if he ever decided to really try.”

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