Page 33 of The Fall of the Orc

Olarr’s answering grin toward Gerrard was an odd blend of affection and relief, and maybe even appreciation. “Ach, warrior, and I ken you should yet kick off these trousers, and fight me anyway,” he replied, husky. “And mayhap defeat me, also.”

Gerrard’s laugh came easier this time, his elbow jabbing into Olarr’s side, while this Kalfr had begun to look curious, almost intrigued. Enough that Gerrard — perhaps foolishly — asked if Kalfr might like to come down and watch the two of them have a match, and judge for himself.

Kalfr instantly agreed to this, and Olarr was again looking appreciative, even grateful, as he ushered Gerrard back down into the underground room. To where Gerrard again stripped off — just to the waist this time — and then snatched up his sword, and handed Olarr the heavy wooden axe.

It was — different, at first, sparring against Olarr with an audience, because Gerrard perhaps hadn’t realized how many little intimacies they’d allowed to grow into this, all their secret little touches and taunts and grins. But Olarr didn’t seem to mind Kalfr seeing any of it, and to Gerrard’s vague surprise, Kalfr even called out frequent praises and pointers, too. Telling Gerrard to aim for Olarr’s left side or his groin, and whistling and cheering whenever Gerrard got in a good hit — and then finally shouting his delighted approval as Gerrard tackled Olarr to the floor, the flat of his blade shoved into his heaving throat.

“Ach, this was good,” Kalfr said afterwards, flashing a broad grin toward Olarr’s flushed, sweaty face. “Your mate well knows how to wield your weaknesses against you, brother. But mayhap” — his dark eyes flicked toward Gerrard, assessing now — “another opponent shall show us the truth of his skill?”

Wait. Kalfr was proposing that Gerrard — fighthim? And beside Gerrard, Olarr’s expression had gone suddenly, suspiciously blank, his shoulders stiff and square. But he didn’t speak, didn’t forbid or approve it, and it forcibly occurred to Gerrard that refusing such a request from a Bautul warrior was very possibly some kind of unforgivable social gaffe. But also — Gerrard’s mouth pursed as he glanced back at this tall, well-rested orc — he damn well didn’t want to lose, either. Didn’t want to show himself a weak, imprudent human, before both these watching orcs.

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Gerrard finally told Kalfr, who was still coolly eyeing him, awaiting his response. “But look, I’m already winded, and I’ve never even seen you fight before, so how about” — he half-smiled as he swiped for one of the weapons on the wall, and thrust it out — “you get a stick. And I’ll use the wooden sword. Fair?”

Kalfr grinned again and grasped the stick, while Olarr’s expression had again gone distinctly relieved, his shoulders sagging. Suggesting, thankfully, that Gerrard had properly assessed the situation, and come up with a reasonable solution. And this time, as Gerrard and Kalfr began circling one another, it was Olarr shouting out the orders, urging Gerrard to dodge and block and attack, to avoid that tackle, to never let a Bautul take the fight to the ground.

It was genuinely helpful, because Kalfr soon proved to be an excellent fighter, too. Faster than Olarr, with noticeably swifter strikes — and he was also far more willing to take risks, to do something unexpected, to pounce on an opening, a weakness. An experience that felt entirely new, impressing upon Gerrard the certain awareness that Olarr had indeed been taking it easy on him, all this damned time.

However, the contrast also made it clear that Olarr was still the more skilled fighter of the two, and that Olarr’s typical way of watching and meeting and blocking — of being prudent, perhaps — also worked to his advantage. Allowing him to conserve and focus his energy, to make his attacks strong and clean and devastating. In Gerrard’s experience, Olarr’s technique only became sloppy when he was fully tired out, while this Kalfr was getting sloppier with every breath, getting impatient, landing a staggering strike across Gerrard’s chest, but leaving his own side wide open…

Gerrard saw it, took it, rushed in fast and hard — and yes,yes, his wooden sword-tip made impact, gouging sharply into Kalfr’s bare, undefended belly. “Got you,” Gerrard gasped, between heaving breaths. “Gotta watch what you leave open, yeah? Never go for a hit that’s going to break your own guard.”

It was the kind of thing he’d say to one of his men, and he belatedly winced, shook his head. But wait, Olarr was already here at his side, his big arm clutching around Gerrard’s sweaty waist, as his broad, gleeful grin lit up his face. “Ach, this is what I always tell him, also,” he informed Gerrard. “This was stunning, warrior. You are a true joy to watch.”

Gerrard couldn’t deny the heat pooling up into his already-flushed cheeks, and his uncertain glance toward Kalfr found him first looking nonplussed, and then grudgingly, reluctantly amused. Almost as if he now understood something he hadn’t before.

“This was a well-met match, human,” he said, with a brief bow of his head. “I should have expected no less, from Olarr’s chosen mate.”

Thematething again. Gerrard smiled and nodded as politely as he could, while beside him Olarr was nodding too, and then blatantly waving Kalfr away, back toward the door. “Now leave us be, brother,” he said firmly. “So I can reward my — warrior, as he deserves.”

Kalfr didn’t seem at all offended by this request, and even waved an easy goodbye before turning toward the exit. While Olarr had already spun and tackled Gerrard down to the fur, burying his face in Gerrard’s sweaty neck.

“Ach, Aulis,” he groaned between kisses, his sharp teeth dragging against Gerrard’s skin. “This was so good. You are so good. A Bautul wouldneverrefuse a challenge for a duel, and not only did you follow this, but you faced it with such cunning and ease. Ach?”

Gerrard certainly wasn’t about to argue, especially once Olarr’s hands yanked down his trousers, so he could touch and caress him all over. Until Gerrard was trembling and shaking beneath him, opening up wide around him, clinging and clasping to him as they rocked and moaned together. Harder and faster and deeper, until Olarr shouted and poured Gerrard full of him, full of his life and pleasure and approval. His… care.

“So tell me, what’s amate?” Gerrard’s breathless voice asked after, once they were both lying sprawled and sated on the fur. “An orc way of saying a fuck-buddy?”

He didn’t miss the way Olarr’s breaths stilled against him, those claws spasming on where they were caressing his rounded belly. “No,” he replied, very slowly. “It is an orc way of saying… a… a husband.”

Oh. Gerrard’s stomach flipped, his heart lurching into his throat, and he jerked up on his elbow to look at Olarr, to search his suddenly guarded eyes. Kalfr had called Gerrard Olarr’s mate, and Olarr hadn’t argued it, and… a husband? Really?Really?!

But Olarr’s bottom lip was jutting out, now, his eyes still distant, blank, careful. As if… well. Damn. And Gerrard couldn’t seem to look at him anymore, could only seem to sink back down into the crook of Olarr’s arm, bury his face into the warm strong safety of his shoulder.

“Well, yeah,” he said, mumbled. “Makes sense, I guess. If you really think so.”

Olarr’s breath exhaled in a sudden, heavy shudder, his arms squeezing Gerrard so tight it hurt. “Ach,” he whispered. “Ach, Aulis. I do.”

The words seemed to resonate all through Gerrard’s form, ringing low and powerful into his belly — because Olarr wanted him that much. He cared that much. Enough to make this… permanent.Forever.

And Gerrard wanted it too, he needed it too, with every breath of his being. They would make this work. They would find a way, and achieve their goals, together. Theywould.

It felt both harder and easier to say goodbye this time, with those impossible new words hovering between them. Mate.Husband. And Gerrard returned to the outpost with even more determination, more prudence and cunning, than ever before. He would protect his men. He would build his strength, and see Livermore’s defeat. He would get his promotion, and he would use every devious avenue at his disposal to end this damned war, and give soldiers a better life. To give himself that life with Olarr. With… his mate. His… husband. And maybe even, someday, a son.

And as the days turned into weeks, it almost began to seem… possible. The outpost’s remaining soldiers looked to Gerrard more and more for guidance and leadership, as Livermore’s wild visions continued unabated, and Gerrard continued sending increasingly combative missives off to Warmisham and Head Command. While Olarr kept coming by at least once a week, sometimes with Kalfr in tow — and then, one day, with two new Bautul orcs.

One of the new orcs was a broad, warily smiling hunter named Thorvald, whose raspy voice occasionally broke into coughs when he spoke, while the other was a massive, hideous brute named Silfast. Who made no secret of his furious contempt for Gerrard, blatantly snarling and sneering and flexing his claws — at least, until they spent the entire afternoon sparring together. And though the bastard nearly beheaded Gerrard with Olarr’s wooden axe, Gerrard made a creditable recovery — luckily, this Silfast’s stamina wasn’t much better than Olarr’s — and finally Gerrard even managed to squeak out a win, for their last fight of the day.

“I ken you could have chosen worse, brother,” Silfast grunted at Olarr, as he stalked toward the door, while an amused, intrigued-looking Thorvald trailed along behind. “He has some promise, mayhap.”

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