Page 34 of The Fall of the Orc

Olarr seemed far more delighted by this faint praise than was warranted, and afterwards explained to Gerrard — while kneeling and yanking off his sweaty trousers — that Silfast was among the Bautul’s best fighters, and one of the few who could rival Olarr himself in battle.

“His defeat at your hands is a wondrous prize, warrior,” Olarr breathed, from where he was still kneeling before Gerrard’s now-bared body. “It is a great, great feat, one of which you should be most proud. One most orcs in our mountain would neverdreamof gaining.”

Gerrard flushed and waved it away, but willingly welcomed Olarr’s slow, heated kisses against his thighs, and then around his hip, all the way to — he gasped — to his arse. That clever tongue seeking its way toward his crease, and then plunging in hungry and deep and shameless. Setting Gerrard moaning and staggering upon it, until his own bobbing, straining cock sprayed wildly across the room, while Olarr emptied out all over his feet.

“Ach, Aulis,” Olarr groaned afterwards, his hands turning Gerrard back around to face him, his head bowing heavy against Gerrard’s thigh. “Ach, my warrior. My mate. My own.”

Gerrard’s breath hitched, his hand finding Olarr’s messy head, tilting it up. Holding those beautiful, worshipful eyes for a long, greedy breath, and then bending down, and pressing his lips to Olarr’s. Tasting himself on them, and not caring in the slightest, because Olarr should taste like him. Olarr was his. His mate. Hismate.

Gerrard repeated that still-strange, still-impossible word as he strode back to the camp in the twilight, the warmth still shimmering low in his chest. And for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself think about the other men he’d been close to, the other men who might have once held that place. There had been several, all of them years ago, all of them big powerful fighters like Olarr — but Gerrard had swiftly learned the bitter, lowering lesson that beautiful men like that had many, many options. And that there was little reason for them to become tied down to any one bed-partner, especially given the transient nature of soldiers’ lives, and the secrecy — the looming danger — that such liaisons commanded.

The kinder men among them had been honest with Gerrard about their intentions, and thus sent him running toward the unkinder ones. The ones who would hide their other lovers, or their wives back home, and say whatever rubbish they could to get the pretty young soldier begging on his knees. And after far too many endless, sleepless nights, Gerrard had finally understood that none of them could be trusted. That he needed to take what pleasure he could, take as much control as he could — and in it, to try to be truthful, to be one of those kinder men he himself had rejected. And then to not care when it meant nothing. Because it meant nothing.

But — Olarr. Olarr, his enemy, anorc, had somehow gained Gerrard’s trust. Had proven he could be relied upon. And he’d never once even hinted at walking away from the commitment, despite all the danger and inconvenience and time apart. Despite the very real risk of his cruel commanderkillinghim over it.

It was a peculiar, buoyant feeling, bubbling bright and warm in Gerrard’s chest, and it was enough, more than enough, to carry him through the next few days. To shove down those occasional nagging whispers, and to keep him focused on his work — and then, early the next evening, on the latest letter from Head Command. Which announced, in frigid tones, that Duke Warmisham himself was personally leading a contingent southward to review the outpost and Livermore’s management in its entirety, and to expect their arrival in the very near future.

“This is exactly what we wanted, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove whispered to Gerrard late that night, once a raging, hallucinating Livermore had finally shouted himself to sleep. “Isn’t it?”

They were outside the palisades — both having ostensibly gone to wash up at the creek — and Gerrard was abruptly, deeply grateful for the clouds covering the moon above them. For how the darkness hid his face, his twisting mouth, his slightly trembling hands.

Because — yes. Yes, this was exactly what they’d wanted, exactly what Gerrard had spent so many weeks planning for. Duke Warmisham coming to the camp in person was a very pointed omen, even a more promising outcome than he’d expected, and if Gerrard carried the thing off properly, he could not only get rid of Livermore, but take a major step toward that promotion he’d always wanted. Or maybe even gain it outright, and…

And wait, what had been his original grand plan, around that promotion? To get Duke Warmisham alone. And, if needed, to get him… in bed. To use what Gerrard knew — heknew— Warmisham had wanted from him, to gain his own goals. His chance to make the decisions, to give the commands, to wield power for himself, and his men. To fight for a better life for soldiers, for their families and children…

“Yeah,” Gerrard told Cosgrove, over the rising taste of bile in his throat. “Yeah, exactly what we wanted. We just — need to show Livermore as his usual incompetent self, and let Warmisham see what we’re dealing with, what he’s been wasting his coin on. And then…”

“Then we get the hell out of this shithole,” Cosgrove finished, his voice low and fervent. “Forever. I can finally go home, and see my family again. Thankfuck. And” — he drew in a breath — “thankyou, Lieutenant. It’s been absolute hell under Livermore, and we’re all with you. All of us. Whatever you need, just give the order.”

With that, Cosgrove lurched forward, and hurled his beefy arms tightly around Gerrard’s shoulders. A blatant breach of protocol, but Gerrard clapped him on the back anyway, and managed a thin, croaky thank-you. And then, in lieu of anything better to say, he told Cosgrove that he’d keep him informed, and communicate any next steps as quickly as possible.

But once Cosgrove had rushed off, back in the direction of the camp, Gerrard’s brain seemed curiously empty of plans, of goals, of even conscious thought. And instead he was just staring, staring at nothing in the darkness, while his heart wailed faster and faster against his ribs.

What… what was he doing? He’d made all these plans, all these vague goals of getting a promotion, going back north to the city. Using his status and his position for all the right reasons.

But now that he was facing it, the very real possibility of gaining it, all he could think of was… Olarr. The city was so much further away from Orc Mountain, well over a week’s journey, and how the hell could an orc repeatedly travel through the city — through full-on enemy territory — without being caught and killed? And if Gerrard really did get that promotion, he’d be trapped right there in the middle of it, day in and day out — that, or stationed on a far larger military base somewhere, or leading far larger missions, with far fewer opportunities to sneak away. It would be so much harder, it would be damn near impossible…

Gerrard rubbed at his hot face, at his prickling eyes — and then he froze, sudden and rigid, as a sharp, strange chill swept up his spine. As he strained, sought to listen in the darkness… and heard the sound. A footfall, here in the darkness behind him.

Gerrard whirled around, his heart hammering, his sword already in his hand — and just at that moment, the full moon slipped out of the clouds above, and shone down around them. Revealing — oh. A big familiar figure. With a sharpened curved axe-blade, flashing over its shoulder.

“Olarr?” Gerrard said, blinking his bleary eyes — and yes, yes, it was Olarr. But it wasn’t — right, it was off, it was wrong. It was Olarr, but it wasn’t, his eyes empty and unblinking, his big body swaying and staggering as he jolted toward Gerrard, his silver skin painted with thick streaks of flat blackness…

“What is it?” Gerrard asked, demanded, as he lurched forward, no, no, no. “What the fuck is it, Olarr!”

But he knew, he knew, even before Olarr opened his mouth. Knew, from the look in his eyes, and from… the blood. The dark dried blood on his hands, spattered across his chest, his face…

“Slagvor has scented you,” Olarr gasped. “And he is coming.”

23

Slagvor was coming.

Gerrard’s heart skipped a beat — and for a breath, everything… stopped. The world wrenched to sharp, strange stillness all around him, as a cold, empty dread pooled into him, flooded him with rot and darkness.

Slagvor had scented him. Slagvor was coming.

“How?” Gerrard’s voice finally asked, from very far away. “And how much time do we have?”

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