Page 38 of The Fall of the Orc

Gerrard blinked, flinched, shuddered all over — and with a sudden jerk of movement, he wrenched his sword back, and hurled it away. Watched its bloody blade twirl end over end, until it caught on a bush, and clattered sideways against the earth.

Fuck, what was he doing. What was wrong with him. Why the fuck was he standing here raging and weeping over all this rubbish, and not just — just —

“Doyou really think I could beat Slagvor?” he asked, his voice hoarse, hollow. “You really think I have a chance?”

Olarr’s eyes squeezed shut, his shoulder jerking up. “Mayhap,” he replied, just as hollow. “You bear great strength and skill, warrior, enough to defeat me, and every Bautul I have brought before you. And whilst Slagvor is yet stronger than any of us, you…”

Gerrard waited, his heart still thundering, his mouth gone dry. “You are human,” Olarr said, on a sigh. “And if you called Slagvor to a duel, before all his kin, in the way of the Bautul — I ken he would accept this, for he would never wish to be seen as fearing a human. But” — another raw, shaky breath — “he would also never fathom a human to be a match for him, ach? So he may well be… reckless. Careless. Far more than he would be, against an orc.”

Gerrard might have laughed again, but his thoughts were tumbling too fast now, racing behind his unseeing eyes. He still had a chance. A small chance. And no matter what, Slagvor was still coming here, now. Coming for him, for Olarr — and even worse, for Gerrard’s severely understaffed camp. For Gerrard’s men. When they’d been so close to finally escaping here, so damned close…

And now Bassey’s words from months ago were swarming up, circling like vultures in Gerrard’s gut.We had to retreat and leave the wounded behind. Our commander at the time ordered them killed, for their own sakes…

“How much time do we have,” Gerrard abruptly demanded, at where Olarr was still kneeling, the blood still streaking down his chest. “How far away can we get from here — from my camp, and my men — before we meet your band. Before I challenge Slagvor.”

Olarr’s kneeling body twitched, and his eyes blinked at Gerrard, speaking suddenly of surprise, and then disbelief, or maybe despair. “We have yet a little time, but —no, Aulis,” he croaked. “I did not mean — I should not have said —ach. There is no need for you to do this. No need to place yourself in such grave danger. Slagvor is yet the most fearsome Bautul fighter in the realm, and if you lose, he shall —destroyyou. You ought to — you ought to run, Aulis. As far north as you can. Now.Please.”

Gerrard blinked back at him — what the hell did he mean,run? — and Olarr fumbled in his pockets, brought out something glinting, somethinggold. “I have brought you,” he gulped, as he shoved his hands out toward Gerrard, “as much as I could beg or borrow, ach? It should be enough to — to gain you horses, mayhap, or hire a coach. Or should you yet wish for my guarding, I should be glad to come with you, as far as you can bear this. For only this night, or for as many nights as you wish.”

Wait. Wait, wait,wait. After all Olarr’s cunning plans, after all his damned devious lies, after spending all that time and effort training Gerrard up to fight Slagvor — now Olarr was proposing — he wanted torun? To run from Slagvor, from the Bautul, from his precious kin and his home? And he wantedGerrardto run? To desert the army? To leave everything? Together? For as long as Gerrard wanted?

“Fuck, no,” Gerrard snapped, over the peculiar new plunge in his belly. “What the fuck, Olarr! I’m not running off and leaving my men to be attacked by fuckingSlagvor! And you said Silfast was almost dead, after taking that hit for you! You can’t honestly mean to just turn around andabandonhim? What the hell kind of Bautul brotherhood is that?!”

He was shouting again, his voice sharp with fury and disbelief, and he whirled around, away, and stalked over to snap up his sword. Feeling the familiar weight of it, the steady certain strength of its steel, as he clutched it tight, and turned his face up to the watching, all-seeing moon.

He’d failed, yet again. He’d lost his plans. He’d surely lost his livelihood, his reputation, his goals, his future. He’d lost Olarr.

But this time, he wasn’t giving up. He would do his damnedest to save his men, to give them as much help as he could. And he would sure as hell try to take Slagvor down with him. To keep Slagvor from hurting anyone else, ever again.

“So I’m going to go wrap up my affairs,” Gerrard said, his eyes held to the moon. “And then I’m going to fight Slagvor. To the death.”

25

It didn’t take Gerrard long to pack up his life, and ready himself to leave the outpost for good. Again.

He had very few personal effects to deal with, beyond his clothes and his sword, and the half-full jar of mushroom powder, still tucked in the hole under his mat. And after a long moment’s weighing it, he crept over to Cosgrove’s nearby tent, and shook him awake in the darkness.

“Lieutenant?” Cosgrove’s strained voice whispered in the darkness. “What is it?”

“I’ve been called away,” Gerrard told him, his voice creditably steady, “on an important job, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Or if I’ll be back at all. So in case you need it —”

He thrust the jar of powder into Cosgrove’s hands, and explained its properties as quickly as he could. “I need you to keep using it on Livermore,” he said, under his breath, “especially when Warmisham and his lackeys are here. I need you to be careful, and cunning, and do whatever the hell you can to get our men out of here. And if you happen to get caught” — he swallowed — “you blame it on me. You say it was a direct order from me, and I told you it was for Livermore’s health. Got it?”

Cosgrove attempted to protest, his voice rising dangerously in the silence, but Gerrard swiftly shut it down, and said a firm, decisive farewell. Followed by a brief, impulsive embrace to Cosgrove’s solid form — he’d been such a good brother, such a gift — before lurching back into the darkness, and wiping at his stupidly prickling eyes.

Next he went for the med tent, drawing a wary-looking Bassey out into the moonlight. And in contrast to Cosgrove, Bassey remained perfectly silent throughout Gerrard’s explanations, his eyes cool and assessing, his arms folded tightly over his chest.

“Does this have to do with the orc?” he finally asked, his voice very even, once Gerrard had finished. “The one you’ve been seeing, all this time?”

Gerrard startled all over, his mouth falling open — Basseyknew?! — and Bassey shrugged, gave a grim little twitch of a smile. “That bite you had,” he said. “Orcs don’t do that to their enemies. They do it to their lovers. Theirmates.”

Theirmates. Gerrard couldn’t stop staring at Bassey, and Bassey shrugged again, his eyes not quite meeting Gerrard’s, now. “You aren’t my only patient who’s ever gone there,” he said. “Plenty of orcs seem to like human men — at least, when they’re not trying to kill us. But” — his too-aware eyes flicked back to Gerrard’s — “you know they can’t be trusted, either, right, Lieutenant?”

Gerrard fought down the sudden, irrational urge to laugh, and then gave a shaky-feeling nod, and tightly clasped Bassey on the shoulder. “Yeah, I know,” he said thickly. “Thanks for all your hard work and help, brother. It’s been an honour.”

He suddenly couldn’t bear to hear Bassey’s response, and he spun away, strode into the darkness. His steps quick and jerky, his hand clamped on his sword-hilt, his gaze fixed straight ahead. This was it. He was leaving here, finished here, probably forever. And he could only pray he’d done enough. That his men would survive this, and stay safe, and go home again.

He gritted his teeth tighter, walked a little faster — and then winced at the sight of Olarr’s familiar silver bulk shifting through the surrounding trees, and falling into step beside him. His big body nearly silent as they walked, except for the sound of his too-loud breaths, rasping through the still night air.

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