Page 42 of The Fall of the Orc

“So we’re doing this, then, right?” he asked, allowing a slight slur into his voice. “I’ll give you a damn good fight, cap’n.”

Slagvor’s sneer was heavy with mockery and contempt, and he barked a harsh, scornful laugh. “Ach, fool human,” he replied, as he drew the massive axe from his back, and swung it in a smooth, easy arc before him. “I shall meet your duel. I ken I shall revel in the sound of your screams, and the taste of your blood.”

Fuck, he was such a vile ugly maggot, and Gerrard gritted his teeth, and reflexively tilted his face up, toward the cool silver light of the moon. Drinking in its brilliance, its purity, its goodness. Its gift of light, in the deepest, deadliest darkness.

“Then let’s do it, orc,” he said. “And may the best warrior win.”

27

Gerrard didn’t hesitate. Didn’t waste a breath. Just rushed in, and attacked.

He’d wanted to take Slagvor by surprise, to gain the upper hand — and in his now-considerable experience, those axes were slow, enough to at least give him a chance to duck in and out again. But even so, his sword-strike barely touched Slagvor’s arm, and the answering axe-swing was dizzyingly fast, sharp, and vicious. Enough that Gerrard had to stagger and drop backwards, the axe-blade slicing close enough over his head that he could feel it skimming his hair.

“Falling already, little man,” came Slagvor’s deep, taunting voice, as he lurched forward and swung again, nearly enough to catch Gerrard across the waist this time. “Or is this running?”

Gerrard was indeed still scrabbling backwards, distantly thanking the goddess that this clearing was relatively large and flat, with few rocks and sticks scattered about. But his full attention was otherwise on Slagvor, because fuck, this bastard was fast. Faster than Olarr or Silfast or Kalfr, or maybe even anyone else Gerrard had ever fought, either in practice or in battle. And combined with the axe, it meant that every single swing could mean instant death, and it only took one misstep, one tiny mistake…

He was already out of breath, clutching his sword and watching that blade, while Slagvor laughed aloud, flipped the axe in his hand, and lunged in again. “You thought this man was good, Olarr?” he called, to where — Gerrard spared it the briefest of glances — Olarr was now standing with the other Bautul, his eyes intent, his body very stiff. “Your judgement has failed you again, I ken. He is even more useless than your last pretty pet, ach?”

If Olarr replied, Gerrard didn’t hear it, and he sucked down air, kept watching that axe in the moonlight. Trying desperately to learn it, to follow Slagvor’s patterns, to discern his habits and tendencies — but the bastard was good at this, too. Easily alternating between swings, backwards and forwards, up and down and sideways, with no obvious pattern, no noticeable preferences. It was exhausting, and fucking enraging, especially since Gerrard couldn’t keep running like this, couldn’t risk having Slagvor claim a victory because he wasn’t even fighting…

So with a breath and a prayer, Gerrard darted sideways, waited for the next swing — and then he ducked close beneath Slagvor’s upraised arm, dodging straight through behind him. It was a close thing, but it worked, and Gerrard grunted with relief as his sword made impact against Slagvor’s bare back, drew up a line of dark red blood.

Slagvor snarled and swung around again, very nearly catching Gerrard straight across the neck with that huge gleaming blade — but Gerrard again danced forward and under, mixing up his own patterns, too. This time getting in a good hit to Slagvor’s knee, enough that his big bulk jerked sideways, giving Gerrard another chance to duck in, swing, get out again.

“You ken you are clever, little man,” Slagvor sneered, barely out of breath, as he charged forward again. “We shall see how clever you are when you are screaming for death beneath my claws, ach?”

His charge had been fast enough that Gerrard just needed to focus on running again, staying out of the way, while Slagvor laughed, the sound cruel and deadly between them. “I shall savour this, little human,” he hissed. “I shall laugh as I peel the skin from your bones, and lick off the blood beneath. You shall not be running then, shall you? You shall not be waving around your piddly little sword like a drunken orcling?”

Gerrard didn’t justify this rubbish with a reply, but maybe his distaste had shown on his face, because Slagvor kept spewing out more commentary, listing all the horrifying things he wanted to do to Gerrard, while charging at him again and again. And though Gerrard knew this was another tactic — and one he’d expected, thanks to Olarr’s warnings — it was considerably worsened by the awareness that this bastard would no doubt follow through with all of it, and thoroughly enjoy it. And when Gerrard again took a calculated lunge forward, he very nearly made it all truth, because instead of swinging the axe, like he’d expected, Slagvor’s other arm pummelled him powerfully in the back, and sent him flying forward into the dirt.

Gerrard could vaguely hear the Bautul’s gasps and murmurs as he fought to roll into the impact, taking the worst of it on his left shoulder. And leaping back up to his feet just in time, as Slagvor’s axe slammed down into the earth, just where his neck should have been.

It took Slagvor an instant to wrench the axe back, but by then Gerrard was behind him again, dragging for air, rolling out his now-screaming shoulder. But he couldn’t stop, had to keep going, keep moving, please, goddess, please —

Slagvor rushed for him again, swinging the axe with staggering force, while spouting more horribly detailed vitriol about how he was going to prolong Gerrard’s death as much as possible, cut him apart piece by minuscule piece, on and on and on. But Gerrard doggedly kept going, dodging and ducking, making his attacks as calculated as he could. Keeping Slagvor going, too, swinging that axe, shooting off his mouth, as sweat finally beaded on his heavy brow, and streaked down his bloodstained face.

“Ach, I shall enjoy breaking you, even more than Olarr’s last fool pet,” Slagvor snarled, between more furious deadly swings. “You wish to hear how he died? How he begged and screamed beneath my claws?”

Gerrard fought to keep ignoring it, to focus on avoiding that swing, and that one, and that one. Stamina was the way he’d always won these matches, and it was the only way now. He just had to stay upright, stay the course, breathe duck dodge, as the swings kept coming, kept coming, closer, closer —

But Slagvor kept charging in, and kept raging on. Now reminiscing in detail about how long it had taken for Harja to die, how he’d needed six orcs to hold Olarr back. Saying things Gerrard couldn’t dream of openly saying about someone on his own side, someone who was a loyal, brilliant fighter. Someone who was standing there watching this, listening to every word.

But it had to mean that Slagvor… suspected. That he was starting to realize this could be a setup on Olarr’s part. Which meant that if Gerrard lost, there would be no getting out of this for Olarr, either. No chance of saving his kin, of making Gerrard’s sacrifice worthwhile…

No. No. And Gerrard dragged down more harsh, desperate breaths as he kept moving, kept swinging, kept ducking and dodging. One more, one more, one more…

But Slagvor just didn’t stop, and Gerrard knew he was finally slowing. Flagging. Losing ground. Losing focus, losing his attention on that ever-swinging blade. And that was even worse than losing his footing, it only took one wrong turn, one slight miscalculation, the panic now rising cold and vicious through his heaving chest. He was almost done, he was nearing the end, if he didn’t salvage this, he was, he was…

He was going to die, and that was all.

So when Slagvor raised his axe again, Gerrard didn’t move. Didn’t lift his own leaden blade. And instead he just stood there, tall and proud and praying, as Slagvor’s axe swung straight for his throat.

28

If Slagvor had kept swinging, Gerrard’s death would have been quick. Quick, and clean, and relatively painless, his head sliced straight from his shoulders in one sharp, decisive stroke.

But it was as if time had — skipped. Skipped, and flashed backwards, to another hopeless battle, another bitter defeat. Another day, when another orc hadn’t wanted to kill him. When another orc hadn’t wanted to grant him a swift, easy death.

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