Page 41 of The Fall of the Orc

But Olarr was nodding too, rapid and fierce, his eyes flickering between warmth and despair. “I should be — most honoured, warrior,” he breathed. “Most glad to meet you again, in the goddess’ realm.”

Gerrard nodded too, jerking his head against Olarr’s still-cradling hand, as the water finally escaped, streaked down his cheeks. This was it. It was goodbye. And it was —

“Ach, what is this?” came a deep, contemptuous voice, far too close. “Is this a —man?”

It was Slagvor.

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Gerrard turned to face Slagvor with slow, guarded steps, with dread and darkness boiling in his gut.

The bastard was gigantic. Bigger than Olarr, than even Silfast, with huge sloped shoulders, a powerful barrel chest, and a massive shining axe, gleaming sharp and deadly on his back. And while his grey-skinned face bore the usual heavy Bautul cragginess, it was also spattered all over with brown streaks and splotches. With… blood. Not just fresh blood, surely, but old blood, too.

The dread surged higher in Gerrard’s belly, and his gaze darted beyond Slagvor’s huge shoulders, to the group of orcs behind him. A dozen-odd Bautul orcs, just like Olarr had said. All of them armed, and all of them staring at Olarr and Gerrard. And the only orc Gerrard recognized was Kalfr, standing at the very rear of them, his face a shadow in the moonlight.

“What is this, Olarr,” Slagvor’s deep voice demanded, reverberating in the moonlit silence. “Why is this human here. And why does hereekof you!”

There was an instant’s quiet, and Gerrard could feel Olarr inhaling beside him, about to speak — but then Gerrard jerked forward. Walked straight toward his destiny, his doom, even as his gaze darted up, caught on the watching white light of the moon above them. He was doing this. He was.

“I’m Lieutenant Gerrard of Preia,” his voice said, quiet but steady. “And I’m here because Olarr — won me. He converted me, and conquered me. Gained me as his war-prize, with the blessing of the goddess.”

More silence thudded through the empty air, and Gerrard could almost taste the sudden confusion from Olarr behind him, and from the Bautul orcs behind Slagvor. But Gerrard’s eyes were only on Slagvor, on where Slagvor was still watching, still listening, for now…

“After Olarr routed my regiment in battle,” Gerrard continued, faster now, “he came back to finish me off. He defeated me in single combat, and put me on my knees. And then he ploughed me into the dirt with his strong Bautul prick, until I begged and screamed for his mercy.”

Slagvor’s beady eyes darted beyond Gerrard toward Olarr, his heavy brows furrowing — so Gerrard kept talking, spitting out the words as fast as they would come. “And since Olarr is such a wise, cunning Bautul,” he said, through his rapid breaths, “he saw this as a gift from the goddess, and decided to use it to his advantage. He used me to spy on my regiment. He used me to stop any further attacks against you. He even used me to poison my commander. He used his cunning for your gain, for his clan’s gain. And yeah, he took his pleasure with me along the way, too, because why the hell wouldn’t he?”

Slagvor’s eyes were still fixed on Olarr, and something ugly curled on his bloodstained mouth — but behind him, the assembled Bautul were shifting on their feet, their eyes wary, uncertain, surprised. Curious. Maybe even… impressed.

And at the sight of it, something almost,almostlike hope caught, kindled up in Gerrard’s chest. Because yes, yes, he knew he was still facing certain death here tonight — but he could at least try to keep Olarr from coming with him. Could keep Olarr alive, keep intact the respect from his clan that he’d worked so many years to gain. Olarr needed another chance, another day, another cunning plan to save his kin — and Gerrard was doing his damnedest to give it to him.

“And the longer I served Olarr, the more I wanted to stay with him,” Gerrard continued, as steadily as he could. “I wanted him to recognize me, and take me as his full Bautul mate. But he told me I wasn’t worthy of this yet — but that he would give me a chance. A chance to prove myself, by defeating a powerful Bautul in single combat.”

He could feel that he had the orcs now, could feel their curiosity, their full attention. And though Slagvor was still glowering at Olarr behind Gerrard, he also wasn’t moving, cutting in to speak, not yet…

“So therefore, Captain Slagvor,” Gerrard announced, lighter now, aiming for flippancy, for foolishness. “I’ve decided to come here tonight and meetyou, beneath our goddess’ full moon. And” — he drew out his sword with a smooth, silken shirr — “in the name of the goddess, I challenge you to a Bautul duel.”

The silence echoed out after Gerrard’s words, resonating all around them — and then, suddenly, laughter. Laughter, deep and mocking, from many of the assembled Bautul orcs, and from Slagvor most of all. The sight contorting his blood-streaked face into something even crueler, something alight with ridicule and rage.

“Is this truth, Olarr!” he roared, between loud, scraping guffaws. “You sent your piddling man toduelwith me!”

Gerrard had been fighting very hard to keep from looking at Olarr behind him, but he couldn’t seem to help it now. Couldn’t stop himself from finally glancing backwards, to where Olarr was standing a few steps away, his big body very still. His eyes fixed to Gerrard’s, almost frozen, and Gerrard felt his own eyes sharply narrowing back, his mouth tightening. He was doing this, he was doing this for Olarr, and Olarr had to see it, had to meet him in it. Had to wield his prudence and his cunning, for all his kin. Please, goddess, please —

He could almost taste Olarr’s reluctance, his rebellion — but then, yes,yes, his capitulation. There in the shift in his eyes, the half-amused, half-aggrieved look on his face, and then the cool, careless shrug of his bulky shoulder.

“Ach, I have brought Preia’s most promising lieutenant here to duel with you,” he told Slagvor, his voice steady, calm. “I have long wished to grant you such a surprise, in return for… past deeds. So when this man came into my debt, I thought” — another careless shrug — “you might… welcome this challenge, Captain.”

In another moment, another world, Gerrard might have admired the easy, duplicitous delivery of those words — not only was Olarr suggesting that he’d planned this as an amusing prize for Slagvor all along, but he hadn’t said enough to turn off his worshipful lover, either. Or had he, because Slagvor’s suspicious beady eyes had flicked back to Gerrard, awaiting his response…

“What do you mean, you thought he mightwelcomeit?” Gerrard said, the sharpness coming easy to his voice, as he spun back to frown at Olarr. “I thought you said I was good enough to defeat him!”

There were a few snickers from the assembled Bautul, and goddess curse Olarr, bless Olarr, he was giving Gerrard a soft, crooked little smile, and then even stepping forward, grasping his face, and — kissing him. Kissing him on the mouth, hard and hungry and urgent, and Gerrard didn’t even need to feign his groan, or the instant press of his body back into Olarr’s solid, familiar bulk.

Olarr drew away with a tight grasp at Gerrard’s arse, a gentle pat at his cheek — and another soft, indulgent little smile. “Ach, I ken you are very good,litli maður,” he purred. “But to show yourself a true Bautul, you cannot refuse now, ach? True Bautul are never cowards, most of all before our goddess.”

The words were so light, so affectionate, accompanied by an easy wave of Olarr’s hand up toward the moon. And it was too easy to sink into it, to nod and smile back in return. To ignore the low whistles of the assembled Bautul behind Slagvor, the quiet murmurs offíflandfokk-drukkinn.

And once Olarr pulled away, Gerrard kept the dazed smile to his mouth, the hazy look in his eyes, even as he turned to face Slagvor again. As he raised his sword again, letting it visibly waver in his hands.

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