Page 43 of The Fall of the Orc

And on that day, just like this one, the orc’s huge axe-blade — wrenched up. Sideways. The sharp edge spinning away, so the flat of it would land instead. So it would crash into Gerrard’s shoulder like a hammer, sending him screaming into the dirt.

But this time, Gerrard… expected it. Expected it, lunged from it, braced for it. Not in time to avoid it entirely, no, but just enough that he stayed upright as the wall of steel met his shoulder, as the pain flashed and bloomed, blared behind his eyes. And as the sharp edge of Slagvor’s blade shot upwards, wild and uncontrolled, slicing toward the moon.

It was a moment Gerrard had missed, last time. A moment he hadn’t seen, because he’d been too shocked, too lost in the pain. But afterwards, when he’d lain in the med tent brooding over it, he’d realized there must have been a moment. A moment where the orc had lost his control, had lost his momentum, just… just like this.

And this time, Gerrard was watching. Waiting. Fighting through the agony, gritting out another prayer, shoving up to his feet. Driving his own sword forward, plunging with all his strength, into…

Into Slagvor’s bare, undefended belly.

There was a breath of jolting, jarring stillness. An instant where Slagvor startled, staggered, blinked downwards. His eyes widening, his breath catching — and then his hand flailed downwards, swiping for the blade. Surely about to yank it out, to keep going. To wield that impossible orc healing against Gerrard, too. To use his own unthinkable gift from the goddess, to bring about more death and pain and suffering.

So with one more breath, one more prayer, Gerrard again lunged forward. Not for his own blade, no — but for that huge, gleaming axe, now held slack in Slagvor’s other hand. Slack enough that Gerrard could wrench it away with two hands, as his foot hooked behind Slagvor’s knee, and pulled. The same move he’d used on Olarr a dozen times, and yes, yes, it sent Slagvor flying backwards, his huge body careening toward the earth —

And when he landed, Gerrard was there. There, with a massive Bautul axe in his hands, heaving it up to the sky, bathing it in the moonlight, begging the goddess’ blessing…

It fell with sharp, decisive purpose, a single deadly blade from the heavens, dropping toward Slagvor’s straining neck. And slicing through with startling ease, sinking with a staggering thud into the earth beneath.

It was done.

29

The next breath felt like an eternity. Like silence, stillness, screaming through Gerrard’s ears, resounding from somewhere deep within him, shuddering its way out.

Slagvor was dead. Dead.

Gerrard didn’t even need to look, he could smell it in the air, could hear the steady gurgle of blood feeding the hungry earth. Could just make out those jolting final twitches as the body beneath him spasmed, sinking into its inevitable end.

And even as a dim distant part of Gerrard wanted to shout, dance, spit down upon Slagvor’s twitching body —that’s for Harja, you foul prick, he might have hollered — he just found his eyes… rising. Rising to the still-shining light of the moon above him. The light that had shown him the way, kissed his blades, offered him its blessing.

And standing here beneath its radiance, its impossible generous beauty, breathing,alive, Gerrard could only seem to bow his head toward it, and bring his hand to his frantic, hammering heart. “Thank you,” he choked, through his dry, rasping throat. “Thank you.”

There was another whisper of stillness, of silence that felt almost alive, near enough to touch — until it was broken by a shout. And another one, and another one. And when Gerrard blinked blankly toward them, it was — the Bautul. The group of watching Bautul, hollering not as if in pain or rage, but almost like… victory.

Gerrard wasn’t following it, wasn’t believing it, not even at the sight of Kalfr grinning at him, and another unfamiliar orc clapping Olarr on the shoulder. Olarr who hadn’t seemed to notice in the slightest, because he was still… staring at Gerrard. Staring, and blinking, his eyes stunned and blank, almost as if Gerrard had sliced him across the neck, too.

Gerrard swallowed hard, attempted a quivering little smile toward him — and that, somehow, seemed to snap Olarr awake again. And suddenly he was shoving away from his kin, and pitching forward. Closing up the space between them with large, loping steps, and dragging Gerrard into his hot, shaky embrace.

“Ach, my warrior,” Olarr’s hoarse voice gulped, strained and wavering in Gerrard’s ear. “Ach. You have done this. You havedonethis.”

It was like he still didn’t believe it, still couldn’t understand it was real, and Gerrard sagged heavily into his strength, and huffed a shrill, shaky laugh into his shoulder. “Didn’t think I was going to,” he gulped, and fuck, suddenly he was dangerously on the verge of sobbing, the breaths quaking hard in his throat. “But you were right. Bastard was greedy. Too greedy to give me an easy death.”

Olarr made a thick, choked sound into Gerrard’s ear, and yanked him even tighter, rocking him back and forth. “This was so wise, my brave one,” he croaked. “So strong, so prudent and cunning. So —reckless.”

But it didn’t sound disparaging this time, it sounded like awe, like wonder. And Olarr roughly yanked away again, so he could cradle both hands around Gerrard’s face, and look him in the eyes. “You are a true son of the goddess, Aulis,” he rasped. “You have won a fair victory, and proven yourself as a brave and worthy Bautul, beneath the goddess’ eye.”

A strange, shimmering warmth was thudding in Gerrard’s chest, radiating into his limbs, into his slow, tentative smile. “Yeah?” he heard himself ask, almost shy. “You really think so?”

Olarr’s nod was jerky, frantic, as his hands gave Gerrard a fierce little shake. “Ach, I know this,” he said, his voice hard, utterly certain. “And all my kin now know this also. Ach, brothers?”

Gerrard followed his eyes, and then twitched at the sight of all those orcs, here. Standing in a loose circle around them, watching them. And while some of them were indeed smiling and nodding — Kalfr among them — a few of them still looked uneasy, confused, maybe even fearful. But none of them, Gerrard’s distant thoughts pointed out, seemed even slightly saddened by Slagvor’s passing, and one was even darkly frowning at his immobile body, while also warily kicking at it, as if to make sure he was dead.

“Ach, brothers?” Olarr asked again, with an edge of command on his voice. “You cannot claim that this was not a fair duel, in the way of the Bautul. This human won by his own hand, and had no aid in this, but from the goddess herself.”

None of them seemed inclined to argue — and if Gerrard wasn’t mistaken, Olarr’s easy assumption of authority here wasn’t new, either. These orcs were used to listening to him, following him, clearly more than he’d let on — and now his words from what felt like an age ago were echoing in Gerrard’s skull.

I have upheld them to the best of my strength, for many, many summers. I have won them countless battles, and fed them countless meals, and gained many debts.

Was Olarr — was he aiming forcaptainof the Bautul? Had he been working toward making himself captain, this entire time?

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