Page 49 of The Fall of the Orc

“Look, Olarr,” he replied, his voice steady but resigned. “You just promised me — and our goddess — that you’ll make yourself captain of the Bautul, and be a good leader to your kin. And you’re not very well going to do that if I’ve got you either trapped up in Preia with me, or running all over the realm on random missions, yeah?”

There was more heavy silence from beside him, and then another slow sigh. And when Gerrard shot another glance toward Olarr, he couldn’t tell if that was pain, or unease, or dread, shimmering so dark and strange in his eyes.

“So you would not then ponder, mayhap,” Olarr ventured, very quiet, “staying with us? You ken you would now be welcome amongst the Bautul, even if I would not yet risk taking you to the mountain. Mayhap we could seek out — our own cave, or a cottage. Or both. If you wished.”

He sounded so tentative, so damnably hopeful, and Gerrard squeezed his eyes shut, hauled down more air. If he wished. And yes, yes, curse him, he did still wish it, all of it, so much it hurt — but. But.

“Look, I’m not saying I don’t ever want that,” he finally replied, around a shaky exhale. “But I’ve just gone and thrown over all my own goals, my own kin, to help yours. Even after you lied to me, and used me, and — and betrayed my trust. So now, I just want” — he found another breath — “I want to go back to my goals. I want to finish what I started. This war’s still happening, and we might’ve paused a tiny piece of it, for now — but unless we do something about it, it’s going to keep coming back. It’s going to keep sending us at each other’s throats again and again, killing each other at the whims of senseless greedyfools, until it tears us all apart.”

Olarr was still looking at him, still with such bright, shimmering eyes, and it still hurt, but it felt right, too, it felt like the only way. “We need to fix this, Olarr,” Gerrard continued, harder now. “We can’t just hide our arses in a cottage and hope this all goes away. We can’t wait for someone else to come along and deal with it for us.”

It came out sounding more pointed than he’d meant, and he didn’t miss Olarr’s flinch, the twitch of misery on his mouth. But wait, he was already nodding, jerky and quick, and his mouth wavered as it pulled up into a slow smile, as he drew them to a halt, and settled both his big hands firmly against Gerrard’s shoulders.

“I would expect no less of you, warrior,” Olarr said, his voice hoarse. “I ken you shall have the goddess’ greatest blessing, in this.”

It was just the kind of thing he would say, the kind of thing he always said, most of all when he was saying goodbye — and there was a sudden, sharp pang of alarm, flaring up in Gerrard’s gut. Because yes, he’d just said all that, he’d meant it, but he also — he just —

But now Olarr was swinging something down from his back, thrusting it out toward Gerrard, and it took a moment’s blinking to realize that it was — Slagvor’s axe. Olarr had somehow brought Slagvor’s axe, and Gerrard hadn’t even noticed. And though his hands had instinctively caught the handle, its metal cold and unfamiliar against his fingers, he was already recoiling at the feel of it, the weight of it. The memory of it, swinging at him again and again, while all those vile words had spewed from Slagvor’s mouth.

“Look, I don’t want this,” he said, shoving it back, shaking his head. “I won’t use it, I don’t need it, I —”

“You do need it, warrior,” Olarr’s rough voice cut in, as he gave another firm, reassuring clasp to Gerrard’s shoulder. “If even only for this day, ach? You need to flaunt it to your kin, and tell them how bravely you won it from the fearsome captain of the Bautul. You must keep your sights on your own aims. On gaining this place of General, and stopping this war.”

Damn it, Olarr was right, of course he was. Gerrard needed the axe. Needed to be prudent, cunning, focused on his goals. And even as he was nodding, gripping the axe again, he couldn’t stop looking at Olarr, feeling that prickle in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. The sudden, dizzying gratitude, swarming him from the inside out.

Because Olarr had done this so, so many times. Uplifted him. Encouraged him. Given him strength and hope and purpose — and yes, even cunning — when Gerrard had been at his lowest. When he’d so desperately needed the help.

And beyond that, Olarrhadgiven Gerrard all that training, too. He’d gone to all that effort, he’d kept coming back, when he hadn’t needed to. He’d kept offering Gerrard his support, and his pleasure, and his care.

And even now, Olarr was attempting to smile again, and clasping back at Gerrard’s shoulders, as he jerked his head toward the outpost. Because wait, they were already almost there again, that was the creek rippling away just ahead, and this couldn’t be it already, could it…

“I can now scent these new men, from the north,” Olarr continued, with another bracing little shake to Gerrard’s shoulders. “With this Duke mayhap amongst them. So you shall go, and greet them, and amaze them all, ach? You shall show them what a strong, able General you shall make. You shall show them” — his throat convulsed — “how deeply blessed they shall be, to have you fighting by their side.”

Gerrard couldn’t speak, not with the growing lump in his throat, the heat pooling behind his prickling eyes. But he nodded, and even attempted a wan little smile of his own, a curt twitchy nod. Because this was goodbye, it was, and Gerrard was doing this, facing this, he had to, oh goddess, he had to…

So he yanked that yellow shawl — that mating-gift — off his shoulder, and thrust it into Olarr’s slack hands, before turning and jerking away. Lurching out into the cold empty darkness, desperate and alone, where he could pretend he’d never heard the sounds of Olarr weeping in his wake.

32

It took Gerrard far too long to pull himself together, to deal with his swollen eyes and leaking nose. To make his own sobs stop coming, escaping out his choked, blocked throat.

He was doing this. He had to do this.

A quick wash of his face and hands in the creek’s ice-cold water helped, and so did the steadily rising hubbub of voices and activity, emanating from the outpost. It sounded far too loud for this late at night — it was nearer to dawn than dusk, now — and as Gerrard broke out of the line of trees, his searching eyes caught on the new group of clean, well-kept coaches and wagons, clustered closely around the camp’s palisades.

So Olarr had been right, then. Head Command’s envoy had come. And they’d come even earlier than they’d indicated, no doubt hoping to find the camp unprepared, so they could make a more accurate assessment of its current state. And there — Gerrard squinted through the darkness, and broke into a jog — yes, there was Duke Warmisham himself, standing near a group of guards with his arms crossed, while an agitated-looking Cosgrove fluttered about before him.

“What do you mean, you don’t have any accommodations prepared for us?” Warmisham was asking Cosgrove, in clipped, carrying tones. “Did you not receive word of our impending arrival?”

Cosgrove was wringing his hands, glancing helplessly toward Livermore’s tent, which still had its door-flaps firmly closed, and several men hovering uncertainly outside it. All of them clearly still unwilling to risk violating Livermore’s previous enraged orders around not entering his tent without permission, or disrupting his much-needed rest, lest they wanted to be flogged and discharged.

On any other night, Gerrard might have laughed at the absurdity of it all, but he was doing this — he’d promised Olarr he was doing this — so he propped Slagvor’s axe on his shoulder, and closed up the remaining distance as quickly as he could. Not missing Cosgrove’s startled glance toward him in the torchlight, and Gerrard cheerfully clapped him on the back, before turning to face Duke Warmisham.

Preia’s vaunted, appallingly wealthy leader looked even smaller than Gerrard remembered, but he was just as richly attired, even for a days-long military jaunt. His crisp uniform looked new and freshly laundered, his silver-streaked hair was neatly combed back, and his handsome face was clean and freshly shaven, if rather too pretty for Gerrard’s tastes.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Gerrard said to Warmisham, with a polite bow — at least, as much as it was possible to bow, what with the huge axe still propped on his shoulder. “Glad you arrived safe and sound. And if you can just give us a moment, we’ll get you settled as fast as we can.”

Warmisham was already looking somewhat mollified, his slim shoulders relaxing, though his assessing eyes were now running up and down Gerrard’s form. “Lieutenant Gerrard, isn’t it?” he replied, with a faint little sniff. “I presume we’ve arrived at a rather… inopportune time? Has some… mishap occurred?”

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