Page 51 of The Fall of the Orc

And yes, yes, that was the answer, it was, it had to be. They could still spike Livermore’s drink, they could still make this work, they could. Livermore would show his true raging self to Warmisham, and Warmisham would realize he’d been fed a passel of lies, and then…

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Cosgrove hissed, though he sounded afraid, his voice on the verge of breaking. “I’m so, so sorry, Lieutenant — but the powder is gone. It’s over. We’relost.”

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The powder was gone. Gone?

Gerrard stared at Cosgrove, aghast, while Cosgrove wrung his hands, dragged them against his flushed face. “Livermore tried to find you, after you left tonight,” he gulped. “And once he saw you were gone, and your tent was empty, he went on a rampage! Demanded we all turn out our tents, and prove we hadn’t aided and abetted you! So I dumped out all the powder under my sleeping mat, and pretended I’d just been using the jar as a cup!”

No. No. Damn it, no, and Gerrard had to force his eyes shut, and bite back his furious string of curses. No. This wasn’t Cosgrove’s fault. It wasn’t, and they could still keep trying, keep thinking, something…

“And there’s no powder left at all?” Gerrard croaked, blinking back at Cosgrove’s agitated face. “You couldn’t salvage even a little? Dig it out from under your mat?”

“I tried!” Cosgrove replied, his whisper nearly a wail. “I went back to look after, but it was all sunk in! And you can’t put mud in Livermore’s food, he’s going to notice it, right? And then he’ll realize what’s really been happening, this whole time!”

Right, right, and why couldn’t Gerrard think, why was there only the fear and rage and exhaustion, clashing together behind his eyes. What the hell was he supposed to do now. Livermore was surely over there regaling Warmisham with even more tales of Gerrard’s recklessness and insubordination, and by morning, he would be officially discharged, and everything would be ruined. All his grand plans, all his goals, gone, forever, just like that.

“There must be something we can do, Lieutenant,” Cosgrove said, his wide eyes pleading on Gerrard’s face. “There must be. Right?”

But Gerrard’s sluggish brain was uselessly grasping, fighting to drag up alternatives, and finding nothing. Nothing, because whatever he did, Duke Warmisham would be right there, watching it, witnessing it. While already believing that Gerrard was erratic and unreliable, or maybe even a risk to his men. Any kind of offense from him would be suspect, any kind of target or attack, and Gerrard couldn’t risk putting that on someone like Cosgrove, goddess knew he’d already done enough…

But Cosgrove’s too-perceptive eyes were rapidly blinking now, his head whipping back and forth. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he gulped. “I’m so, so sorry, Lieutenant. If I’ve fucked this up for all of us, if we’re stuck with Livermore for years because of this, if I never get to go home again, I —”

He looked genuinely pained, contrite, even terrified. And as Gerrard stared at him, his own rage and fear seemed to coil, burning up into determination in his throat.

No.No. He couldn’t let Livermore get away with this. He couldn’t let this happen to his men, after all they’d borne. He needed to try. He needed to do everything within his power to end this war. He needed…

“Just — give me a moment,” he said, rushed and thin, his heart thumping in his ears. “Take deep breaths, and hold things here for just a little longer, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for Cosgrove’s response, just ducked out the back of the tent, and sprinted along the palisades in the darkness. Moving as quietly as he could, slipping out of the gate, and then running at full tilt toward the creek. Toward the only thing he could think of. Toward cunning. Toward — hope.

Toward Olarr.

“Olarr,” he called, his voice a strained croak in the moonlit darkness. “Olarr! Are you still here? Please, I —”

His voice cracked, broke, and he sprinted faster, leaping over rocks and roots, his breaths burning in his chest. Olarr had to still be here, he had to be, he wouldn’t have left yet, what if he’d left…

“Olarr!” he called again, as loudly as he dared. “Olarr, if you’re still here, I need to talk to you, please —”

Goddess, he was already breaking, already losing it, because he’d all but told Olarr to go, he’d told him it was over. And Olarr should have gone, he should have, why the hell would he have stayed…

“Please,” Gerrard rasped, as he caught sight of the creek up ahead, the silver moonlight shimmering on the still, quiet water. “Please, goddess, I —”

But wait. Wait. The water was breaking, splashing, rising —

And oh, thank fuck, it was Olarr. Olarr, standing there with water pouring off his face and hair, his skin gleaming wet and silver in the moonlight. And his eyes on Gerrard looked blank, bewildered, his head tilting, his brow creased.

But Gerrard had already gasped and lurched toward him, the relief screaming through his skull. And it was all he could do to keep from charging straight into the creek, and hurling his arms around Olarr’s neck.

“Olarr, please,” he choked. “I need your help.”

It was so pathetic, so weak and foolish and reckless, he’d just flounced off in some kind of grand statement, and now he was already back here again, begging. And Olarr should reject him, he should leave and walk away forever…

But instead, Olarr was… striding forward. Wading out of the creek toward Gerrard with big, purposeful steps, the water streaming down his bare body. And he didn’t falter, didn’t once hesitate, as he strode straight up to Gerrard, and yanked him into his arms.

“Ach, warrior,” he said, gruff, into his hair. “I am here.”

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