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Gerrard’s bitter laugh sounded more like a sigh this time, his thoughts snapping back to Livermore. If Livermore was half competent, he might be able to advocate for reforms, and make meaningful progress — but Livermore cared only for his own status, his own reputation, his own coin. While Gerrard was stuck doing most of the actual work, cleaning up the messes, filing all the damned paperwork.
At least… until now. Until this orc had faced off against Gerrard’s despair, and Gerrard had finally gone and… done something. Wielded his cunning, instead of his recklessness. Faked his injuries. Lied to Livermore. Made up that preposterous tale about Head Command investigating him. In hopes of… of…
“Well, there isn’t much I can do right now, trapped down here in the middle of nowhere like this,” Gerrard’s quiet voice ventured, tentative,treasonous.“But if things were different, I think I could actually have a decent shot at getting a big promotion. I’ve won a lot of battles, made a lot of lucky calls, and gotten a good amount of goodwill with the higher-ups, yeah? My last commander, before Livermore, used to say that if I didn’t get myself killed first, I’d probably become Preia’s youngest general in a generation.”
He couldn’t quite hide the pride snaking into his voice — or the wry little laugh, because Slagvor probably would kill him first now, right? “And if I did ever better my own situation,” he continued, steadier, “I’d do my damnedest to get our men out of here, forever. And I’d try to clean up some of the army’s mess, too. Try to push for real reforms and benefits for soldiers. Make life better for them, and their families.”
He blinked at the sound of the words, at his own voice speaking them, because how long had it been since he’d even thought about all that? How long since he’d thought past the endless battles, the endless slog of shit and misery, to all those foolish naive dreams of what he would do, if he ever had the chance? And oh, he didnotneed Olarr to kiss him for it, did not need that warm clever mouth easing with obvious approval up his neck, sharp teeth skimming at his earlobe…
“Ach, I ken you would,” came Olarr’s murmur, hot and far too tempting. “I ken you could wield your cunning to gain this, Aulis. You could gain aught that you ever wished.”
Aught that you ever wished. Gerrard’s breath shuddered in his chest, the heat suddenly pooling to his groin — and it was enough to jolt him to awareness again, his eyes snapping open. The moon had clouded over at some point, leaving the night far darker than before, and when he drew a little backwards, he could no longer make out Olarr’s face, his eyes.
But those tempting, honeyed words were still echoing uneasily through Gerrard’s ears, endorsing his treachery against Livermore, encouraging it. As if this damned disruptive orc hadn’t already done enough, and set that looming threat of Slagvor upon them both? And was Gerrard really going to keep committing more treason, digging himself even deeper, just because an orc suggested it? Treason that would ultimately benefit… who?
“Look, I really should go,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m supposed to be laid up in the med tent. They’ll start wondering, if I’m gone too long.”
Olarr’s nod was instant, his hands dropping from Gerrard’s back, his body moving sideways. Letting Gerrard go, without even trying to argue, and Gerrard shoved down the inexplicable disappointment as he strode to the bank, and dried off and dressed as quickly as he could. Not looking back toward Olarr the entire time, but he could still feel the weight of his attention, his watchfulness, his uncertainty. Maybe even his own disappointment, too.
And curse him, but once Gerrard had strapped his sword to his side, he spun and stalked back to Olarr again, fixed his eyes on his shadowed face — and then realized he couldn’t at all find what to say, amidst the swarm of possibilities now burning through his thoughts.Can I truly trust you, orc? Can I really believe you’ll keep Slagvor away, and keep my treason secret? You wouldn’t betray me, would you? Or break a vow to your goddess?
Or even worse,What happens next? Will I see you again? When? Soon?
“So what doyouwant, then,” Gerrard finally heard himself say, too clipped. “What’s your goal in all this, Olarr of Clan Bautul.”
There was an instant’s stillness, a tilt of Olarr’s shaggy head up to where the moon had been. “I wish to come to you again, Aulis,” he said, very low. “Mayhap in a few days, once I am sure of Slagvor. And then, should you wish, I should welcome another rematch with you. And should you defeat me again” — he drew in a breath — “I shall seek to…let you be in charge. Should you yet wish for this.”
Let you be in charge. It was an exact quote of Gerrard’s accusation from earlier, and it flashed a dizzying, undeniable thrill of heat up his spine. This orc would really — allow that? Really give him that? After everything today?
“But it cannot be your prick,” Olarr continued, flatter now. “Or your seed. Not yet.”
Not yet. But that was another promise, another tantalizing temptation dangling before Gerrard’s traitorous, treasonous eyes. Most of all when Olarr leaned in a little closer, and took another long, shuddering inhale against the crook of Gerrard’s neck.
“But I ken you can think of other ways, Aulis,” he purred, “for you have shown yourself to be a prudent, cunning human, ach?”
Gerrard groaned aloud, elbowed Olarr hard in the ribs — and for his trouble, Olarr nipped sharp teeth at his throat, his big hand slapping Gerrard’s arse through his trousers. And despite everything, all the lingering darkness and doubt, Gerrard was grinning as he drew away, shaking his head. Feeling suddenly lighter, warm, alive, like anything was possible. Like maybe they really could live through this, even just until next time…
“Oh, I’ll show you cunning, orc,” Gerrard drawled back. “You just wait and see.”
14
For the next few days, Gerrard indeed put his cunning to the test.
He began by running a thorough review of the outpost and the regiment, including the state of their goods and supplies, and their current standing orders. Most of his information was gained through Cosgrove, under the guise of wanting to stay busy while being laid up, but his fellow injured soldiers in the med tent soon began to weigh in too, many with far more candour than Gerrard had ever heard from them previously.
No, Livermore didn’t send for more supplies. No, he didn’t want to pay that smith what he asked, so the arms weren’t repaired. No, we didn’t pay those farmers for their grain, either. No, we don’t have enough stakes to repair that break in the palisade. No, his last steward didn’t quit, he was discharged. No, that other one deserted. No, he didn’t request cavalry units. No, we don’t have any fruit left. No, he just screamed at me when I asked. No, no, no, no.
The more Gerrard heard, the more furious — and genuinely sick — he felt. He’d spent all these months in this godsforsaken outpost focusing on his own assigned goals as a lieutenant — keeping his men in order and in good fighting shape, gaining accurate on-the-ground intelligence, carrying out all these advances against the orcs, and yes, filling out all the paperwork. Which left Livermore to direct their strategy, to communicate with Head Command, and to ensure the outpost was properly supplied and fed — but clearly, Livermore was catastrophically failing at all of it. While apparently also telling Head Command that they were making great gains down here against the orcs, and their efforts were even coming in under budget, too.
It was rubbish, utter stinking reekingrubbish, and Gerrard roundly cursed his past self for not noticing more. For not realizing just how bad life had gotten for everyone in the outpost, on all fronts. He should have been more prudent. More cunning. Should have let himself take a rest, and take the time to see it.
But now that he had seen it, he was doing something about it. He was making a plan. And somewhere along the way, he’d gradually settled on two major priorities. First, to keep caring for his men, to do a better job of keeping them healthy and safe — which included keeping them the hell away from any future skirmishes with the orcs, for as long as fucking possible. To make sure there were no more offenses, no more attacks, no more pointless, preventable deaths.
And secondly, and even more difficult, was to get rid of Livermore. Not to kill him, if at all possible — Gerrard still had no stomach for a full-on mutiny, let alone more blood on his hands — but to find a way to permanently remove him from this camp, if not the rank of General altogether. Livermore was unfit, incompetent, and it was vastly unjust to allow him to be in command of anyone, throwing away their lives and their wellbeing without a second thought. Livermore needed to go, and Gerrard was going to do his damnedest to make it happen.
He still didn’t have a solid plan around how to actually achieve that, but for now, he was focusing on that first goal, and his men. First was a proper calculation around how long their remaining stores of victuals would last — not long — and next was overhauling their usual training regimen to focus on hunting and foraging for food, and repairing the broken palisades, shoring them up against attack. And next — trickier but not impossible, with Cosgrove’s help — was pinning down Livermore’s usual communication schedule with Head Command, and making plans for his own… interceptions.
And finally, several days later, at the great expense of his own pride, Gerrard hopped on crutches over to Livermore’s tent. Where he gritted his teeth and offered a profuse apology for his previous untoward behaviour, and attributed his lamentable disrespect to what Bassey had now identified as a severe blow to the head. Which, naturally, would require at least another week of rest on Gerrard’s part.
