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Gerrard stared at Livermore with dull, disgusted disbelief — as if this prick would eventryit — and for a hurtling, miserable instant, he almost wished he was back on that battlefield, standing before that massive orc. And instead of just giving up, waiting for his death, he should have kept fighting. Made it look like he was still fighting. And only then should he have dropped his guard, let the orc’s axe kiss his throat, make it all go away…
But it was too late. It was all too late, there was no point, he’d failed, he’d failed. And unlike the orc, Livermore wasn’t worth it. Livermore sure as hell wasn’t getting his acknowledgement, his gratitude. His shame.
So Gerrard rose to his feet, as steadily as he could, and reached to grasp the distinctive silver lieutenant’s badge on his still-aching shoulder. Yanking it off with a sharp jerk, and letting it fall to the earth beneath his feet.
“Have it your way, then,” he gritted out, as he strode for the door. “I’m done.”
4
Gerrard should have known he wasn’t done.
At least, not yet. Not with the cluster of his familiar, muddy, bloody men, waiting for him outside the tent. Well over a dozen of them, all looking to him for guidance, for reassurance, for support.
So Gerrard ignored his aching shoulder, his ever-creeping exhaustion, and instead clapped them on the back, praised their skill and valour and quick thinking, and reminded them to rest and recoup, and that future days would be better. And then, in a burst of bitter rebellion, he stalked over to the near-empty supply-wagon, and dragged out the last barrel of salted meat, and a full keg from Livermore’s personal supply of ale. Earning a tired round of cheers from the assembled men, and even a few weepy, grateful smiles.
But that was the easy part. The harder part was trudging over to the med tent, surveying the newly wounded on their rickety cots, speaking false empty words of hope and healing and victory. And then, far quieter, discussing the much grimmer reality with Officer Ekene Bassey, the regiment’s chief medic, and leaving firm directions about preparing the paperwork to send north, in hopes of ensuring the proper payouts to families were made.
Gerrard couldn’t bear to go around back to see the bodies — thankfully they’d been recovered from the field, at least — and instead headed for his own cramped canvas tent, near the edge of the camp. And once he’d stripped off his bloody, grimy armour and uniform, he collapsed his aching body down onto his hard sleeping mat, and finally let his eyes flutter closed.
But despite the all-consuming exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming — and once Gerrard did drift off, it was fraught and fitful, poisoned with dark, desolate dreams. Visions of death, of pain, of weakness and failure and futility. Of loss.
And worst of all were the visions of that orc. That grim grey face, that relentless swinging axe, the way his arm had felt around Gerrard’s waist, pulling him up. The way he’d smelled, rich and warm and sweet. And the astonishing depth of that growling voice, rumbling into Gerrard’s belly, his bones.
Go. Run, you stubborn man, before I destroy you.
But maybe the orc had still destroyed Gerrard, after all. Destroyed his pride, his position, his rank, all his victories and accomplishments. Curse it, the orc had even taken his sword. The sword Gerrard had picked out after his very first promotion, his slim chest swelling with pride, with hope.
It’s a damn good blade, the armourer had told him, with an approving glint in his eyes.A bit big for you, though, boy.
I’ll grow into it, had been Gerrard’s reply, cocksure and full of eagerness. And though he’d indeed grown into the blade, that innocent hope had been so unfounded, so foolish. Useless. A waste.
Gerrard didn’t know how long he lay there, tossing and turning on his mat, fighting off the misery and dread. But when he finally sighed and blinked his tired eyes open, the surrounding darkness had slightly brightened, slipping into the slowly creeping dawn.
And with the light, somehow, there was a new awareness. A new, decisive determination, quiet but resolute, at the back of Gerrard’s thoughts.
He’d failed with Livermore. He’d failed with the orc. He’d lost his rank, his men, his purpose. His pride. His hope.
So what the hell else did he have to lose? Why not go down doing whatever the hell he wanted, and seek out his victory — his vengeance — however he pleased?
And — he shoved up on his mat, gazed blankly at the dim light through the crack in his tent’s flaps — why not try to take down Livermore with him? Why not… why not try to take down theorc?
Something fizzled and crackled in Gerrard’s chest, more life than he’d felt since that battle yesterday — and with it, there was even a cursed stirring in his damp, filthy trousers. Yes.Yes. He would hunt down the orc, and kill him, regain his sword and his honour and his pride.
Or else — or else he would die trying. He would go out the way he’d been meant to. Fast, quick, impaled on the end of a worthy warrior’s blade.
So Gerrard ducked out of his tent, and readied himself as quickly as he could. Washing his hands and face, choking down a bit of dry bread, and then swiping a far inferior replacement sword from their makeshift armoury. And after one last look toward the still-sleeping camp, he turned for the forest, and left his life behind him.
5
It didn’t take long to reach the muddy, trampled battleground, or the orcs’ camp beyond it.
Or rather — where the orcs’ camp had been. They were… gone?
Gerrard cursed under his breath as he prowled around the clearing at the top of the hill, kicking at the remnants of fires, the charred bones from game and fowl, the large patches of flattened vegetation. The orcs had gone. They’d won, and then they’dgone.
And rather than the triumph Gerrard should have felt at this unexpected discovery, he felt — thwarted. Enraged. The orcs had hunkered down here for weeks on end, goading Livermore into ordering all those attacks, wasting all those men — and now that Gerrard wanted the brutes to be here, they’d packed up and left? Just like that?
Gerrard cursed aloud this time, and glared at the thick forest all around him. The southern Preian forest was notoriously difficult to navigate, full of brush and swamps and muck, and of course the orcs had gone straight off into it. Of course that great grey bastard had gone into it. Of fuckingcourse.
