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Olarr’s breath was still heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, as his bloody hand spasmed against his bloody chest. Against — Gerrard’s wide eyes searched it — no, not an injury, not his own blood. But… someone else’s. Another orc’s, surely. A Bautul.
“And who’s taking the fall for you?” Gerrard asked now, sharper than before. “Who’s keeping Slagvor away from here right now?”
Olarr’s hand spasmed again, his mouth working, and oh, hell, that was actually a tear, streaking from his eye. “Silfast,” he rasped. “He was not yet dead when — when I left. He can bear great pain, he has always taken great pride in this, but —”
Fuck. Fuck. Visions of the snide, snarling Silfast were flooding Gerrard’s brain, roiling in his gut. Because no, Silfast hadn’t been kind in the slightest, but Olarr had trusted him, and clearly cared for him, and now, now —
“But —how?” Gerrard demanded, his voice cracking. “How did Slagvor find out? Did your brothers…”
Did they betray you, he wanted to ask, but couldn’t, couldn’t — and Olarr shook his head, rubbed the back of his hand on his mouth. “We were — careless,” he croaked. “Or — I was. Your scent — a drop of your seed — landed upon my pack, our last night together. But I had borrowed this pack from Silfast, and Slagvor turned first upon him, whilst Kalfr pulled me away. Before” — Olarr’s throat convulsed — “Slagvor could link the scents, and find you all over me.”
Damn it. Damn it to fucking hell and back, and Gerrard’s hands dragged at his face, his throat. “And what — what was Silfast’s story,” he gulped, and he didn’t want to know, he didn’t. “Couldn’t he just say — fuck, I don’t know — the scent was just from a stupid prank by a human, or just some fool getting off in the woods, and not realizing the pack was there? If Silfast left it behind while he was off hunting or something?”
He was grasping, he well knew, clutching at a fantasy world where vile captains didn’t immediately jump to the worst conclusions — but Olarr was already shaking his head, his mouth even grimmer than before. “Mayhap,” he replied, “had we not just come back from scouting, scenting of…here. And one of Slagvor’s orcs — one of his most loyal warriors — remembered you from our battles here. Remembered your scent and your face and your rank, because” — his voice cracked — “you are so fair. So beautiful.”
Of fucking course. Of course some random awful orc would remember Gerrard’s fool face, would link it to a drop of spunk on a fucking borrowed pack, and it would ruin his life. Would ruin Olarr’s life. And would no doubt take the life of Olarr’s friend, his loyal Bautul brother, one of the orcs he’d most trusted. And Olarr would never forgive himself for that, it would weigh on him forever, just like Harja, and…
“And you couldn’t just attack Slagvor?” Gerrard demanded. “Why couldn’t you and Kalfr and Thorvald and Silfast jump the bastard, and just fucking kill him?!”
His voice was piercing, almost pleading, and Olarr’s own voice made a strange, choked sound, his eyes squeezing shut. “You forget the guards Slagvor keeps around him,” he replied thickly. “You forget the dozens of strong Bautul warriors that your whole human band could not defeat, in spite of your higher numbers, and better weapons.”
Fuck. Gerrard had begun pacing now, his head shaking, his hand clutched painfully to his sword. “What about challenging Slagvor to a duel, then,” he snapped. “The way Harja did. You told me that not even Slagvor would refuse a challenge for a duel, right? No Bautul would?”
Olarr’s mouth twisted, and his pained, glimmering eyes opened again, found Gerrard’s. “Ach, Slagvor would be bound to meet this call,” he croaked. “And mayhap I should have sought this, before I came here. But Slagvor is yet the strongest warrior amongst us, and if I fell to him” — his voice cracked — “he yet knows your scent and your name, Aulis. He knows you welcomed pleasure with an orc. And he — he knows where to find you. How to hunt you. And if I am killed, and then my trusted brothers fall after me, and none of us remain to protect you —”
He broke off again, rubbing his eyes, whipping his head back and forth. “Slagvor shall not grant you an easy death, Aulis,” he said, his voice a whisper. “If he even grants you death at all. There are other ways he should wish to… use you. Todestroyyou.”
The horror cut through Gerrard’s ribs like a blade, the multiple sickening visions of it roiling in his gut, and he had to choke back the vomit lurching into his throat. Fuck, they’d been so stupid. So, so stupid to risk this, for either of them, for the people they cared about. They should have walked away long ago, they should never have kept going. Meeting kin-brothers, having picnics and sparring-matches, fucking all over the damned place, pretending they weremates. Pretending everything was fine, when in truth…
“And you said Slagvor’s coming here, now?” Gerrard somehow asked, through the foul taste of bile still in his mouth. “How many Bautul are with him? Your whole band?”
Olarr shook his head, dug his palms into his eyes. “Kaugir called for the band to return home, just before this,” he replied, thin. “So it is mayhap a dozen.”
A dozen. Only a dozen. And Gerrard was clinging to it, he had to cling to it, please, please. “And how many of those orcs are — on your side,” he breathed. “How many would be — against Slagvor. Or could be — convinced.”
But Olarr was still shaking his head, damn it, damn it. “Not enough,” he rasped. “Kalfr. Thorvald. Gaelfr. Mayhap Egil.”
Four. Four orcs, of a dozen. “And you,” Gerrard replied, rapid, desperate. “And me. And Silfast. That’s seven. Over half.”
Olarr barked a bitter, broken laugh, jerked another shake of his head. “Not enough,” he said again. “Not against Slagvor, and any orcs yet loyal to him. And Silfast shall not be a help to us now, and mayhap never shall be again. Andyou…”
Olarr’s jaw flexed in his cheek, his eyes again squeezing shut, as visible pain spasmed across his face. Pain, and something… guarded. Something…
Something likeguilt.
And Gerrard had… seen that look before, on Olarr’s face. Had seen it again and again and again. And suddenly the awareness was charging, flailing, dragging up that old nagging voice. The voice he’d so often sought to quell these past weeks. The voice he ought to have listened to, long ago…
But Gerrard was… listening, now. Listening, gasping for harsh, ragged breaths, as he blinked up at the night sky, at the round silver light of that full moon. Gazing down upon them, almost like an eye, like something bearing witness, seeing everything they’d tried to hide away…
“Yeah, me,” he heard his voice say, distant and cold, just like the silver light of that cruel, all-seeing eye. “Because now it’s on me, isn’t it? It’s on me to go face Slagvor, and try to fight him to the death. Just like Harja. Just like…”
He drew in breath, dropped his gaze, met Olarr’s empty eyes. Eyes just as empty as his voice, as the moon, showing only the guilt behind them…
“Just like you wanted, Olarr,” he whispered. “Just like you… planned.”
24
Just like you planned.
