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It only took Gerrard a few moments to pour out the entire sordid tale. Telling Olarr of Warmisham’s arrival, Livermore’s accusations, the missing powder. Of his certain looming defeat.
But Olarr had seemed entirely undaunted, and had listened with his usual calm, steady attentiveness. And he’d even dunked Grimarr’s garish yellow shawl in the water, and used it to gently wipe off Gerrard’s sticky, grimy face.
“You forget all the kinds of power you wield, warrior,” Olarr crisply told him, as he set aside the shawl, and began running his damp claws through Gerrard’s hair, sweeping it back from his face. “I could scent that duke’s deep hunger for you from here, ach? He should yet be most pleased to gain you to his side.”
Oh. Gerrard blinked at the steady matter-of-factness in Olarr’s words, betrayed only by a glimmer of pain in his eyes. Because wait, he was implying — was he implying —
“I’m not going to fuck Warmisham for this, Olarr,” Gerrard said, over his tangled tongue. “I wouldn’t.”
It took Olarr a moment to reply, his eyes still intent on his claws combing Gerrard’s hair. “This would be the cunning thing to do,” he finally said. “You told me how you had planned for this before, ach? And you — you ought to do what you wish, warrior. What shall gain you your own aims. Without thought for — aught else.”
His voice had gone very low, very even, and Gerrard’s throat spasmed, even as he defiantly lifted his chin, and held Olarr’s eyes. “I wouldn’t,” he said, and he meant it. “I already — I already have a mate, yeah?”
Olarr stilled for an instant, his hands hovering over Gerrard’s hair — but then he seemed to catch himself again, his mouth wavering, his eyes very bright. “Ach, then,” he said, choked. “Then we shall — find another way. But it may yet help you to tempt this foul little duke with this, ach? Show him how much he has to gain, by bringing such a strong, lusty, beautiful warrior to his side.”
Gerrard flushed and rolled his eyes, but somehow they were smiling at each other, shy but true. And then Olarr cleared his throat, and suggested a possible alternative plan. One so ridiculous — and so appallingly dangerous — that Gerrard refused to believe it, at first.
“You can’t, Olarr,” he countered, wildly searching his hard, determined eyes. “It’s risky, it’s reckless, it’s — it’simprudent.”
But Olarr’s smile back was equal parts challenge and affection, his brows raised, his shoulder shrugging. “More reckless than you calling Slagvor to a duel?” he asked. “Whilst I had to stand there, and watch this?”
He had a point, the bastard, and it wasn’t as though Gerrard had any better ideas, so he finally, reluctantly relented. And then he headed back to the outpost as quickly as he could, fighting down his racing heartbeat, taking deep, shaky breaths. And even sending a few silent prayers to the goddess, still watching him from above.
He was doing this. He could trust Olarr in this, just how Olarr had trusted him. He would.
The determination kept circling as he slipped back into camp, where he first stopped by the supply-wagon — on Olarr’s suggestion — and scrounged up a new uniform. It was a bit too tight and short, but it was still a sight more presentable than his old shredded one, which he tossed over the palisades, again at Olarr’s request. Along with a few other items Olarr had asked for, including a stubby little candle.
Once that was done, Gerrard took a brief glance around at the camp — luckily, Warmisham and his men were still by the fire with Livermore — before quietly skirting around them in the darkness, and ducking back into Livermore’s tent. Where Cosgrove had finished setting up Warmisham’s bed behind the canvas partition, and was now pacing back and forth with obvious agitation.
“Lieutenant!” Cosgrove gasped, once he’d caught sight of Gerrard. “Where have you been? Did you find more powder?”
His expression was hopeful, pleading, and Gerrard winced as he shook his head. “No powder,” he replied, fighting to ignore the way Cosgrove’s face crumpled. “But look — I’ve got something else in mind. I’ll just need you to trust me, and follow my lead, yeah?”
Cosgrove didn’t look even slightly convinced, his eyes fearful on Gerrard’s face, but Gerrard was doing this now, and he herded Cosgrove out of the tent, and back toward Warmisham’s group by the fire. Where he interrupted as politely as he could, and informed Warmisham that his accommodations were ready.
Gerrard ignored Livermore’s snide comment about how long it had taken, and didn’t miss how Warmisham still looked him up and down, despite whatever drivel Livermore had been pouring into his ears this entire time. And when Gerrard offered to escort Warmisham to the tent, the bastard didn’t refuse, either, and even had him move the bed further away from the partition, his eyes prickling on Gerrard the entire time.
Olarr definitely hadn’t been wrong, then, and Gerrard clung to that hope, that possibility, as he headed not for his own tent, but for the med tent instead. Where there would be plenty of witnesses as to his whereabouts, and after a brief nod toward a curious-looking Bassey, he sank down onto his old cot, and blinked up at the tent’s canvas ceiling in the darkness. Waiting, waiting, his heart pounding louder with every shaky breath.
He had to trust Olarr. Had to trust the goddess. They could do this, together. They would…
The scream rent the air like a knife, tearing through the quiet darkness. A scream of pure terror, of abject misery, of sure and certain death.
“Help!” screeched Livermore’s shrill, carrying voice. “There’s an orc in my tent!”
35
Gerrard leapt out of bed, and ran. Ran as fast as he possibly could, pelting across the camp. And catching, there in the darkness behind Livermore’s tent, a brief, distinctive flash of yellow, before it vanished into the trees.
“General!” Gerrard bellowed, as he burst into the tent. “Where’s the orc!”
Livermore was crouched and trembling on his cot, his blanket pulled up to his nose, and he pointed a shaky finger toward the empty space beside his cot. “There!” he wailed. “Here, in my very tent! Just waiting to gut me in my sleep! He might still be there!”
Gerrard cast a cursory glance around the tent — it was, of course, devoid of orcs — before realizing that Livermore’s eyes were still unfocused, unseeing in the darkness. So he swiped for the lamp, lighting it as quickly as he could, before thrusting it up, waving it back and forth. Showing only the empty tent, while Livermore’s streaming eyes squinted to see in the bright light.
“There’s nothing here, General,” Gerrard said, as firmly as he could. “Did you see which way he went? I didn’t see anything out in the camp, but —”
Livermore cut him off with another wail, and now here was Warmisham himself, lurching through the canvas partition in his nightclothes. Followed quickly by several more of his own men, still dressed in uniform, and then by Cosgrove, too.
