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Gerrard didn’t miss Cosgrove’s alarmed look toward him, or his meaningful jab at Susie’s side — because while Gerrard had never gone into detail with Cosgrove on such matters, he’d clearly gotten the idea, at least. But Gerrard easily grinned back and waved it away, shoving himself up to his feet. “Nah, no kids yet,” he said lightly. “Still too busy, with too much to do. But maybe I’ll think about it someday, yeah?”
It wasn’t even slightly a falsehood, because Gerrard did still think about it, probably more than he should — but the past year and a half had proven to be even busier than he’d expected. Requiring him not only to tramp all over the realm upon command, but also to collaborate with his fellow generals, develop training regimens, and support the improvement of military processes and policies — especially the ones that affected soldiers’ families — all while also serving as the leader of Duke Warmisham’s powerful household guard.
But Gerrard had wanted the guard position, had angled for it for months — and a well-orchestrated orc “attack” on one of Warmisham’s carriages had finally helped to settle the thing. Thrusting Gerrard into a frequently tedious but also highly enviable position in Warmisham’s closest circle, which granted him copious amounts of inside information on Preia’s current government, and the military’s major projects and priorities. And which also allowed him to pass on said information to the orcs, so Olarr — and more often, Grimarr — could make decisions from there.
And the more Gerrard had gotten to know of Grimarr, and the extent of his many sprawling schemes, the more he’d gotten drawn into it all. Not only spying and sending intelligence, but making bargains and deals, disseminating false information, and trading land — and sometimes lives — back and forth between them. It wasn’t always easy, and it had given Gerrard many close calls and sleepless nights — but he’d still felt the rightness in it, too. The goddess’ blessing. And with every day, every deal, Gerrard could feel them moving a bit closer, making another gain. Preventing another battle. Sabotaging another public punishment or execution. Targeting more of the orcs — and human men — who were driving the war the hardest, who were responsible for the most deaths, on both sides.
It had meant Gerrard had taken on several more Bautul duels over the past year, too. One against the clan’s other previous Captain Borek — only slightly less vile than Slagvor — and another against an odious creeping vermin deep in the south. It had turned out that the swine had been the leader of a ring that had targeted younger orcs — Olarr among them — many years previously, and Gerrard had taken a rather vicious joy in killing the bastard, and making sure he damn well stayed dead.
Of course, Gerrard had also needed to manage Warmisham throughout it all, keeping his primary employer satisfied and safe. But while Warmisham was indeed still as selfish and spoiled and careless as any other noble, he’d also proven to be far less volatile than Livermore, with a passable sense for military and administrative matters, and a far greater eye to his own comfort, reputation, and pleasure. Which meant that he not only preferred having capable help around him, but he also preferred that help to be brawny, well-dressed, and ready to warm his bed at a moment’s notice.
It had made for a few decidedly awkward moments at first, but finally Gerrard had just breathed a prayer to the goddess, and told Warmisham something not unlike the truth. “Look, Your Grace, I’m flattered,” he’d said, “but I’ve already got a steady guy twice my size, and he’d tear me a new arsehole if he knew I was at it with you. He’s already hard enough on me as it is, yeah?”
Thankfully, it had perhaps been the best possible solution, because not only had it given Gerrard a convenient and lasting excuse, but it had spared Warmisham from being too offended, while also offering him a highly compelling little vision to ponder, whenever he set eyes on Gerrard. And it also meant that Gerrard didn’t need to bother hiding it anymore when Olarr got a little rough with him, when there were visible scratches and fingerprints on his neck, or when he ended up limping around after a night’s hard ploughing.
And thankfully, it also meant that Gerrard could still look Warmisham’s wife in the eyes, too. She was a young, eager, increasingly miserable woman named Maria, who deserved far better than a cheating, self-absorbed noble like Warmisham. And Gerrard had already sent word to Grimarr that Maria was someone he might want to keep an eye on, as part of one of his larger ongoing schemes — and Gerrard hadn’t been at all surprised to see one of Grimarr’s favourite spies lurking around more often afterwards, hanging in windows, and snatching food off plates when no one else was looking.
And speaking of which — Gerrard’s gaze flicked to the window behind Cosgrove’s sofa — that was astickin the window, bobbing with unnatural purpose above Cosgrove’s head. A stick that was being held by a distinctly grey hand, with long blackclawsattached.
“Well, sorry to say, but I should probably head out for the night,” Gerrard told his hosts, making a show of yawning, and stretching his arms over his head. “Thanks again for having me, you two. And as foryou” — he pointed an imperious finger at Molly — “we’ll have a rematch next time, yeah?”
Molly giggled excitedly in her mother’s arms, and after another round of thanks and farewells, Gerrard headed out into the bustling city street. It was nearly nightfall, but there were still multiple pedestrians and vendors and wagons milling about, enough that Gerrard almost missed the familiar sight of the stick, lying on the street just in front of Cosgrove’s garden. And pointing carefully north, straight in the direction of Warmisham’s house.
A smile twitched at Gerrard’s mouth, and he obligingly began walking toward the house, rather than stopping at Head Command on his way home, as he’d originally planned. There were multiple projects and policy revisions currently on the go, and a diplomatic trip scheduled for Warmisham next week, but the sticks were always more important. Olarr was more important.
That certainty had only deepened this past year, as Gerrard and Olarr had settled into their unconventional relationship, their unconventional life. Working primarily with their own people, on their own goals, but making room for each other, whenever they possibly could. Making that room count, building and strengthening each other, trusting each other, enjoying each other, to the fullest extent possible.
But it had been a long time since Olarr’s last visit — almost three weeks — and Gerrard still felt that familiar rising patter of his heartbeat as he strode up the street, his eyes sweeping over the dark alleys and increasingly manicured lawns around him. Until he squinted toward a nearby hedge, which now had a familiar messy head poking up behind it.
“Evening, Joarr,” Gerrard said with a grin and a nod toward Grimarr’s favourite lurking spy, who Olarr often travelled with these days, too. “Anything urgent going on? Olarr at the house?”
He could see Joarr’s shadow keeping pace with him on the other side of the hedge, though like most orcs from the Skai clan, he moved in perfect silence, as if his feet scarcely touched the ground. “Ach, naught urgent, and Olarr is there, and Thorvald also,” came Joarr’s smooth reply over the hedge. “But Grimarr wish to know first when Council next meet, and whether Lord Norr come. And if yes, where he stay, and whether he bring wife.”
Gerrard didn’t even try bothering to ask for explanations from Joarr anymore — he was an endlessly tricky orc — and instead just answered the question, speaking as quietly and comprehensively as he could before reaching the end of the hedge. Earning in return a toss of a shiny red apple over the hedge, and Gerrard grinned as he caught it, and gave a companionable wave farewell.
He’d almost reached his destination, now, and he swiftly polished off the apple as he approached. Warmisham’s city house was a grand, imposing place, looming over the surrounding neighbourhood, but at the moment it was mostly empty, thanks to Maria’s being stuck at the country house, Warmisham’s being out at an event, and it being the staff’s usual night off. But even so, Gerrard walked up the back lane and slipped through the side door as quietly as he could, glancing around in the darkness, listening for any signs of life.
And yes. There. What sounded like a growl, coming from the direction of the downstairs drawing-room. So Gerrard headed toward it, listening and glancing around as he went. But fortunately, the house indeed seemed to be empty, except for — he swung open the drawing-room door — except for this.
Gerrard halted in the drawing-room’s open doorframe, and blinked at the sight confronting him in the firelit darkness. At none other thanBassey, sitting sprawled by the fire in Warmisham’s favourite brocade chair, with his trousers around his knees, and a familiar orc’s head bobbing and slurping over his groin.Thorvald’shead.
Gerrard knew Thorvald and Bassey had met a few months previously, and the meeting had in fact been his own doing — Thorvald had travelled here with Olarr, as he often did, but had ended up suffering a cough so severe that he’d struggled to breathe. And finally, Gerrard had gone to fetch Bassey, who — after a fair bit of advocating on Gerrard’s part — had recently been appointed as Warmisham’s personal physician. A post that Bassey had well deserved, because he was still a brilliant medic, as insightful and unflappable as ever — and he’d taken one look at Thorvald, coolly informed him that he was a chronic asthmatic, and demanded whether he’d been exposed to any smoke or other airborne pollutants on his journey here.
Thorvald had looked instantly chastised, and not a little intrigued, while Bassey had sighed, mixed up a prescription, and ordered Thorvald to drink it whenever he had an exposure. And as far as Gerrard had known, that had been the end of it, except… well.
Thorvald had taken no notice whatsoever of Gerrard at the door, in favour of remaining fully focused on the potential feast in his mouth, but Bassey had angled Gerrard a warning look, his mouth pursed. “He needed a new prescription,” he said flatly, with impressive steadiness. “Why he thinks it’s a good idea to keep lighting fires in those poorly ventilated caves, I cannot begin to comprehend.”
Gerrard’s mouth quirked, but he nodded as gravely as he could, and glanced sideways, toward where he’d felt Olarr waiting. Toward where Olarr was already quirking an amused smile of his own as he strode toward Gerrard, and drew him tightly into his arms.
“Ach, my warrior,” he breathed, heated and husky, into Gerrard’s neck. “Ach, it is so good to see you. I have missed you.”
Gerrard nodded and exhaled, sinking gratefully into Olarr’s safe, wonderful arms, while Olarr’s hot mouth eagerly nudged at his throat. Finding its usual place, settling against Gerrard’s now-heavily scarred skin — and then hesitating, seeking permission. But as always, Gerrard willingly gave it, his head tilting back as he drew Olarr’s head down, and gasped at the truth of those sharp teeth sinking deep.
He could feel Bassey watching it, and briefly considered taking Olarr into the adjoining room — but Bassey could make his own choices, and if he wanted to fuck around with a Bautul, well, he’d soon be realizing what that meant. So Gerrard didn’t fight back his steadily rising groans, or the way his hands were already running over Olarr’s bare chest, unfastening both his axes from his back, and letting them fall to the floor with a thud. One of the axes was of course Olarr’s old familiar one, while the second was the one Gerrard had won from Slagvor — and though Olarr had hesitated about keeping it at first, Gerrard had insisted, until Olarr had agreed. Because it was a good strong weapon, well suited to a warrior of Olarr’s size and strength — and more importantly, it also reminded everyone Olarr met who it had last belonged to. Who it had killed.
And that constant reminder, Gerrard knew, had been a considerable help in finally making Olarr co-captain of the Bautul, several months before. A position that Olarr and Silfast had indeed sought out together, since they were both the strongest remaining warriors in their clan. And, just as Gerrard had expected, it had turned out that they did make a very good team. Olarr was the cunning one, the thoughtful responsible one, while Silfast lived for the reckless brutal chaos, for hurling himself repeatedly at danger and death, obeying what he felt was the clear command of the goddess. And while Gerrard knew that wasn’t always easy for Olarr, he also knew how much Olarr appreciated Silfast’s stubborn steadfastness, too — and especially how freely Silfast wielded it to support Olarr’s plans, and Olarr’s priorities.
And those priorities, of course, always included Gerrard. Meaning that Olarr frequently was obliged to leave his clan behind, in Silfast’s care, so he could come here and do this, with Gerrard. Tasting Gerrard, drinking him, grinding up hungrily against him, and finally shoving down his trousers, and tackling him down to the drawing-room’s plush expensive carpet.
