XXIII: Friends in Deed
"Sorry, love. Ain't not seen any guardsmen, till you's came around." The mottled sailor scratched at his chin, his drooping eyes glazed in thought. "Tho's if they 'ad been as well fit as you…"
Aveline barely heard the comment. She already was nodding in dismissal, stepping past the man. The better part of the day, gone. No sign of the lout. He's not on any proper patrol, that's for sure.
She pushed through the midday crowd, bumping shoulders with all manner of sailors, prostitutes, and even the occasional rogue. Had she been on patrol, she would be observing this throng of humanity, eyes peeled for the all too common pickpockets. Ready, at a moment's notice, to spring into action.
For this was the kind of crowd that bred trouble – in fact, if Arren was true to his duties, this is where he'd be. His absence only further solidified Aveline's instinctive dislike of the man.
Not only remiss, but clearly corrupt. She was glad to be the one to bring him in – though why he had been allowed to continue his duties for so long she couldn't guess. Perhaps the Captain had him observed, his habits studied.
"Aveline? Aveline!" A voice suddenly called from beside her. She stopped abruptly, turned.
A man sat under an awning of a fishery, several days of scraggled beard growth clinging to his heavyset jaw. He wore a simple tunic, stained and patched, and his face was lined heavily by hard living.
Most importantly, Aveline recognized him. She started – and he smiled, beckoning.
"By good King Maric," he declared as she approached. "Good to see someone else made it out." He glanced amusedly at her shoulders. "From sergeant to guardswoman, eh?"
"Cowal," Aveline greeted, a smile of her own breaking across her face as she clasped his forearm in greeting. "And, funny enough, it's sergeant to sergeant."
"Hah!" Cowal laughed. "Surprised the Kirkwall Guard had the sense to promote one of ours. Not many fereldans in the guard, I take it?"
"None others from the King's service, at any rate," Aveline said. "Speaking of, how did you survive Ostagar? You were up on the bridge, were you not?"
"Aye," Cowal nodded, sobering. "That I was. Fierce fighting, though not as fierce as you must've seen, am I right? Like as much I survived just as you likely did – running bush to bush through the Wilds to Gwaren. But enough on that. We are hale and whole, here, such as we are – though you've done far the better for yourself."
"There is no shame in honest toil," Aveline consoled.
"I'd hardly call it honest," Cowal grimaced. "Half and again are smuggling something through the docks – must be why I've not seen you here before. It would be hardly tolerated for coin to fall into outstretched fereldan hands."
Aveline chose to ignore Cowal's implied corruption. She was not entirely interested in contraband anyhow – unless it was taken against its will. "Do you live here, dockside, or do you bed in Lowtown?" Aveline asked.
"Aye, I bunk here," Cowal answered. "Got a cot down the Causeway, with the rest of Lirene's folk. Good woman, Lirene. We're lucky to have her."
"Good. Perhaps we can meet another time, when I am not on duty, and catch up."
The ex-soldier nodded grimly. "It'd make the place feel more like home, at any rate. Can you not sit for a spell? It's near about midday, at any rate."
Aveline shook her head firmly. "I have pressing orders to attend to. Have you seen the day guardsman? It's urgent that I find him."
Cowal pulled at the neck of his tunic, frowning, and spit off to the side. "Oh, I've seen some guardsmen. Look to have caught a thieving elf-wench, by the looks of it." He stuck a thumb at the building behind him. "Why, they hauled her off to the alley out back just a'time a'fore you got here. Looks to be some gold's changing hands, aye?"
[=]
"No, no, elf, you don't roll that one yet," the guardsman called Arren complained. "Andraste's tits, how can you be so daft?"
Merrill flushed in embarrassment. She and Arren squatted down beside a rain barrel, he attempting to teach her some sort of game he called 'Pig Fucker.'
"Mind your tongue, dimwit," Tress groused from his perch on several crates not half a dozen paces away. He didn't so much as spare them a glance – his eyes were on the alley's entrance. "'Twas your idea to dice, Arren. Can't expect much of thems that walk for coin."
"Never seen a bloody harlot who couldn't roll," Arren grumbled.
"What did I bloody just say, Arren?" Tress barked, this time looking their way. His hand found the haft of his mace at his side.
Arren mumbled something unintelligible and scooped up the squares. Dice, he called them. "Pay attention, walker," he grunted, holding three pale dice in his hand. "These here, you roll. If'n you get all ones," he held a red colored die in his other hand. "Then you roll the Pig. You don't get to fuck the pig without three ones, got it?"
"I think so…" Merrill replied. "B-but.. it doesn't much look like a pig. Why is it called a pig? And why are we… fucking… it?"
"Because it's the blasted pig!" Arren snapped. "Everyone knows it's called the pig. And it always bloody will be." He glanced to Tress, then took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. "Bloody hell…" he swore. "I'll start again. Once I roll, take your turn. Unless I get the Pig."
He placed the red die on the ground, shook the other three dice, and threw them to the ground. They came up – three, five, and two. Arren looked at them a moment, his mouth moving silently.
"Ten. Go."
Merrill grasped the dice in her hand. They felt greased and dirty – she ignored the unpleasant feel to them and threw them to the alley floor. They clattered and spun – two, six, five.
Arren looked down, his mouth pantomiming again. "Twelve," he finally said.
"Does that not make thirteen?" Merrill asked timidly, for a moment doubting her own count.
"Not it bloody doesn't," Arren said. "You have twelve." He took the dice, rolled – six, six, three. "Sixteen," he said after repeating his strange mouthing.
Merrill thought better of arguing and took the dice. It was all she could do to shake, then roll them.
Four, one, two.
"Seven, lucky bloody seven," Arren muttered. He took the dice, then rolled.
Six, two, six.
He repeated his mouthing routine before declaring, "Fourteen. Good ploughing luck catching up."
Merrill grasped the dice with the tips of her fingers, cringing, and tossed them.
One, one, one.
"You got the Pig," Arren said, frowning in annoyance. Then, he smiled, a leery thing that only furthered Merrill's discomfort. "Let's see how you fuck the Pig, aye?"
"Hold - " Tress interrupted, kneeling down. "Someone's coming."
Arren kept he eyes on Merrill. "Is it our girl?"
"Hush," Tress interrupted. Down the alley, over the distant sound of the crowd, Merrill heard the clanking of boots on cobble. "Seems like. Let's try this quiet-like, first. Get the elf down."
"Is it Aveline?" Merrill asked, confused. She tried to stand to see over Arren's reflective head.
He was on her in a flash, his iron grip once again on her arm. "Now, now, none of that." He clapped his other hand over her mouth, muffling her gasp of pain. He bodily swung her to the side – towards the alley wall. Merrill's side struck the wall with force, knocking the wind out of her – she collapsed behind the rain barrel, sliding from Arren's grip.
Before she could regain her breath he was on her, his knee dropping heavily into her stomach. She gasped in pain, too breathless to cry out. "Now just 'old on a minute, you bloody tart," Arren whispered. "We've got a surprise in store for Aveline now – I'll get to you soon enough."
"You keeping her quiet, Arren?" Merrill could barely hear Tress' murmur.
"Ploughing right I am," Arren answered in kind. "Sergeant Mongrel won't know what hit her."
The sound of cautious footsteps came nearer.
"I've got a better idea," Tress muttered. "Let her sing a note."
"Bloody what?"
"Go on, girl. I know you hear me. Let her know your troubles."
Spluttering, gasping Merrill needed no encouragement, and only half a second's breath, "AVELINE, THEY - " Her shout broke to a tortured cry as Tress kicked her hard in the side. She curled, instinctively, pain and fear in equal measure wracking her form.
"Who's that?" A woman's voice, strong, clearly alarmed sounded from what felt like half a world away. A scraping sound, then the footsteps sounded faster. "I've come for you! Show yourselves!"
Merrill could just see through her tear-soaked eyes, through the haze – Tress crouched, a woman with shield and sword marching, now jogging forward. Forward, towards Merrill's cry. Forward, to soon pass Tress, hidden behind the crates.
Arren, seeming to sense Merrill's thoughts, grabbed Merrill by the throat – and put his other hand on her mouth. Her head swam – she was helpless.
They want to hurt Aveline – they are going to hurt me. Elger'nan please – anyone, Dread Wolf take them.
Merrill's fingers found a familiar handle.
She snapped at the hand on her mouth, biting with all her might. The iron tang of blood washed over her tongue as Arren cried out in agony. He tried to pull back his hand, but Merrill did not release him. She bounded with his retracting arm, pulled by his own desperate momentum. Blindly, he struck her with his free hand, breaking Merrill's bite on his now mangled hand.
She gave him no chance to react. Merrill lunged forward, her paring knife extended. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
The human was not quick enough. Merrill's knife caught him in the groin, and her dragging slash brought forth a spewing of blood, bright and crimson. Arren gasped as if in shock, looked down dumbly, then collapsed.
The taste of blood lingered in her mouth, seemed to seep through the flesh of her hand as she fell back. The strength it offered sang hungrily in her ears. Her head spun now not just with disoriented injury – but with an aching hunger.
She did not have time to act on that hunger – did not even have time to realize it. Tress lunged at her, cursing, bodily grabbing her knife hand in one hard gauntlet and her hair in the other. She tried to turn the blade to him, only managed to slide along the man's underlying glove. He twisted, threatening to break her wrist, swearing all the while.
Merrill held fast, panting, head spinning.
The guardsman roared in frustration and threw her to the ground. A sudden pain exploded in Merrill's side as he kicked her hard in the ribs, where Arren's boot had already hit. She tried to roll away, only to be kicked again.
"Stay down, you bloody knife ear!"
Another swift kick, and Merrill folded up in fetal position, still dazed, in agony.
"STOP!" A voice shouted from somewhere outside of perception, as if from another world. Merrill partially uncoiled instinctively to see – only to be rewarded with another swift kick.
"That will not go unanswered!" A woman's voice cried. "Back away from the elf!"
The scrape of metal answered her, and Merrill opened her eyes to see Tress kneeling over her, a dirk to her throat. "Step off, Sergeant, this knifey's just about done Arren in. I'm arresting her, see?"
"'Arresting her?' Tress?" Aveline's voice asked, astounded. "I had thought you ill."
"And I had thought Arren had this one," Tress replied, practically amiable. "But it seems we were both wrong. She's got a bite, this one does. Might not want to get too close."
Aveline took a step forward, regardless. A step closer. It took all Merrill's strength to croak out, "…Aveline…"
"…Merrill?"
"Well, there's that," Tress shrugged, then suddenly Merrill was hoisted into the air, her head lolling. She could just make out Aveline's immediate couching of her shield – the readying of her sword. "Not one more step, Sergeant. Lest your pet here gets it right in the gullet."
"What do you mean?" Aveline demanded. "What do you mean? Unhand her, Tress. I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is she is innocent of it."
"Innocent?" Tress guffawed, the corner of his helmet digging into Merrill's temple. "She just nicked one of the Guard. Like to have killed him, she did. Now how's that for innocent?"
No… Aveline will think that I… that I attacked them. She'll think it was all my fault. She won't… "…they… made me… they wanted to…"
"Now, now," Tress said, snaking the arm that held her under her shoulders, pulling her closer and grabbing her throat. "None of that. The Sergeant and I have words, we do."
"I will not say it again, Tress. Release her, and tell your tale to the Captain," Aveline commanded, steel in her voice. "He may show leniency, but I swear by Andraste, if you harm her you will have no mercy from me."
"He's as like to cut my throat as you are," Tress said. "Heh, more even. I've got a better idea, Sarge. How's about you put down that sword of yours, and I back up with your girl here. You sit down, count out a few hundred, then you find the walker here walking a bit bow-legged come morning someplace. Like as not we never see each other again – everyone's happy. Might even pass her a copper or two for the trouble."
What is he going to do to me? What does he want to do to me? Merrill, panicking, tried to feel for the Beyond. Tried to summon the warmth from within herself, tried to even feel for the blood.
She could not. She could not. Why can I not?
"No. I will not allow you to harm her. Surrender, Tress. You must."
Merrill gasped, the spinning in her head slowing as the dagger touched her throat.
"I don't think I will, Sarge. Ta for nothin'."
I am going to die, Merrill realized. The man gripping her seemed so clear then, dominating all her senses but sight. The smell of sweat and oil. The tight grip he had on her throat. The cold steel, pulling away. She felt frozen, even as it moved – he was shouting something angry, the dagger driving down.
Merrill blinked, and a sudden shock shook the hand at her throat. Warmth spilt out the side of her neck as the blade slid further to the side and down, dropping as the crumpling man pushed her down. She fell, barely managing to throw out an arm as she collapsed with the weight of the armored human. Once again all breath exploded from her lungs, and once again stars burst in her vision as her head met stone.
It felt a lifetime before she opened her eyes. The cobblestone was cold on her cheek, the alley wall dark.
"Daisy! Daisy!" Cried a voice, harsh and male.
"Varric? What are you doing…"
"Never mind me, help her!"
Booted footsteps clattered closer, the clinking of metal moving against metal.
Abruptly the weight that pressed down on Merrill was pushed off, and Tress' head slid into view. His face peered out from his helmet, his eyes glazed. They were pale green, clear – and held not an ounce of cruelty in them. He looked nothing like the sort of man who would lie in wait to kill.
Aveline was saying something from above her, Merrill realized. I should thank her. She saved me. Somehow, she did. Or… was it Fen'harel?
"She said… they made her… by the Maker, how did this happen? Merrill? Can you hear me?"
The former First did not turn, however. She found herself mesmerized by the kind looking corpse before her. At the blood trickling towards him, from below her cheek.
"Merrill? Shit. Help me, dwarf!"
Merrill realized suddenly that it was her own blood staining the cobblestone.