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The cinder field still smells like sulfur. The pit mine is filled with water, the streaked stone edge jutting in sharp angles over a surface mineral-tinted bluer than blue, but the slag heaps that surround it cling to the smell of long extinguished fires. There’s burnt wood mixed with the rubble, gray ash in patches all over. Nothing grows here. The forest pines keep a respectful distance, even the moss leaves the rubble be. Hissrad rolls the soles of his feet with some care as he crosses. Everything is loose, piled up without any apparent system, and he’d rather not slip.
Cloudy sky. Heavy air. Going to thunder, any time now. He’s sweating, his armpits are unpleasantly slick and there are droplets trickling down his forehead. Not even that hot of a day - is this how far Par Vollen is to him, now? That the overcast Orlesian summer brings him discomfort? A bad thought, and unfair. Weather wouldn’t bother him if not for the painful throb from the gashes on his arm, the blood he’s still losing. Hasn’t bled through the rags wrapped around the wound yet, but it’s a matter of time. Going to have to deal with that , too. He growls to himself under his very nearly labored breath, slag shifting underfoot.
He needs to sit down a bit, catch his breath, drink some water. Rein in that wildness that wants to convince him Fisher got off too easy, that he should have pounded his skull into bone shards and brain pulp, that he should go back and finish the job. For all the good it would do. Make a crap situation crappier, and that’s not why he came to the south, that’s not what this is. He’s got a function. He’s good. He’s going to be good.
There’s a patch of green atop a small hill on the far end of the cinder field. A real hill, not a waste pile, with a few slender tall trees swaying above. A low stone wall running around the top, too, he sees when he gets closer. Former storage building that got tore down and repurposed, maybe, if they manage their resources that well in the south. He’s mostly seen signs to the contrary. Hissrad steps over the wall and sits down on a rounded rock surrounded by waxy-leafed shrubs.
No. The Iron Bull steps over the wall and sits down on a rounded rock surrounded by waxy-leafed shrubs. The Iron Bull takes a swig from his waterskin and wipes the sweat off his brow. The Iron Bull looks out over the lake behind the hill and tries to figure out a destination more defined than ‘away.’ The Iron Bull has a fine, strong, damn evocative name that was chosen with care, and if it gets stuck on his horns when he puts it on in the morning there’s just no helping it. It’s what he’s got.
Back to the cinder fields but with his ears angled that way and a hand on his axe. When the sound comes, the scrape of rocks shifting and the yelp that goes with it, the Iron Bull’s ready for it. He stands and turns, axe in a firm grip. Just in case. Specks of blood dot the makeshift bandage, but he’ll worry about it after.
There’s only one of them. A human picking themself up from where they fell on the rubble, brushing the dust off their trousers with annoyed movements. They look up, still too far away for their face to be distinguishable, and lift a hand in a quick greeting.
The Iron Bull adjusts the grip on his axe. He scans the treeline and the edge of the mine with his eyes, listens back towards the lake. Just the one person. The woods are still, the slag field is empty and the lake is silent. The human walks briskly, doesn’t look back or to the sides but keeps their eyes on their feet, measuring their steps, now, taking care not to trip. They keep one hand on the strap to their satchel and the Iron Bull knows that posture, he knows that impatient walk, and when the human has climbed up the hill and stopped on the other side of the wall, the Iron Bull knows that face.
Stitches. That’s the guy. Secondary healer to Fisher’s Bleeders.
“Well. Hello,” Stitches says. He nods to the axe. “Better put that away so I can have a look at it.”
He means the wound, the Iron Bull realizes. The one on his arm where the specks on the bandage have become one large red stain. The whole bandage, a red stain.
Stitches heaves himself up on the wall and swings his legs over to the other side. Takes considerably more than a step for him to get over, and he grouses on the way: “I’m not going to stand here and watch you bleed out, if that’s what you think.”
“You alone?” The Iron Bull lowers the axe.
“Sorry to say.”
Something apologetic over Stitches’ features. It’s not needed. The Iron Bull put aside the hope of any of the Bleeders banding behind a new banner as soon as he’d offered it, Fisher’s sword in pieces as a victory mark scattered around his feet, and they’d taken a step back, not forward, their fear seeping into the air like sour sweat.
He misjudged. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, but that’s the job. That’s life. He didn’t think they’d rather stick with Fisher’s incompetent ass than bet their cards on a gray one, but they did. He overestimated the worth of his horns down here. It won’t happen again.
The Iron Bull sits back down on the rock. He keeps one hand on the axe resting over his lap but offers the other, the arm with the wound, to Stitches, who brightens with the task.
“Would you look at that,” Stitches says in a chipper healer’s voice, unwrapping the soaked through mess of a bandage. He kneels down, opens the satchel to fish out a needle and thread. Time to earn his name.
Vasaad would get that same look when posed with a problem, only really thrived when he was fixing something torn. The Iron Bull looks away from the needle piercing his skin and braces for the pang that follows remembrance.
He didn’t know grief can come at you like a wave after an earthquake, slam into your skull and barrel into your chest. Double you over, wrench your jaw open and flood inside, fill up every cavity you got inside you. Seep through your muscles, rust in your joints. Pool in your kneecaps so your legs buckle.
People go, that’s the job. That’s life. But he didn’t know what that could mean, not really. Not before Vasaad.
Stitches nudges his bicep. “Here,” he says, handing him a little gauze packet of dark green gunk. Ground up herbs and some fatty binding agent. “You know what to do.”
The Iron Bull doesn’t, really. Never had that much to do with Stitches before, and Hector, stingy fucker, didn’t spend his supplies on the men in his so-called care unless absolutely necessary. He rips open the gauze with his teeth and scrapes off the contents into his mouth. It’s bitter. Sour. Sticky and viscous, lingers like a film on his tongue after he’s swallowed. Got to be a Fereldan specialty. It’s usually potions with the Orlesian healers, least in his experience.
Stitches has been busying himself with smearing some salve on a fresh bandage, and when he turns back to apply it, he starts. It’s small, but it’s there. He raises his eyes to the Iron Bull’s face. Gives him a real odd look.
“Right,” Stitches says. “Right. As you are.” Shakes his head a little, but dresses the wound neat and proper. “It’s a nice, clean cut. As long as the bandage is changed daily and you don’t put any undue strain on that arm, it shouldn’t give you all that much trouble.”
The Iron Bull grunts in response. Why does he even care? Why is he here?
As if Stitches can hear his thoughts, he says: “I liked what you said back there.”
“Makes one of you.”
“This one liked it, though,” Stitches insists. He stands, closes the satchel. “‘You can fight with someone, instead of for.’ That does sound like something.”
He’s not the person the Iron Bull was thinking of when he took Fisher by the throat and made his men the offer. He’d meant it for guys like Big Aidan, Algot with the leg, or Farham. Skilled fighters. Seasoned mercenaries with reputation and contacts. People on whose foundation of experience and strength you can build a company that will last, people who should’ve jumped at the chance to get out from under Fisher’s tent-side commandeering. He hadn’t given Stitches a thought.
Stitches, who’s got refugee written all over his weathered face. It comes out in his Fereldan accent every time he opens his mouth and every time his shoulders tense when you mention the Blight. No more than decent with a sword. Always the second healer in the field. There’s thousands of men like him, they’re the underbrush to a warrior’s tall, proud tree.
“What do you want?” the Iron Bull asks. He lets it sound as unfriendly as he feels. His arm is pulsing pain beneath the bandage.
“I thought- I assumed it was obvious. I want to take you up on the offer of joining your… the people you’re putting together.“ Stitches crosses his arms, sticks his chin out. Doing a bad job of masking the insecurity setting in. “Fisher’s Bleeders were never a good fit for me, really. I’ve been meaning to find new employment for a while now, just haven’t come across the right opportunity.”
“Or,” the Iron Bull says, “you’ve been meaning to slip out from under Fisher before he decides there’s better money in turning a deserter in than keeping him around, and you figured I wouldn’t interview a gift horse too carefully.”
Stitches fingers clench around the fabric of his coat sleeves. “I picked up a sword when the Blight hit Ferelden. Haven’t put it back down,” he says.
“Sure.” The Iron Bull stands. Hoists the axe over the shoulder of his undamaged arm. “That’s a better story.”
If he rounds the lake to the east, he’ll get to the road to Cloase around mid-afternoon. Then, fuck knows. He’ll have to begin again. Right from the no-name bottom, after two years with the Bleeders gone to shit. The thought alone tires him. It wasn’t meant to be this hard.
“I’m here to join your people,” Stitches says again, stubborn as a gnat, and the Iron Bull bristles.
“I have no people,” he snaps. “No jobs. No money. I’ve got nothing for you.” He pitches his voice into a growl that’s made taller humans cower. “Go. Back.”
Stitches flinches, but stands his ground. Have to give him some credit for that. “Might be difficult, Ser,” he says, angry inflection on the honorific, and opens his satchel back up. “I took out my wages before I left, you see, past and future both.”
There’s a good fistful, Qunari fistful, of gold in the pouch. Enough to let two people get by for a couple of months. Eat decent food in decent taverns, sleep in decent inns.
“I’m not here for money,” Stitches says.
The Iron Bull could get as much or near enough for turning him in. The Fereldan border’s not too far, would be an easy thing to haul Stitches over, let his own people have him. The Iron Bull needs a fine, strong, damn respectable company to tie his name to, he needs professionals, not washed-up refugees looking for shelter. He’s not here to make friends.
But he’s not here to enforce any rules, either. That’s the life he left behind. The life he couldn’t live.
He breathes out heavily. Damn it all.
“We’re rounding the lake,” he says. The words don’t come easy. Feel like another defeat. “Then we’re taking the road to Cloase. Got it?”
He turns around and starts walking without waiting for the reply. Steps over the wall on the other end of the hilltop and starts down the slope to the lake. The Iron Bull hears Stitches scramble over the wall behind him. He’ll keep up or he won’t.
The arm doesn’t hurt as much as it did. There’s benefits to having a healer in tow - more important now that he’ll be working alone. The money will put him up for a bit and nothing’s been committed, this doesn’t have to last. He can ditch Stitches as soon as he’s found someone better, but until then there’s no reason not to use the resource at hand.
It’s not a new beginning, but it’s a start.
-
He recognizes her from the posters. Got one of those faces that are easy to draw with likeness: broad, square jaw, blunt nose, small mouth. Pointy ears. Making the same grimace as in the picture, teeth bared and eyes squinting. Her nails scratch the Iron Bull’s arm where he’s pinning her to the wall, but better those than the dagger on the ground.
If Stitches hadn’t cried out, if the Iron Bull hadn’t sidestepped in time, she’d have sunk it between his ribs. It’s a grisly-looking thing. Sharp tip and serrated edge. Slathered with poison, no doubt, he knows the backstabber’s tricks. Could’ve been the sort of injury you don’t recover from.
He puts a little more pressure on the arm over her chest. The elf struggles harder in response, tendons in her neck straining. “If you want to die,” the Iron Bull says, “there’s ways to make it happen that don’t ruin my day.”
She spits in his face. Tries to. It hits him under the chin, drops onto his chest from there.
“Fuck you,” she sneers. “Shem-sucker.”
“What?” The Iron Bull turns to Stitches. He’s beside them in the narrow alley, sword drawn and his back tense. Somewhere not too far away is the sound of shouting, the glow of torches against the tar-black night sky. “What’s that mean?”
“‘Shemlen’ is what you’d call a human if you hate humans.”
“I’ll suck whoever I want,” the Iron Bull says. “Hey, Stitches. Don’t I suck whoever I want?”
“Yes, Ser,” Stitches says. “You sure do.”
The elf bites the Iron Bull’s arm. Digs her sharp little teeth right in there, drawing blood.
“Fucking-!”
The old wound had just healed up, too. Left a barely noticeable scar - turns out Stitches really knows his stuff. Been a reason to keep him around. For now.
The pain from the bite has the Iron Bull twitching back. No more than an inch, if that, but it’s enough leverage for the elf to push her legs off the wall and aim a hard, well directed kick at his groin, and squirm out of his hold when that pain has him folding. She lands - he doesn’t see how she lands for the stars bursting in his field of vision, but she’s snatched up the dagger on the ground and readied her stance by the time the Iron Bull’s got his axe in a firm two-handed grip. She stares him down without any of the trepidation the size difference should be giving her. Stitches shifts his feet, sword wavering.
The alley’s barely as wide as the Iron Bull’s shoulders, grimy stone walls on each side, the ground a slurry of mud and waste. Not the kind of place he’d choose for a fight. Too cramped to get a good swing and the darkness has him at a disadvantage. The elf’s eyes glimmer like cat gold and he’s faced worse odds, this’d be a regular Tuesday in Seheron, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of it.
Should’ve known the job was bad. He did know, did feel the tension brewing in hunched shoulders and hard glances around the market, in the sword hands of too many guards for a countryside town fair, and he took it anyway. It’s been slow. Any work come their way has been for Stitches. These baas don’t trust Qunari that don’t come the way they’re used to seeing: in crowds or companies, or in packs of Tal-Vashoth. Doesn’t matter how wide he grins, how readily he shows his open, empty hands. They look him up and down and close the doors.
So the Iron Bull took the job, even when he knew it was bad. Figured padding the guard ranks for a chevalier brat half his age and height meant he could hang back while the men with skin in the game hunted their noble killer fugitive. Look imposing at inspection but keep his axe out of the muck. Collect the gold at the end and eat for a few days. Pick his principles back up and never return to this shitshow passing for town and community.
It eats him up sometimes. How much better they could have it. He’s kept an open mind and he’s seen good lives lived in the south, he’s seen thriving cities and happy, healthy people, more than the priests would’ve had him believe, but for every good example there’s one rotting right beside. Take Val Colline, this town. Built on four hills, cobblestone streets winding up and down the slopes, pastel-colored houses basking in the sun. Known for the roses climbing up every wall. The many walls. With many gates. You don’t see them at first for all the roses, but you cut those down, you remove the branches and the flowers and they’re everywhere, and they’ve all got locks. Val Colline’s a prison dressed up like a garden. Where the Iron Bull’s from, when your people lock you up? They’re at least always honest about it.
Val Colline’s a prison full of dead elves and deliberate fires. There’s noise from the western market, getting louder. Town’s going to blow, any time now, and the Iron Bull wants to be gone before it does. Hissrad may be gritting his teeth over these people, how they allow themselves to live in chaos and squalor, but the Iron Bull doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be here.
He tears off the crest tied around his upper arm and throws it in the mud before his feet. The chevalier can eat his ass. Whatever this elf did to his brother, it isn’t a grudge the Iron Bull has to hold.
“Come on,” he says to Stitches, “we’re getting out of here,” and turns his back on the elf with her knife out.
Shoulders down, easy walk, but listening for footsteps coming up behind as he herds Stitches before him towards the end of the alley. Too many yards away; they group their houses in walled clusters in Val Colline and the spaces between are narrow, long and dark. If the elf’s smart she’ll take the chance to slip away. If the murder-tinged deathwish he saw bubbling in her eyes when he had her pinned, a wish he knows the taste and feel of from the life he had before, if that’s not been tempered by failing once, she’ll come at him again. There’s poison on that knife. Might not be enough to put a man his size down, but then again. There might be.
She’ll go low. Tried his ribs once already, so she’ll go for his legs. The Iron Bull angles his body, leaves an opening for her on his left side. She’ll see it and she’ll go low, try to cut a tendon or nick his shin and get the brace instead. He can kick her when she does. Send her flying and be ready when she hits the ground, slam his boot on her neck and crush her windpipe under his sole. Bring his axe down and cleave her in half. Grab her legs and smash her head into the wall-
“Won’t get out now,” the elf says, closer than she should be. The Iron Bull stiffens, can’t help it. Didn’t hear a step coming up. Didn’t feel her, and that means she’s good. A man could find use for a scout with an ability like that. Too bad she’s just the sort of person he’s avoiding picking up.
“Closed the city,” the elf goes on. He turns around and she’s right on his heels. Would only need to reach out and he could snap her neck between his fingers if he had to. “You’re all trapped here.” She smiles sharply.
“And you’re not.”
“I know ways out. I could show them to you.”
“That sounds like a trap to me,” Stitches says.
“Nah.” The Iron Bull looks her over. Her face is gaunt, her lips dry. Flaking patches on her skin. Shadows under her eyes. She’s been badly fed, and for a good while. “That’s someone looking to make a deal.”
Stitches snorts. “She can’t think we would-”
“I get you out, you take me in,” the elf says, ignoring him completely.
“Or,” the Iron Bull says, “I turn you in, and I walk out the city gates with a nice jingle in my pockets.”
The smile stays on her face, but she lifts her heels off the ground, ready to dash.
“A much better idea, thank you,” Stitches mutters, and the elf takes a step back, raises the dagger again. All the murder’s come back into her posture. She’ll fight for her life if they make her. If she doesn’t win - and she won’t - she’ll make them kill her instead. One way or another, she’s getting free tonight.
Problem is, the Iron Bull can’t blame her. He’s seen enough not to envy the elves of Orlais, any elves, anywhere in the South. No wonder her kind make up half of the Viddathari. The lives they’re offered here aren’t worth much.
Can’t go sympathizing with every convict packing a story of oppression, but when one offers something he wants there’s no reason not to use the resource. The Iron Bull looks at Stitches, shakes his head. “We’re going with her.”
“Wonderful. I’ve always dreamed of becoming somebody’s accomplice,” Stitches says tartly. “You realize we’ll be hunted down for this, don’t you?”
“Tell your shem not to worry if they come,” the elf says. She’s twirling the knife between her fingers. Showy. “They call me Skinner for good reason.”
“Yeah, we’ve all read the fucking posters,” the Iron Bull says. He turns to Stitches and puts a hand on his shoulder. “No one will come after us, because no one will know we’ve gone. Alright?”
“As long as I get to say ‘I told you so’ when she stabs us in the back.”
“Look. That?” The Iron Bull points at the elf, at Skinner. “That’s a woman who needs us. You know they feed the pigs better than the prisoners around here. Bet you anything she’s running on nothing but will and guts right now, and when she’s out of those, too? She’s done for. She needs someone taking her in and taking her away. She needs us.”
So we can ditch her no problem, he doesn’t say, hopes Stitches understand anyway. She’s got nothing to put up against us.
Skinner’s getting impatient. “Espèces de connards!” she barks, and the Iron Bull doesn’t speak Orlesian but he can guess at the meaning.
“You’re fine leaving things like this?” he says, motioning with his horns towards the firelight painting the sky in streaks of red.
“I fought for them,” Skinner says, “That’s them fighting for me.” She sounds proud. Of herself or her people, the Iron Bull doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. None of these people’s problems are problems he needs to care about, and if it feels like he should that’s just too bad. That’s not the job. That’s not his life, not this time.
Skinner nods at him. “Better be faster than you look.” She sets off down the alley, quick as a rat.
Stitches reluctantly sheathes his sword. “I hope you’re right about this, Ser.”
“Hey,” the Iron Bull says. “When haven’t I been?”
He pushes Stitches into a run before he can respond and falls in after him. The mud splatters up his trousers and his bad ankle protests the strain of running on slippery ground. He’ll be aching in the morning. He’ll be regretting the weight of yet another stray. He’ll have to go around begging for other work. He’ll still be starting over.
The alley narrows until his horns scrape against the walls. One day, it all better get easier.
-
Skinner groans. She clutches her stomach, throws the Iron Bull an accusing look when he sits down at the opposite side of the table.
“But he eats them,” she says.
“Yes,” Stitches replies. He’s got his patient healer voice on, the one that’s gotten long-suffering since Skinner never left. “The Bull eats them because he’s a daft man whose belly is a portal into the Fade. Us regular people with stomachs have to digest what we eat, and that’s the crux. A poultice isn’t meant to be digested.”
“Give me something for it. Or I’ll throw up on you.”
“There’s nothing for it, just waiting out the nausea and never eating one again.”
Skinner groans again. “Your healer’s useless,” she says to the Iron Bull.
He takes a deep drink of the mulled beer that was waiting for him. Warmth spreads through his chest. “Don’t I know it.”
“So that’s the day we’re having,” Stitches says. Grousing, but there’s a smile in his eyes. They’ve settled into banter, the three of them. Verbal prodding. Joking jabs. Chatter to make time pass faster.
He should nip it in the bud. These two, they’re not his friends. He had friends. They’re gone.
Lots of things he should be pruning off of his person. Behaviors he knows he should restrict. The drinking, the eating, the fucking. The political pamphlets. Hissrad came to the South with rules for his behavior, but the Iron Bull’s been easing the reins. Doesn’t feel like he’s careening towards savage any time soon. Mostly he feels tired, until he forgets how wrong it’s all been going, and he spends a day on the road laughing, or a night in someone’s bed.
It’s Skinner and Stitches, too. Being around them. Skinner eats like you do when you’ve lived neighbor to hunger all your life, and Stitches drinks for pleasure as a habit. If he sits to the side and doesn't join in, he sets himself apart. It looks weird. He stands out, becomes too Qunari, and it doesn’t serve him. If he acts like the Southerners, it blunts his horns in their eyes. He becomes a curiosity, not a threat. They don’t pull their chairs away and lower their voices. Helps him do his job.
That’s how he’ll justify it, if he’s ever questioned. A tool for the job, bouncing a sweet piece of ass on his cock, committing the pillow talk to memory. If it makes him feel good, feel fine, wake up some mornings happier than his defective soul’s got any right to, that can’t be the point. That’s not why he came here.
Tomorrow. He’ll cut down the drinks. Stick to porridge and soup. Won’t hit on anyone in the next inn they stay at, not even if there’s redheads.
But he winks at the elf serving tables when they pass, grins at his blush, the coy smile and the free mug of cider. The other stuff’s for tomorrow. No reason to be rude today. The Iron Bull swigs his cider, smacks his lips around the taste and the satisfaction of knowing he showed the guy a damn good time.
Skinner snickers. Stitches sighs, like he disapproves. Part of his act, he likes to make it out to be the responsible one. The Iron Bull likes to indulge it. “Do you need to get laid at every inn?” Stitches grumbles.
The Iron Bull widens his grin. “Jealous?”
“He’s a horny bastard,” Skinner shoots in. Proudly. A fan of wild behavior.
“Well,” the Iron Bull spreads his arms, gestures to the span of his rack, “yeah!”
They’re all laughing together, like they’re travelling companions on a nice fall morning and not drifters with no better options than each other, when the dwarf comes up to their table.
“Master Qunari,” he says. “I have a proposition.”
Bushy mustache on a weathered face. Not that old, thirties at most. Big smile. Excited eyes. Bit of glassiness to them - either stayed up all night or got drunk first thing come morning. Maybe both. Dressed for the road, dwarven style. The gear is aged and doesn’t look like what surfacers wear. From Orzammar, then. Could be a trader, with that large rucksack on his back. Concealing a knife under his vest, badly.
The Iron Bull could backhand him before he got the blade out, bash his face in with his fists. He nods, pleasantly. “Name’s the Iron Bull,” he says. “These are…” He waves a hand to Stitches and Skinner. What does he call them? They’re not his friends. Not his company. He settles for: “my guys. If you’ve got work for us, you’re in luck. We’re available for the moment.”
Past few months have been going better. Jobs’ve been coming in; not at the fastest rate, but they’ve been coming. Skinner’s making a bit of difference. They’ve been clicking in the field. She’s good at what she does, her bravado’s got merit. Together, all three, they look like a group. Mismatched as they are, as long as they’re cheap there’s people finding them hirable.
The dwarf though, the dwarf says: “Better than a job! An opportunity.” He rubs his palms together. “I’m something of a sapper-inventor-”
“Sorry. Not interested.” The Iron Bull stands. There’s thousands of suckers with schemes out on the roads, selling varghest oil or non-existent real estate, looking for bigger suckers to rip off. He gestures for Skinner and Stitches. Might as well get going while it’s still morning.
“Hold on, hold on, wait!” The dwarf takes a step in front of him. Gutsy. The Iron Bull could knee him in the face, crack his spine with the pommel of his axe. Would be over in a second. “I’m the dwarf who’s gonna change the explosives game forever and I’m offering you a chance to be a part of it.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree here. We’re not the investment types.”
“Oh, money? No! Not for this, not at all.” The dwarf’s eyes take on a shrewd glint. “See,” and he lowers his voice to a whisper, “I’m unlocking the secrets to gaatlok.”
The Iron Bull laughs, reflexively. “No, you’re not,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I am! I swear, I almost got it. All it needs is a little...” He wiggles his fingers. “A last touch. And you’re a Qunari!”
“Listen.” The Iron Bull bends down. He smiles. His face may be scarred up, but he knows he can look damn jovial when he wants to.The dwarf beams back. “Here’s what I’m thinking. The only type of person who’d be stupid enough to go around announcing they’d made gaatlok, is too stupid to handle it. So I’m going to leave, before you blow yourself up and take the whole building with you.”
“So you do believe me!” the dwarf starts, but the Iron Bull grabs him under the arms, lifts him out of the way. He points sternly at him before exiting the inn.
“You stay put now.”
He doesn’t, of course. Follows them down the road. His legs are too short to keep up with them, but he gives it his all. Shouting things, words inaudible. Continuing his sales pitch.
“Do you know about that thing?” Skinner asks.
“Do all elves ride on weird-ass deer? Just ‘cause it’s Qunari doesn’t make me an expert.”
She shrugs. “Fair enough.”
The day’s shaping up to be a nice one. High, clear air after a cold night, frost still coating the grass in the shadow of the trees. Color of the leaves is starting to change. That still gets to him, the brief beauty and oddness of it. In Par Vollen, and Seheron, the plants are green all year round, but in northeastern Orlais fall is a blood-red burst. He likes it. Winter’s shit, too damn cold, but he likes the fall.
They’re headed north. No real hurry, but eventually he needs to end up in Nevarra, from there to Tevinter. He’s got directives, a message reached him a while back. A year ago he’d have welcomed clear instructions, something concrete to do, to remind him of his function. Now, the point of contact chafes. He’s gotten used to sending unanswered reports, to him being here and his people there. Gotten used to living it. Liking it. He’ll have to sit down and examine this at some point, this unease.
Or he won’t, and it’ll work out anyway. These things sometimes do.
There’s a river coming up. Road turns into bridge, continues on the other side. No other place to cross, not for miles, the Iron Bull asked around. It’s a toll bridge, and they’re always short on money. He lets his empty hands show as they near the two guards posted on this side. He’s been known to make their kind of people nervous.
“One silver each to cross,” one of the guards says. A woman, dark-skinned with a no-nonsense demeanour.
“A lot for one bridge,” the Iron Bull says, keeping it friendly. Already pulling the coins from his pocket.
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t set the price.”
So she definitely does. He’d bet a few more silvers on these guards raising the fees and taking their good share before reporting back to whatever comte or baron employs them. It irks, but he can’t go picking fights with every crook in livery. Doesn’t care to, these days. It is what it is.
Her colleague’s eyeing them. A tall guy with red hair the Iron Bull would take a minute to think about running his fingers through if it wasn’t for the ponderous look that’s come over him.
“Hey,” the guy says. Points to Skinner. “Your face. Ta tête me dit quelque-chose… On se connait, non?”
She doesn’t look at him. Jaw gone tense. “Je croix que non, mon pote,” she says.
“Non… Je croix que oui.”
The woman steps closer. Hand on the hilt of her sword. Good posture, confidence in her stride. “Il y a un problème?” she says to the redhead.
“Il me semble.”
Skinner’s been in Dalish armor since they left Val Colline. The Iron Bull doesn’t know where she got it and doesn’t need to, either. Enough that it’s been working. Humans gloss right over her, or get so suspicious of the clothes they forget to look out for the woman wearing them.
Not this guy, though. This guy’s a problem. The Iron Bull grins. He knows it’s disarming, that he’s handsome even with the scars. Because of the scars, for some. He’ll defuse the situation, and if he can’t he’ll headbutt the woman when she draws, knock her out and throw her in the river. Skinner will have the man busy by then, and the Iron Bull’s axe will finish him off.
A worst case scenario that’d get the guardsmen on the other side of the river on their asses, too. It’d be a mess. The Iron Bull would prefer not to ruin his name, not when it’s just starting to bring in some gold.
“What’re we all talking about here?” he starts, pleasant as anything.
The woman turns to him, grimly determined, but before she can respond the dwarf from the tavern pushes past Skinner, reprimanding: “I told you, you’re going too fast!” He’s panting, almost choking on it. “Didn’t I?” he huffs, hands on his knees.
“You know these people?” the guardswoman says.
“They’re my friends,” the dwarf says. “Too damn tall but what can you do, eh?” He guffaws at the joke, nerves only audible when he trails off. His fingers fumble with the ties to his pouch.
Skinner’s about ready to blow. One dagger half drawn behind her back, spine taut. The Iron Bull slaps a big hand on her upper arm. Firm grip, holding her in place.
“Good thing the moneyman’s here, huh?” he says, still grinning. Knows it’s convincing. “Pay the nice people, Rocky, they don’t got all day.”
The dwarf’s fishing coins out of the pouch. Royals. “How many…?” he says, and if his cluelessness is an act it’s a flawless one.
The guardswoman licks her lips. “Three each.”
It’s robbery. Fucking lawlessness, but the Iron Bull keeps quiet, keeps his hand on Skinner, while the dwarf counts the coins and hands them to the guard. She steps aside. Bows sarcastically when they pass. “Messieurs,” she says, smile a caricature of servility.
“Much obliged,” the Iron Bull mutters. The redhead’s in a shocked outrage, but the woman shuts down his protests. Hissrad’s letters could describe this in detail, give the superiors some depraved southernisms to tisk over, but the Iron Bull won’t write about it. It’s just another day.
“I hate Orlais,” Skinner says with feeling, once the bridge is well behind them. The Iron Bull pats her on the back. She did good, not going off. Good for Skinner. The bar’s pretty low there.
The dwarf’s busy telling his life story to a bemused Stitches. “...and then they exiled me! It wasn’t even half the Shaperate that blew up,” he says, and it’s unbelievable enough to be true. The Iron Bull falls into step with him. Has to walk slower than is comfortable, stunting his pace.
“Thanks for back there,” he says. “You saved us a whole lot of trouble.” The dwarf lights up, big affable smile. “Can’t pay you back, though. That alright with you?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure! I have funds, no worries on that front, Chief. They couldn’t confiscate my assets when there weren’t any records left. Due to, you know. The explosion and all. So I guess it worked out for me in the end, huh? Except for not getting to see home ever again, but what can you do.”
“What an asshole,” Skinner says. She sounds delighted.
“Who, me?” the dwarf says. Smiling even wider, for some reason. “Yeah. I get that. It happens.”
“Never mind Skinner,” the Iron Bull says. “She was raised by varghests.”
“Really?” The dwarf gives a low whistle. “The surface sure is wild,” he says, and Skinner’s eyes glitter. Stitches’ cheek is twitching the way it does when he’s trying not to laugh.
Crossroad's coming up. If they’re going to shake the dwarf, that’s as good a time as any. They don’t owe him anything. There’s thousands of men like him out there, kindhearted dipshits who give a crap even when they have no reason for it besides it being the type of person they are. He chose to care. Doesn’t mean anyone’s obligated to return it.
“Nice meeting you, Rocky,” the Iron Bull says. Slaps him a couple times on the back, not very hard. “We’ll be heading west now.”
“That’s not my name, it’s-” The dwarf stops himself mid-correction. “Ah, it doesn’t matter- Just- You wouldn’t know anyone needing a sapper? I, uh. Haven’t managed to find anything steady yet.”
The Iron Bull looks at him. “How much money have you got left?”
“I have funds, just have to get them-”
“How much money.”
“...That was my last?”
They don’t owe this guy shit. They could have gotten through without him. Would have been messy, would have followed them over the river and across the border, would have hung from the Iron Bull’s horns like rotting fruit, but they could have gotten through. They don’t have to owe this guy anything.
“You know what, Rocky?” the Iron Bull says.
This isn’t what a company should look like. He knows what it looks like and it isn’t like this, like a bunch of clueless miscreants, dragging the weights of their pasts behind them. He needs professionals. He needs hires. He needs people brought on to be pieces of a whole. He needs people, not people. Not people he likes.
“I might be looking for someone like that.”
They’re too close already. He’s been stalling on shaking them off. Been letting himself enjoy them, enjoy the life they’ve shaped around him, enjoy the person he can be when he’s with them.
“Can’t promise you it’s permanent, but we can try it. See where it goes.”
Somewhere in the back of his heart Vasaad is poking Hissrad in the ribs, laughing. Telling him he gives too many fucks about people, that it will be the end of him one day. Telling him he feels too much for this line of work. Telling him he hopes he’ll never change.
“You’re taking me on?” Rocky says. Surprised. “For real?”
Skinner’s ears perk up. “We’re keeping him?”
“So long as he’s up to our level.” The Iron Bull points to a boulder a couple yards away. “Show me what you got.”
The explosion rings in his ears for hours. All the way to the next town, through the meal at the inn, through the dancing and the singing and the man on his lap. They get Rocky weeping drunk, as a welcome to the group, and Stitches drinks until he starts to giggle. Skinner tells a story in Orlesian, very long, and falls asleep before it’s finished. They’re curled up in a pile when he leaves them and in the morning when he stumbles out of a stranger’s room half-dressed and fully sated, they bother him about it, grinning and incessant until noon.
They’re not his company. But their company is good.
-
The man’s papers are good. Letters from several companies, detailing long stints. Good words from the captains. Looks the part, too: tall, broad, human. Strong jaw, worn hands. The kind of man you hire at the start to build a respectable, reliable mercenary company. The kind of man the Iron Bull’s been looking for all along.
He hands the papers back. He’s got to get back to his guys first. Then he’ll decide what to do.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and the man grunts. Hasn’t spoken a word, not since the rocks fell and the two of them got stuck on this side of the ravine. The Iron Bull has met people like that before. People who’ve gone through something that made the words stop coming. Maybe after you see enough shit you hit a point where there’s nothing more to say.
He nods to the guy, starts walking. The ravine is deep, steep on each side, loose gravel all the way up. No climbing up that way, they’ll have to trace the length of it and hope to find better leverage further down. Skinner might be able to find a way up. She’s got light feet and clever hands, but she’s on the other side of those rocks. If she’s still alive.
She’s been doing good lately. She’ll always have the aggression of a pack of hyenas crammed into her tiny body, but it’s not just energy without reason, you don’t just point her at a target and watch her go. Stuff goes on in her head. She throws around the word ‘shem’ but not at people. Not the ones she needs to see as people. She’s been fighting since she could hold a knife, got the skills it gave her, but lately she’s been learning how to put it down. Hasn’t mellowed her, nothing in this world could mellow Skinner out, but she’s been listening. Taking things in, thinking ahead, further than the next kill, the next escape. Putting value on more than survival.
Skinner keeps going like this and the Iron Bull could see her leading some people of her own one day. Not as a captain, she’d bristle under the burden. A faction within a faction, though. A group of scouts, throat cutters. People like her, who weren’t taught to fight but learned it anyway. She could be great, leading people like that. Provided someone gave her a chance.
The Iron Bull squeezes the handle of his axe. Got to find her. Or there won’t be any chances.
The bottom of the ravine slopes upwards. A narrow trail, loose gravel and rocks over clay. Probably water down here normally. Summer’s been too dry for it this year, and the fall’s not been much better. His throat’s dry too. Waterskin with the rest of their gear over in their camp near the village. If those other mercenaries haven’t moved on and ransacked it, taken it as bonus payment.
Should’ve been an easy job. A small group, cheapest type you can get if you’re an upstart crook squeezing protection money out of fishing villages. Too fucking bad they had a mage. He and his guys, they didn’t plan for that, for the rock fists to smash into the stone arch over their heads while they were busy dealing with the scouts he now knows were a distraction. The Iron Bull swallows. It’s hard. He should’ve planned for that. That was his job.
He swallows again. Still hard. Way too hard. He coughs and his chest aches. Something’s not right and when he touches his side, he finds the reason. The cut is small. Nothing he’d notice normally, but the skin around it is swollen and hot, grey darkening towards black.
The Iron Bull curses. “Hey,” he says to the man. They walk in file, Iron Bull last. No chance he’s dropping to a blade in the back. “Your guys back there use poison?” The way the man’s eyes narrow answer the question. “Damn it.”
Not all southern poisons take on Qunari. Got to hope this is one of those that don’t, not some alchemy shit with lyrium mixed in. Hope they skimped on the deathroot this batch. Stitches could tell him how much danger he’s in. Stitches knows his stuff. Best healer he’s met, and the tamassrans who see to the Antaam? They’re real damn good. He’s got solid comparisons, and Stitches holds up - he’s been spoiling the Iron Bull’s plans for badass scars for a year.
If he’s still alive - and he better fucking be - he’ll be able to do something about the tightness in his side, the Iron Bull’s sure. Just have to get to him. Just have to find his guys.
He fishes a poultice out of his pocket in the meantime. Eats half, slathers the rest on the wound. Covering his bases. Saving him another lecture.
He better fucking get another lecture.
“Anything up ahead?” the Iron Bull asks the human. It’s getting dark out, and his vision’s getting a bit blurry around the edges. The man grunts, shakes his head. “If this is phase two of a trap, be sure I am going to kill you. Just so we’re clear.” He gets a nod for that. Accepting. Guy could be bluffing, the whole ‘approaching them before the battle to switch sides’ could be a scheme and the Iron Bull’s the sucker for buying it, but somehow that’s not the feeling he’s got. The letters were the real deal. None of the telltale signs of lying are there. No fidgeting, no tension. Hasn’t tried too hard to convince him.
Most importantly: he’d have gotten just as smashed by the falling rocks as the rest of them, if the Iron Bull hadn’t pushed him out of the way. Whatever his intentions, his former people don’t care to keep him, that’s for sure.
“Not into extortion, huh?” the Iron Bull says. The man glances back when he nods this time. Brows furrowed. Bit of fire in his eyes. “Yeah, me neither. Good on you for thinking better of that crap.” The man quirks his mouth into something like a smile before facing forward again.
Maybe he’s leading the Iron Bull into a trap. Maybe he’s not. People down here can surprise you. They’ve kept surprising him, kept being more decent, more loyal, more easy to like than he’s wanted them to. Living the only lives they’ve got in the best way they can. The best way their societies let them. At the core of it, it’s not always so different from home.
Rocky’s been surprisingly solid, his work is surprisingly good. Not just the raw power in his lyrium bombs, but the finesse of his traps. Never let go of the gaatlok delusions, but his work, his real work? That work is good. With him around, there’s jobs they’ve been able to take they’d otherwise have to turn down, and the Iron Bull’s been handing out wages, not just paying for basic needs. Almost like they’re his company. They his guys, and he their captain.
“Risky thing, though, offering your services to the enemy like that,” he says. “What made you?” The man glances back again. Points at his ear. “What?” Points at his ear. Points at the Iron Bull. ”You heard about me?” A nod. “Anything good?” The man shrugs, wiggles his hands. So-so. The Iron Bull chuckles. “Aw, come on. Don’t start lying to me now, we both know I’m the best around,” he says, and the man snorts, amused. “Caught me on a bad day, that’s all, but wait ‘til we find my guys. We’ll show you a good time, guaranteed.”
Big talk, but his voice is strained. The Iron Bull can hear it. Poison getting to him. Much longer and he’ll be useless for whatever’s up ahead, and that thought burns as bad as the cut, throbs just as hard. If he can’t keep himself alive, he can’t keep his guys, either. He’s got to be able to do this.
Guy in front of him stops. Lifts a hand, motions to be quiet. The blood in the Iron Bull’s ears is whooshing, but through it he can hear voices further down the ravine. He tries to listen for Skinner, for Stitches, for the sound of Rocky’s laugh, but it’s hard to focus.
The human’s looking grim, has a hand on his sword. The voices get closer. Echo between the walls and he’s got to get his axe ready, doesn’t matter how heavy his arms feel. Figures in the distance, the near distance, not distant at all and it’s not his guys. It’s the mercenaries. Seven humans, weapons drawn.
It’s a trap, Been a trap all along, and the anger gives him the surge he needs to hoist up the axe and take a stance. Even that makes his breath ache in his lungs, but it doesn’t matter. This is the job.
Get the grim guy first. Cleave his skull with the axe when he turns on him, down him neatly in one go. Should give the rest of them a pause, give him a second to act. Swing wide, keep them off him, wait for one of them to get impatient and try something and use the opening to strike. Bloody them en masse; pick them off one by one. It’s a good strategy. If he keeps on his feet.
The grim guy draws and the Iron Bull is ready, lifts the axe over his head and is going let it fall with all its weight and all its straight behind it, when the guy lunges forward, towards the mercenaries, and plunges his sword into one mercenary’s armpit, in the gap in his armor. He pulls it out, kicks the man to his knees and leaves him bleeding in the gravel. Turns to the next. It’s swift. Competent. Happens very, very fast.
Guy’s good. Damn good, solid, the footwork of someone trained in battle and the swordwork of someone honed in war. Makes up for the sluggishness in the Iron Bull’s limbs, the blurriness of his vision. Falls into his rhythm and compensates, and together they hold off the mercenaries.
For a while. It’s a bad situation, they’ve got nothing to push with, and the footing’s unsteady, even for the best. It’s what does him in, the grim guy, putting his foot down and the stone shifting. He slips. An enemy sword takes his thigh, slips on his armor but sinks into the flesh above the knee. The Iron Bull’s there the second after, a bash of his pommel on the mercenary’s helmet, not strong enough to crack her but enough to send her reeling back. He’s panting, his guy is on the ground. The leg’s useless and there’s five of the others still standing. The mage has caught up, coming up behind them. The Iron Bull can’t see his face but there’s no mistaking the blue light crackling in his hand. That hits him once, and he’s dead.
In that moment, the Iron Bull’s ready for it. Has been ever since the arrows jutting from Vasaad’s neck, his open, empty eyes and his mouth full of blood. It doesn’t scare him. Dying’s easy. It’s the other stuff that’s hard.
A shriek like a wounded drake echoes over the ravine and Skinner’s diving from the top; shelands on the mage’s back and doesn’t so much slit his throat as tear it out. The spell fizzles on his fingertips. Blood gushes from the wound, sprays over the Iron Bull’s chest. Skinner lets the body drop, flings herself at another in a flash. Behind her, Rocky slides down the slope, riding an avalanche of gravel. Rolls with it once he’s down, has his axe chopping, downing her and severing her sword hand in two tries. Her wails of pain join the noise of battle. Skinner stomps her boot into her face, over and over, until she’s not wailing anymore.
Stitches appears at the Iron Bull’s side, takes him under the arm, props him up and pulls him away from the fighting. “How bad is it?” he asks.
“Poison,” the Iron Bull says, tongue thick. It’s starting to hurt. All of him. Stitches curses softly, helps him sit down on the ground leaning against a larger rock. Gets his satchel open. The guy, the grim and silent one, the one who’s on their side, starts dragging himself over. One leg dangling behind him. Leaving a trail of blood on the ground.
Fighting’s almost over. Rocky and Skinner have made quick work of it. Last mercenary standing drops his sword and runs, but Skinner takes the bow from her back and downs him with one sure shot. Even through the pain and dizziness, the Iron Bull feels a stab of pride. They’re his guys. And they’re the best.
Skinner spins around, aims for the human man on their side. The Iron Bull rises a hand, “hey, hey, hey!” and she doesn’t lower the bow, but doesn’t fire the arrow either.
“Who the fuck is that?” she spits, still all riled up and ready to murder.
“One of us.”
Rocky’s finished making sure all throats are neatly cut, comes over to them. Chews his lip under the mustache. Worried. The Iron Bull knows he looks bad, worse with the mage’s blood smeared all over him. Stitches is going through his herbs and potions, barely this side of frantic.
“Any idea what the poison is?” he says.
“Strong,” the Iron Bull grunts. “Got anything for it?”
“Sure, Chief. We’ll have you up and running in no time,” Stitches says, but his bravado’s painted on. Give the wrong antidote and it’ll be the cure that kills.
The Iron Bull grits his teeth. Poison’s a bad death, and even if it wasn’t, he doesn’t want to die. He’ll be ready for it when it happens, is always ready somewhere in the back of his heart, but it’s not the same as wanting it. He wants to see where this all goes. Where they’re all headed. Skinner’s staring at him like she can glare him back to health and Rocky’s blinking tears out of his eyes, the big ol’ sap. He doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to leave his guys.
New guy tugs at Stitches’ satchel, who starts. “What in-” he begins, but trails off when the guy pulls out a bottle of dried berries in something that looks like decade-old snot. He thrusts it at Stitches’ face.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Stitches asks, serious as he’s ever been. The guy nods. It’s pained, his face pale, lips thin. The Iron Bull snatches the bottle from him and downs the contents in one gulp. It’s cold and slimy down his throat, but he manages to keep from retching.
“There,” he says. “I’m fine, clean this one up.” Stitches hesitates so he nudges him, weakly. “He’s my new guy, I’m counting on him to keep.”
Easier to breathe already. The pain’s still there but it’s not mounting. The Iron Bull burps. “If I survive, drinks are on me.”
Rocky both laughs and sniffles at the same time. “Don’t say that. Now we’ll be sad if you drop,” and the Iron Bull laughs, full belly, despite the way it tugs at the wound in his side.
“Aw. You like me!”
Stitches shoots him a look while he gets out a needle and thread. “No drinking for you tonight, Chief. If you add ale to the mixture in your body right now…”
“Stitches,” the Iron Bull says, “you’re killing me,” and Stitches snorts as he gets back to his work.
“Don’t come crying to me when your blood starts boiling.”
He’s stitching up the man’s wound, deft as always, and the Iron Bull looks at him, at his steady hands and his broad back, the sure line of his shoulders. He looks at Skinner wringing blood out of her hair, at Rocky kicking pebbles and humming under his breath.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Thanks.”
Stitches doesn’t turn around, but he smiles. The Iron Bull can hear it in his voice. “Of course.”
“You’re the Chief,” Skinner says, and Rocky adds: “Who’d pay for drinks?”
She cuffs him over the head. “We’re having a moment, asshole.”
The Iron Bull laughs again, and it stings but it feels good. Like being real damn alive. “Nah,” he says, “moment over,” but it isn’t really. It’s settling in: they came for him. If they hadn’t cared, if they weren’t here, he wouldn’t be either.
It’s loyalty he didn’t expect. Didn’t plan for. It’s loyalty that goes back for downed men and struggling commanders, that doesn’t throw off leadership when it falters but waits for it to get back on its feet. The kind of loyalty that can be harnessed and honed and wielded like a fine, sharp blade, the best tool for any job the world can throw at him, but it’s not just about that. It’s about something clicking into place. Something finally fitting right. It’s about the name he’s been adjusting to since he left Seheron sounding right in their mouths like it didn’t in his, about it molding to his shoulders when they’ve got his back.
He’s got to tell them what that name really means. Why he’s here. What he’s doing. If they’re his friends - and he knows they are - if he’s going to carry that loyalty and put it to use, they’ve got to know who they’re following. He’s got to know if the Iron Bull’s still him after that.
So he tells them that night, in a quiet booth in a dingy tavern, after four ales that made Stitches scowl. If the telling makes his horns feel heavy over his easy smile, if his stomach drops like he’s got something to lose, that’s just too bad. He does it anyway. It’s what they deserve. They can make up their minds if they want him or not. Like he’s made up his mind about them.
They’re all still there in the morning.
-
There’s five dead templars and one elf. The ground around them frozen. Bodies frozen, too. The elf starts when they enter the clearing, spins around with a staff in her hands, and the Iron Bull’s bracing for the burst of cold to hit, his guys readying themselves behind him.
The elf drops the staff. She says, “Hello,” and waves.
“What,” Skinner whispers, “the fuck.”
They’re all uneasy. Stitches clutching his satchel tighter, Grim frowning deep. Rocky fidgets with his mustache. Magic putting them all on their toes. As it should; the Iron Bull’s got memories from Seheron that’ll have him breaking out in a sweat even now, years later. But they can’t all go losing their cool over just one woman. When something scares you, you puff up. You sure as fuck don’t shrink down.
“Hey,” he says, and waves back.
The elf visibly relaxes. She’s a tall, skinny thing, gangly more than slender. Dalish robes and armor with the tattoos to match, so the real deal most likely, not like Skinner’s disguise. Barefoot on the moss. Not a lot packing, just some pouches around her belt. No daggers he can see, no bow and no sword. Just the staff on the ground and her hands, fingers primly interlaced. Small smile trying not be nervous.
He could knock her out. Turn her in. If she’s a mage on her own someone’s bound to be looking, bound to be willing to pay for her. He’s fought and killed enough mages to fill a dozen Circle towers, he could take her, but the thought barely registers before he tosses it aside. That’s not what he cares about. That’s not why he’s here.
He wants to see how this goes. He’s learned to like finding people who surprise him.
“What brings you lot out here?” the elf asks.
“Mercenary work,” the Iron Bull replies. “It’s a traveling job.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard that.”
“You?”
“I’m Dalish,” she says. “We live in the - well. Some of us live in the woods.”
The Iron Bull leans on his axe, rests his weight on his good leg. The guys shift from tense to just attentive behind him, settle into something closer to reelaxed. “Got a clan nearby? We’ve got money if someone wants to trade.”
“No, no, I’m on my own. I’m… traveling. Seeing the world.”
“Seen any magic lately?” He grins, knows it’s affable, but the elf tilts her head with a twitch. A little color runs into her cheeks, a bright red flush.
“Are you looking for one? An apostate?”
“Not looking per-”
“Good! Because, I’m not a mage.” She smiles. “I haven’t seen any magic, no.”
She’s standing on magical ice. The clumps from a frozen, shattered templar lie scattered around her feet. The staff’s right there, big glowing crystal at the top, but the blush leaves her face and she’s calm as a cucumber among the corpses. Great liar’s face wasted on a shitty liar’s mouth.
The Iron Bull squints. Points at the bodies. “So this isn’t…?”
“Oh, no.”
“You haven’t…?”
“Never!”
“...Right.”
He looks at his guys. They look back at him. He shrugs. With a sweeping gesture over the remains of the earlier carnage he says: “Shame. Whoever did this is good. I could use that.”
If it startles his guys, they hide it well. Grim’s chewing on a grass stalk doesn’t hitch. Rocky only hiccups a little. Stitches, he thinks, hasn’t gotten startled since Orlais. They trust him to make judgments for them all.
He’s been thinking about it since the ravine. What magic could do, if he used it. It was magic that brought them to their knees. Magic that scattered them. Would be good to have some of that of his own to put up against it, should it happen again, and it will. Lot of mages running free in the south. As with everything else, he’s getting used to it.
“A real shame,” Dalish says airily, and the Iron Bull gestures to the bodies again. Impatient now.
“Yeah, sure. Except. You’re the mage.”
Dalish clutches her chest in badly feigned shock. “I’m an archer.”
“Bullshit!” Skinner barks. “No archer does this.”
“I did,” Dalish protests, and the Iron Bull steps in between them, blocking their sight of each other. Whatever this is, it can’t become a whole thing. Not right now.
“So you’re an archer, huh? My bad,” he says. “You any good?”
“At- At killing things? I suppose?”
“And you enjoy it?”
“Very much,” and this is the truth, that little sigh in her voice. That one he’s sure she’s not faking.
“You like to fight?”
“I’m sorry, is this-?” Dalish frowns, looks from him to the others. “Is this an interview?”
“If you want it to be,” the Iron Bull says. “Do you want it to be?”
“I’ll be an archer?”
“You can be a polkadot wyvern as long as you’re good at it.”
He’s been seeing it so clearly lately. Places they can go, shapes they can take. Ways they can grow and expand, build something great on the foundation that is his guys. They’re versatile, they’re underdogs, they’re easy to root for. People with expertise, for expert jobs. Taking on the odd ones out - that’s a way to build a name. If you can’t blend in, stand out.
He’s been seeing it, the way people look at him when he’s with them. Big bad Qunari father figure, it’s a role he can play, a story he can sell. The Iron Bull, the Chief, the comrade to his men, that’s more than a story or a job. It’s a life he can live.
Dalish looks at him like she’s trying to solve a riddle. “Who are you?”
He gestures to himself. “Name’s the Iron Bull. Shouty over there, that’s Skinner. That’s Grim, Stitches, and Rocky’s the dwarf. Together,” it slips out, easy as breathing, ”they’re the Chargers.”
“We are?” Rocky says.
“Are we?” says Stitches.
“Yeah!” He faces them, throws his arms out, like he could scoop them all up. “The Bull’s Chargers,” and fuck, if that isn’t a good, strong, damn evocative name. It just fits.
“Could be worse,” Stitches says, but Rocky goes, “I like it!” and Grim gives him a thumbs up. Skinner’s got her eyes fixed on Dalish, still, but if it hasn’t made her stabby, that’s an okay.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she says, “Except, I think I should tell you,” and she unfastens a few buckles of her leather cuirass, revealing the fabric underneath, the stain of blood, “I’m rather badly hurt.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Stitches grunts, hurrying towards her before the Iron Bull’s had time to tell him to.
“We were having such a nice chat,” Dalish says, breezy, but she meets the Iron Bull’s eyes and he sees the sharp edges in them. He gets it. You don’t shrink down.
Stitches raises a brow at the Iron Bull. “I feel like this is becoming a habit,” he says wryly, but when with a “let’s see what we’re dealing with here” he cuts open Dalish’s robe to get to the wound, his tone is as bright as always.
“Ooh!” Dalish exclaims, suddenly, a hand to her cheek. “I get it! The Iron Bull. The Bull’s Chargers.”
The Iron Bull beams.
“Got a nice ring to it, right?”
-
They’ve been singing the chant since the Nevarra, the one about loose drinks and looser skirts. Rocky made it and it’s good. Suits them. A little rude, damn well rowdy, charming in a boisterous way. Everything they are. The Iron Bull’s been singing it, too. Been helping the tension running taut down his spine the past week.
He’ll be glad to get out of Tevinter. Not the place to be for anyone Qunari, not even this close to the border and passing convincingly as Tal-Vashoth. Fucking Vints. Wouldn’t be so bad if he was allowed to kill him, but that’s not the job and what Hissrad is ordered, the Iron Bull has to follow. He’ll grind his teeth to dust before they’re out of the Imperium. He can drink all the cheap ale in Thedas and it still won’t take his mind off that.
Whole tavern’s cheap. Little, unremarkable. The type of place you can take your horns and drink in peace, even in Tevinter. The barkeep’s armed, a sickle behind the bar, but he stopped watching them as closely once they tipped him thrice the price. Some would-be tradesmen in a corner - smugglers, he knows the type. Whispering. Won’t be trouble unless someone makes them. A drunk in another corner could be a plant, paid to listen, but a nose that red and swollen you don’t wear as a disguise. There’s a chatty Antivan hiding his gold in his boots, starts talking to a guy who comes down from the rooms upstairs halfway through the evening.
That one, that one’s something. Hard to tell what. Armored, but not fully, and every piece fits together, part of a set. No chest piece, but the bracers match the shin guards. Could be looted. Could be remnants of another life. He breathes unevenly, like someone in pain. Keeps shifting on the stool. Swaying a bit, likely doesn’t know he does it himself. He’s not that old. Barely more than a kid. Smooth cheeks but steely eyes, firm set of his jaw. A knife on his belt.
Injured, but not asking for help. Armor pieces too nice, too well cared for, not to wear the full set. Moves like he’s naked without it, like he’s missing the piece, so he’s new to it. Still adjusting. Tries too hard not to hover a hand over his knife, to look friendly as he buys the Antivan a drink.
He meets his gaze every time the Iron Bull looks over. Glaring. It’s stupid, staring down someone twice your size when you’ve got no real way to fight him if he takes you up on the challenge, but it means the kid’s got a spine. Have to give him that.
If he doesn’t speak up about it, the Iron Bull can have Stitches check on him before they turn in for the night. He’s about to let Stitches know this, too, when the soldiers enter.
“We’re looking for a runaway.” They don’t know what they’re like besides “Woman,” and the guy with the armor, his hands clench around the knife, his face glows angry and the Iron Bull knows. He knows his secret.
He, she, whatever - the kid looks at the Iron Bull, looks at him looking. He doesn’t glare now but still doesn’t look away, holds his gaze until the Iron Bull looks away with a snort, a “fucking Vints,” after several moments.
He stumbles in the corridor. The soldiers haul him into the back room. He fights, fights with every scrap he’s got left, fights though he hasn’t got a shadow of a chance. Not on his own.
The Iron Bull downs the remainder of his drink. None of them can do it on their own.
“Get ready,” he tells Stitches, who nods, and the rest of them get ready, too, just in case he needs them, just in case they need to have his back. They’re a haphazard collection of clueless miscreants, but they’re his, and when he’s done kicking Vint ass he’ll come right back. He’ll always come back to his guys.
The Iron Bull taps one of the soldiers on the back.
“Hey,” he says pleasantly. Easy as breathing. “How about you leave my friend alone?”