SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 7

The Martelli family gardens were a carefully curated display of wealth. It seemed out of place to a dirt splattered peasant like Bront, considering where all the money for the extravagance came from. But what did he know? He was just one of the people these parasites sucked the blood out of, so they could live in luxury.

Bront didn’t have strong opinions on the mafia at all, not after all the shite they had put him through. No sir, not ol’ Bront.

Bront’s grip on Beaky tightened as he and his old mates crept through the gardens. In truth, he had no idea where the hammers were keeping Marva. His best guess is that she was somewhere in the mansion. He’d heard rumors about flippin’ dungeons of all things, where the Martelli’s kept the people who defied them. But that was just rumors. As far as he knew, Marva was sittin’ pretty in some lace and silk festooned dressing room.

Gods, he hoped so. He didn’t know what he was going to do if these bastards had been mistreating his girl in some dank hole in the ground.

They’d just have to search every corner of the estate that they could find. They’d need to be quiet, though. Bront thought he and his boys were pretty good, but not good enough to take on the entire familigia if they came running. Luckily, he and his team had experience in skulking about.

This weren’t no forest, but it couldn’t that different. Right?

Bront heard the twip of air that signaled the passing of an arrow, followed by a gurgle from just around a hedge row in front of him. He cursed, signalling the boys up. Sure enough, Vallin had taken out another guard from his post across the street. Bront hadn’t even heard this guy, and he wasn’t carrying a torch.

Without even being asked, Torrin dragged the dead guard into the bushes again.

Bront’s face set in determination. They’d have to be even more careful, if there were guys hiding in this garden like this.

Bront and old mates crept on.

…………………………………………

They must have taken out at least five guards as they scoured the garden for any clues. With their renewed sense of caution, they only needed Vallin to take out one of those.

Eventually, they hit paydirt.

Around the left side of the house in the brief gap between the manse and the walls, Bront and his crew found a set of slanted double doors that led downwards.

This had to be a cellar entrance of some kind.

This was how they were going to get in.

Even this late at night, it would be suicide trying to barge their way into the main doors at the back of the house. They’d make so noise trying to get in that way that they’d get skewered by a dozen different hammer boys before they knew what had happened to them.

No, this was better. Far better.

Paolo dug out his lock picking set once again, and in only a few short minutes, had the lock open. But before the three dwarves could descend into the Martellis cellars, Bront nearly had a heart attack by a familiar face popping up out of nowhere.

Torrin had apparently decided to join them.

Bront had to stop his instinctual reaction to skewer the sniper. “The hells are ye doin’ here?” He whispered furiously. “Thought I told ye to stay up on the damn roofs!”

Torrin shook his head. “Had a bit of a look while I was up there,” He whispered back, unapologetic. “The hammers have every single one of their window covered. I’d be damn useless up there, and was only good fer the garden. At least this way, I can help ya out inside.” He gestured to his waist, where a pair of wickedly curved fighting daggers waited.

Bront cursed, but nodded anyway. They didn’t have time to argue about this.

Torrin exchanged his own nods with his brother and old commanding officer, as the group fell into formation.

They crept into the cellar, finding that it looked to be a storage for wine and cheese of all things. Expensive vintages and elaborately crafted delicacies stacked high up to the stone ceiling surrounded them on all sides. Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any guards or hammer boys down here right now.

The foursome started navigating through the racks and racks of edible wealth, keeping an eye out all the while. The cellar was lit by the occasional lantern filled with light stones, which was just another display of wealth in Bront’s eyes. He’d never see so many of the enchanted rocks in his life, and didn’t see the point in putting them down here with the bougie food. However, that didn’t matter. They needed to find a way out of here to keep searching. Presumably, there was going to be an exit into the upper floors in here somewhere.

Turns out, they needn’t have bothered looking for it.

Paolo suddenly stopped the group, narrowing his eyes. Bront tensed, expecting a group of Martelli’s to suddenly come charging around the corner. Torrin and Vallin must have as well, considering the way they gripped their weapons. But not, Paolo wasn’t looking ahead.

He was staring suspiciously at a nearby wall.

Bront was baffled for a moment, and took the chance to look at it himself. He didn’t see anything until he shaded his eyes.

There were faint rays of flickering light coming through the cracks in the stone wall.

Bront felt a vicious, victorious smile creep its way onto his face.

This had to be a secret entrance of some kind.

Paolo stalked forward without a word, running his hand over the wall and searching for something.

He found it.

His old Lieutenant pushed a loose brick into the wall, causing the rest of it to swing inwards as if it was on hinges.

They weren’t prepared for what was on the other side.

An honest to gods flipping dungeon, like the rumors said. There must have been at least a dozen cells down here, fitted with a sturdy wooden door. Torches instead of light stones hung on scones, lighting the grim interior of the hall.

But that wasn’t what caught Bront’s attention the most. It was how the dungeon wasn’t empty.

At the other end of the hall was a group of very important, very rich looking Martelli men. There were only three of them, but Bront’s breath caught in his chest at the sight. He recognized them.

Everyone in Rhoscara could. Hell, most people could probably recognize the richest looking one better than they could the damn Prince.

Don Thraggec Martelli.

Said Don was smoking a cigar and had been looking inside the cell at the end of the hall before their entrance. However, the crime boss had turned at the opening of the entrance to the dungeon with an annoyed look on his face.

That changed when he saw the group of heavily armed and armored dwarves standing in the doorway. His face went pale, and his cigar fell from his lips onto the stone below.

Bront felt an almost manic smile creep onto his lips.

Well, well.

How the tables turned.

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