SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 6

“Can’t believe ye kept this junk,” Bront said in amazement, gazing at the collection of military equipment. After explaining his problems to his old mates, they’d brought him back to their hideout in the homeless district. There, they had showed him a cache that they’d nicked after being discharged from the Army. Inside had been full sets of Rhoscaran scout armor, which had been highly prized back in the day. Bront remembered having to do plenty of wheeling and dealing to secure a set of his own, and now here were multiple modified sets of it. “I thought ye were supposed to get brought up on charges, keepin’ yer old gear?”

Paolo snicked, strapping on a breastplate that had been painted black. “Oh, the beancounters don’t care about this. They expect people like us ta just make off with everything, and write it off when we do. Perks o’ the job, ye could say. Are ye sayin’ ye didn’t keep yer old armor?”

“Nope,” Bront shook his head, watching a fully armored Vallin test the string on an old military short bow. “I uh, didn’t think of that. I just made sure ta make off with ol’ Beaky. And that was me right. I paid fer her out of me own pocket.”

“Yeah, and that pissed off the Captain somethin’ fierce!” Torin called out, laughing, swinging around a warhammer. “Old bastard was always goin’ on about ‘unlicensed weaponry’.”

Paolo snickered again, but shook his head. “Alrigh’, alrigh’. Tha’s enough now. Bront, we’ve got a set of gear that should fit ye too.” He said, reaching up to take down a crate from a shelf in the near pigsty they live in. Cracking it open, he started tossing pieces of similarly blackened army gear at Bront.

Bront nearly fumbled the armor, but managed to catch it in his arms at the last second. Strapping it on, Bront furrowed his brow at how strangely familiar it felt.

Wait.

Bront cursed, reaching down and throwing an old can at a cackling Paolo. “Ye bastard! This isme old armor! How the hell do ye have this?!”

Paolo shrugged. “Eh, coincidence. Good for ye, though, eh?”

Bront just shook his head at the unhinged dwarf as he finished suiting up. When he was done, he looked up and noticed that the others had finished their own gearing. “Alright, how we doin’ this?”

Torin and Vallin just looked at him expectantly while Paolo snickered again. “This is yer show, Bront. I ain’t yer Lefty anymore. Ye don’t take orders from me. How do yewant to do this?”

Bront blinked, realizing that he was right. He shook his head. “Then we try and do this quiet like. Vallin, ye still a crack shot?”

“Ye know it,” Vallin smirked. “I ain’t even let me skills slide. I still practice every damn day.”

Torin shoved his brother. “Yeah, and ye always wake me up when yer doin’ it.” Vallin just shoved him back.

“Then ye can set up on the buildin’ across the street and keep watch on us,” Bront said, ignoring the almost nostalgic bickering. “We’ll try and keep close ta windows when we can. Once we’re inside, I’ll be in front with Paolo in the center. Vallin, you watch the rear.”

Paolo saluted almost mockingly, but didn’t protest. Vallin just smirked and nodded.

“But,” Bront stressed. “Let’s try and avoid getting’ in a fight, yeah? I may be getting’ out o’ the city, but ye three still need to live here. I don’t want to bring no heat down on yer heads.”

Paolo chuckled. “Don’t ye worry, Bront me boy,” He said, taking down another crate. Opening it, Bront could see a number of helms inside. These were the full face and head concealing kind that most of the groundpounders would have loved to have, back in the day. Bront sure has hell had never been issued one. They’d been blackened as well, giving them an almost sinister air. Paolo handed them out to everyone else.

Bront looked up at the others when he’d finished armoring up, to find that they were ready too. Everyone exchanged nods.

Without a word, the four ex-military dwarves left the hideout and began stalking their way through the streets of Rhoscara.

Toward the Martelli family compound.

………………………………………………..

Once the walled compound came into view, Vallin split off from the group without a word, disappearing up a nearby wall. Meanwhile, Bront waited patiently as Paolo split off from the group to case the joint. His old Lieutenant had always been the best scout in their old troop, and he doubted that had changed much over the years.

Hell, he might have gotten even better, skulking through the underbelly of the city.

It didn’t take long for Paolo to return, silently slinking up to the waiting Bront and Torrin. Without speaking, he jerked his head in a motion to follow him.

His two former underlings followed him.

Paolo led them to a small gate set in the wall of the Martelli compound, guarded by only a single hammerdwarf. This late at night, the guard was visibly nodding off on his feet, barely paying attention at all. On the other side of the bars of the gate, Bront could just barely make out a massive, carefully kept garden.

That would prove to be his undoing.

Skirting along the wall in the bushes, the trio approached the dozing guard, gripping their weapons and ready to take him out.

They needn’t have bothered.

An arrow suddenly appeared in the guard’s throat, sending a spray of blood jetting over the cobblestones. The guard jerked in place, gurgling before he fell to his knees. A second arrow impacted his chest, directly over his heart. The hammerdwarf finally slumped over dead, having barely made a sound.

Bront smiled grimly, from his place in the bushes.

They were committed, now. They’d killed Martelli right on their own home turf.

Bront slunk out of the bushes with his companions and approached the gate. They found it bound by a large, thick padlock. As Vallin grabbed the dead guard and hauled him into the bushes, Bront turned to rifle through the guard's pockets for the key. Paolo had already beat him to the punch, though. The former Lieutenant frowned though, looking up and shaking his head in denial. Bront cursed, but he wasn’t deterred.

This wasn’t the first time he and the boys had needed to deal with a lock. He turned to the returned Vallin and exchanged a nod. Without a word, Vallin took out his lockpicking kit and kneeled in front of the padlock. In seconds, the experienced locksmith had the padlock open, tossing the useless hunk of metal into the nearby bushes now that it was dealt with.

The portal into the Martelli gardens loomed in front of the group.

They advanced, carefully closing the gate behind them.

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