SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 3

Luckily, Bront knew these streets like the back of his hand. He knew all the little shortcuts you needed to go down to stay out of the public eye. He’d spent his early years scurrying in between them to keep out of the way of the Rhoscaran guard.

They may not have been has bad as some flatfoots in the Principality, but Rhoscara was still the wealthiest of the Dwarven cities. They didn’t want poor little urchins like Bront had been bothering the crafters or merchants and potentially driving them away. No, best to just pretend that the underclass of the city didn’t exist at all.

Bront ruthlessly suppressed such thoughts, as he watched a group of hammers sculk past from a shadowed doorway with wary eyes. He didn’t have time for a bitter trip down memory lane.

Besides.

It looked like he would be getting out of the city soon, anyway. He’d never thought it would happen to him, but…

Rhoscara was soon going to be a thing of the past for him and his remaining family.

If he survived.

Eventually, through some slow and careful maneuvering, Bront reached the tannery district, where his old Ma’ still lived. She’d worked years and years as a chemist for a local tanner that had long gone under, and eked out a modest living these days off of her savings and the kindness of her neighbors.

Bront had nearly saved up enough money to afford a larger flat, where his poor ol’ Ma could move in with him. Well, before all this shite had gone down, and his life went up in flames. All that gold was still stored in the rat-hole apartment he’d rented from one of the nobs.

Bront grimaced, before his face hardened.

He knew it was a bad idea.

He knew that the Don probably already had dwarves waiting for him back at his place.

But he was going to be damned if he abandoned his life savings so some mafia cutthroat could plunder it. Once he was out of the city, it could be used to restart both of their lives, wherever they ended up. As soon as he’d collected his Ma’, he knew where he was going next.

Even if he had to fight through a horde of hammers to get to it.

Besides, his sword was there. He wasn’t going to abandon ol’ Beaky.

Bront crouched in the shadows between two rundown homes, deep in the Tanners district. He was just barely able to fit in the extremely narrow alleyway, but that was fine. Lean times had seen him lose some mass and be capable of this, but he was still as strong as he’d been in his ground-pounder days.

Mostly.

He’d been watching his Ma’s place for a few minutes now, and didn’t think that the Don’s people had found her yet. He’d even circled the block a few times to be sure. Nobody was around. Rhoscara might have a thriving nightlife, but that was for the nobs and rich-uns. Working class dwarves that lived in a place like this didn’t go out at night, and made sure their door was barred.

It was quiet.

That suited Bront just fine.

Edging out of the alleyway, Bront double-checked to see if the coast was clear. Seeing nobody, he dashed across the small street, and directly into the alleyway that lay on the other side. He circled around to the back entrance of his Ma’s house, and studied it.

Damn, it’d been years since he’d had to do this. Which brick did she keep the spare key in again? Pawing around quietly, Bront eventually found the loose brick he was looking for. Wiggling it out, he sighed in relief at the old key that was still inside the hole. Palming it and sliding the brick back in he quietly inserted the key into the lock of the door. Holding his breath, Bront turned it and winced at the clicking noise the opening lock made. He eased open the door, and stuck his head in to check if it was safe inside.

He didn’t see what knocked him out.

……………………………………………………………………

Bront had no way of knowing how long he had been out. Could have been hours or days, as far as he knew.

More importantly, he didn’t know who had done him in. Keeping still, the former soldier tried to ‘assess the situation’, as his old Sergeant would say.

He wasn’t all bound up, so either his captors were incompetent or thought they could take him if he fought back. To him, it felt like he was lying flat on an oddly familiar soft surface.

Not far from him, he could hear the low murmur of two female voices. One older, one younger.

Wait a sec.

He knew both of those voices.

Bront’s eyes popped open and he sat up abruptly, uncaring about the spike of pain that shot through his bed. Quickly looking around, he found that he was in the living room of his old family home, sitting on his Ma’s ratty old couch. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, allowing him to see the two female dwarves conversing in low tones that were sitting in chairs across from him.

He recognized both of them.

He’d never forget his old Ma’, looking the same as ever wrapped in her elder’s robe and headscarf.

But it was the second dwarf he was most surprised to see.

“Marva?!” He blurted out, dumbfounded to see the baker that he had been trying to court, here in his Ma’s living room. “What the hells are ye doin’ here?”

Marva Kegborn was a stout example of female dwarvenhood, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful in his eyes. Her black hair was held back by a concealing head scarf, while her muddy brown eyes stared at him in shock. She was oddly dressed in her work clothes, with a flour-spotted apron over her pants and tunic.

Her shocked look at his abrupt awakening transformed into a glower. “Lookin’ after yer poor old mum, ye idjit!” She barked at him. “If’n the old gel is goin’ ta become me mother-in-law, I need ta make sure she’s looked after, don’t I? Yer doin’ a piss poor job of it, after all!”

Bront grew even more confused. “But…” He stammered. “What do ye mean? Ye haven’t even agreed to go out wit’ me yet…”

Marva snorted at him in disgust, turning up her nose at him while his Ma’ shook her head sadly. “Ye’ve never understood romance, Bront me boy,” His Ma’ said, tsking at him.

Oh, whatever. He could figure this out later. Bront rubbed his head where he’d been hit. “Did one of ye knock me out?”

Marva’s indignance transformed into bashfulness in the blink of an eye. “Aye, that was me.” She picked up a large frying pan and showed it to Bront. “Mrs. Stonebin and I heard someone messin’ around in the back, and I got ready to bean them. Didn’t know it was ye, Bront.”

“I told you, call me Kerrin, dear,” Bront’s Ma’ said to Marva, before rounding on Bront. “Anyways, what the hells were ye doin’ back there, boy? The front door exists fer a reason. Ye ain’t some pissant little teen tryin’ to sneak back in anymore.”

Bront’s eyes widened, as memories of his predicament came flooding in. He jumped to his feet in alarm. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but they couldn’t stay here. The Don’s people may not have been here before he’d been knocked out, but…

“Get up, both of ye,” He said urgently to the two confused dwarven women. “We need ta get out-”

Bront was cut off by the sound of strong fists banging on the front door of his childhood home. They were slamming their hams into it so hard that it was rattling the frame.

Bront felt his heart clench in his chest.

Too late.

The hammers had found him.

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