SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 2

AN:

You know, this isn’t really much of a comedy, now that I’m getting it down. Sorry about that. I had this idea in my head of dumb old Bront, just barely bumbling his way out of a mafia hit. But it’s really turning into more of an escape thriller. I’ll still try and fit in a few moments of levity where appropriate, but I’m not super dissatisfied with the way this is going.

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“I don’t care where you go,” Fanziel said, scrambling behind the bar. He rummaged around and pulled out a moneybox and yanked it open. “But you can’t stay in Rhoscara. Go to one of the other cities, hell, go to human Kingdom for all I care. But you can’t stay here.”

“B-but…,” Bront stuttered, stunned. “Me life is here. Me Ma…me money. I…I almost have a girl too…”

Fanziel grabbed a handful of coins out of the moneybox and slammed it on the counter in front of Bront. “This is your pay for the rest of the month. Do with it what you want, but you need to get out now.”

Bront got angry, then. He slammed his fist down onto the counter next to the coin that Fanziel had just laid out, causing it to bounce into the air briefly. “Ye aren’t listenin’ ta me! I can’t just up and leave! I got a damned life here now!”

Moving quicker than he’d ever seen from the dwarf, Fanziel reached across the bar to grab Bront’s lapels and dragged him closer. Their eyes met. Bront could see that his apparently former bosses eyes were bloodshot and a little crazed. “That doesn’t matter anymore, you buffoon!” He hissed. “You either get out of this city, or you die! You only get one shot at all this! Once you’re dead, that’s it! You can’t try again! You can’t pick yourself up off the cobblestone and build anotherlife! In the end, the only thing that matters is that you survive to try again! I would have thought a former soldier would understand this!”

Bront had never seen Fanziel like this before, and he was glad he hadn’t.

He would have popped the man in the face if he had ever been spoken to like this before.

In fact…

Bront reared back and headbutted the bar owner in the face. Not hard, he wasn’t looking to break the dwarf’s nose. Only hard enough that Fanziel released his shirt and staggered back, stunned.

“Yer a sad little stuntie, Brightbrew,” Bront said, using the human slur for dwarves. He shook his head slowly. “If ye think that soldiers only care fer themselves. Ye don’t get it at all.”

Nevertheless, Bront swiped the coin on the counter and deposited it into his moneypouch.

Fanziel shot Bront one of the foulest looks that the former groundpounder had ever seen then. “The thanks I get…” Bront heard him mutter.

Before their conversation could continue, Bront heard someone begin to pound on the front door of the tavern. Pivoting on his heel, Bront heard a gruff voice echo through the blocked entryway. “Open the door, Brightbrew. We know you’re in there.”

Bront and Fanziels eyes met then. Bront’s blood ran cold in his veins.

He knew that voice.

That was Ilmo, one of Don Thraggec’s top enforcers. Fanziel was right.

The Don’s men had come for him.

“Back door, hurry,” Fanziel whispered urgently to Bront, jabbing a finger in the direction of the kitchen.

Bront exchanged one final nod with his now former boss, and hopped the bar. In seconds, he was inside the kitchen, occupied only by a frightened Ricklan. Bront had never seen the usually stoic bartender so spooked. He didn’t blame him, though. The Don had that effect on most people.

“Happy trails, Rick,” Bront said quietly to his sometimes drinking partner. Ricklan just gave Bront a sick-looking smile in return. Sighting the back door to the Mare in front of him, Bront paused before dashing through it, narrowing his eyes.

If it was him doing this shite…

Sighting a nearby carving knife and cutting board, Bront pulled out one of the gold crowns that Fanziel had just given him, and laid it on the counter for Rick. The bartender was visibly confused by his actions, but uttered a weak “Hey!” in protest as Bront picked up the knife and board. Bront held the board as best he could like a shield on his left arm, while he readied the carving knife in his right.

Sword and board, so to speak. Just like how they’d taught him in the army.

Bront heard Fanziel open the front door from the other room, and start speaking to Ilmo. His blood started pounding in his ears.

He had to go now.

Creeping up on the back door, Bront carefully turned the knob and let go of it. Bringing the cutting board up front of his body, he nudged the door open with a foot.

His saved his life.

A spiked mace immediately swung in from the left, the attacker hidden by the wall. It lodged itself into the thick wood of the cutting board, while the person that had just tried to kill him grunted in confusion.

Bront felt a familiar calm roll over him. He may have been out for a few years, but he still remembered how to fight.

He activated one of his few skills, pounded into him by his old drill Sergeant.

Up and At ‘Em.

His already strong body surged with renewed strength. Bront charged forward, angling to his left as he cleared the doorway. Pivoting swiftly on his heel, Bront briefly saw a dwarf that he wasn’t familiar with. They were dressed in all black and had been yanked forward by Bront’s charge, stumbling as they tried to regain their footing.

Likely one of the Don’s hatchetdwarves.

That didn’t matter to Bront, though.

Before the dwarf could get his feet back under himself, Bront rushed forward, ducking under the enemies outstretched arm. With his other, he readied his purloined blade.

He drove it up under the chin of the opposing soldier, piercing all the way up to his brain.

The Don’s dwarf was dead instantly.

Before he could even gurgle a dying breath, Bront slammed his shield hand over the dead dwarves mouth.

The alleyway behind the Gilded Mare remained silent.

Letting out a breath, Bront eased the assassin down to the pavement slowly, so as not to make any noise. As he rose back to his feet, Bront discarded the ruined cutting board and left the carving knife embedded in the dead mafioso.

He made sure to take the mace, though.

He was probably going to need it.

Stepping carefully further into the alleyway, Bront prepared himself for a tense trek. Not to get out of town, no. At least not yet.

He had some business to attend to before he got out of Rhoscara.

He was getting to his gods-be-damned Ma’ if it was the last thing he did.

Hells, for all he knew?

It just might be.

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