PreCursive
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SotF Shorts: Unlikely Survival Ch. 4
🕑 Added 2024-02-13 18:00:09 +0000 UTCAN:
Don't think there's going to be an update to this on Thursday. Apologies, juggling some things lately making me busier than usual. This just isn't as much of a priority compared to the main chapters.
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Bront ruthlessly crushed the panic that was trying to well up from within him, just as his old Sergeant had taught him. He didn’t have time to flap about uselessly.
Not when both Marva and his Ma’s lives were on the line.
It felt like the world slowed around him, as he thought furiously. If the hammers found him in here, what would they do? Well, that was easy.
They’d kill everyone inside, the women included.
If he wasn’t…
That was a bit tricky, and depended on who the Don had sent out here. But generally, the hammers knew that they couldn’t just go around whacking people in the poorer districts. If they did that, the base of their support in the city would be in danger of collapsing. Meanwhile, Bront knew that he couldn’t’ slip out the back. These hammers weren’t exactly blunt in the head, after all. Bront would bet his last gold crown on one of the fuckers lingering around the back door, just waiting on someone to try and slip out.
That wasn’t an option. Bront wasn’t willing to start a fight in, or even around his childhood home. He grimaced. Damnit. Why did Marva have to go and knock him out? If she hadn’t, Ma’ and him probably would have been out of the city by now.
If he couldn’t run, then he was just going to have to hide.
Luckily, he knew just the place to do it.
Bront met the eyes of the two female dwarves in the room, and then laid a finger over his lips in a shushing motion. Leaning in closer to them, he spoke in as quiet of a voice as he could manage and still be heard over the banging. You never knew when a Perception specialist was around.
“I was never here, ye understand?” He whispered, trying to impart the seriousness of the situation with his eyes alone. “Ye haven’t seen me in weeks.”
His Ma’ instantly understood. The old girl had been around the block more than a few times, and this wasn’t even the first time she was helping to hide a man in her house. Nodding, she slipped a necklace out under her dress, from which a small key dangled. Yanking it off the chain, she handed it over to Bront. “Gonna tan yer hide fer this later, boy.” She still hissed at her son, before turning to face Marva.
The other dwarf was looking confused and scared. Bront didn’t blame her. Marva was from a better part of town, and her family had never really crossed paths with the criminal element of Rhoscara. They’d been simple bakers for generations, now. The most they had to deal with was the occasional tough wandering in off the street and asking for a boll. His Ma’ had it in hand, though. The older dwarf was already taking her by the arm and whispering directions in her ear.
That was the last thing Bront saw of them, before he hurried as quietly as he dared in the direction of the cellar. Easing the door open and shutting it softly behind him, Bront forewent the stairs altogether in order to simple leap down to the bottom. He rolled as he hit the dirt floor, both to minimize the noise of his landing, and to soften it.
Looking around wildly, blood thundering in his ears, Bront saw that the cellar hadn’t changed much since he’d moved out. It was still packed with all kinds of junk from the decades that his Ma’ had lived here, and especially from everything his poor old Da’ had collected before he’d carked it. It was both a mess and a maze in here.
Still, that wouldn’t stop the hammerboys outside from scouring every last inch of it for his presence. Bront knew that just hiding in one of the piles of junk would likely get him shanked by a mafia good looking for a promotion.
Good thing that wasn’t what he was intending to do.
Bront hurried over to the far wall of the cellar as quickly as he dared, as he heard his Ma’ finally open the front door upstairs. As he reached it, he heard muffled conversation break out, indignant from his Ma’, and demanding from a rough male voice. Carefully stepping over a pile of old tanning equipment as tall as he was, Bront rolled back a dirty old tapestry on the wall.
To most people's eyes, there was nothing on the other side. It was only if you had known his Da’ that would you suspect something. Bront had, and could make out the incredibly thin lines of the panel that was hidden in what looked like plain stonework. Snatching an old tanning knife from the pile next to him, Bront carefully wedged the blade into the crack, and opened it.
Revealing the secret tunnel on the other side. Bront let out a shuddering sigh of relief that Da’s old bootlegger tunnels hadn’t collapsed yet. He hurried inside as he heard multiple sets of boots storm into the house. He pulled the panel in behind him, making sure that the tapestry was going to fall back into place over the stonework of the false wall.
He was just in time. Bront heard the door to the cellar slam open, with one of the thugs invading his childhood home tromping down the stairs.
Concentrating, Bront did his best to slow down his breathing. He closed his eyes as he clasped his hands in front of him. He’d heard some of his officers call this exercise ‘meditation’ before, but he just thought of it as deep thinking.
Bront felt his heartbeat slow, as his breath came slow and shallow. Still, he was keeping an ear open. He didn’t hear any of the telltale sounds of violence from upstairs, only the complaints of his Ma’. Worryingly though, he didn’t hear anything from Marva.
Eventually, the bastard poking around in the cellar grew tired of his fruitless exploration, and left. Upstairs, Bront heard the conversation pick up volume, but still wasn’t able to make out any words. He tensed, as he heard the sound of flesh impacting flesh, following by a thump. Bront nearly charged out of the tunnel right then, but checked himself at the last moment. That hadn’t sounded like a killing blow to him, just someone getting handsy.
Still, he burned with humiliation at being forced to hide like this, while some fucker hit one of his women.
He heard sobbing upstairs from one of them, before the whole lot of mafia dwarves left the house. He waited several more minutes before he rushed out of the tunnel, just to make sure the coast was clear. Running up the stairs as fast as he dared and out of the door, he grimaced at the state of his childhood home.
It wasn’t quite a wreck, but those thugs hadn’t exactly been careful with his Ma’s belongings, as they rifled through the house looking for him. Still, that wasn’t important.
His Ma’ sitting on her old couch, holding a hand to her rapidly reddening cheek.
But it was only her up here.
Marva was nowhere to be seen.
Bront felt his heart drop, as his Ma’ met his eyes met from across the distance. Hers were hard and dry, in a way that Bront hadn’t seen in years and years.
“They took her, boy,” She said grimly. “The hammers took yer girl.”
<<Chapter 3 | Table of Contents | Chapter 5>>
