The Crafter's Darkness: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 4)

by Jonathan Brooks

  Hey, Winxa – do you want to see what I’ve been working on? This will show you that I have a plan for these Goblins. While Sandra was still a little annoyed that the Dungeon Fairy had questioned her choices, deep down she knew that Winxa was only trying to look out for her welfare. Especially with all of the recent mental…issues…she had been having.

  “Absolutely! Honestly, I’ve been dying to know.”

  The Dungeon Fairy opened one of her portals into the first room and saw the assembled Goblins in their chest armor, and Sandra explained what she had in mind, and depending on how they performed she might change it up. Winxa was genuinely excited over what she had done, even if she was using a Dungeon Monster not necessarily suited to combat, but she also applauded Sandra’s use of what she had available.

  Okay, now in this second room there are Fire traps creating obstacles towards the exit, which I’m particularly proud of if I do say so myself. However, they are secondary to what I wanted to experiment with. I would stay a bit away in the tunnel if I were you because I have no idea what this will do.

  “I can do that – but what are you planning on doing?” Winxa asked curiously, but with a little fear tinging her voice.

  Watch.

  Winxa was at least 400 feet away inside the tunnel connecting the first and second rooms, so Sandra thought that was more than enough distance to stay safe. Therefore, she had her Goblin finally toss the special Fire Energy Orb Fireburst bomb off of the stone platform; it sailed through the air and fell directly into the middle of the room in a spectacular toss, hitting the stone floor with a clink as one of the short copper rods was plunged into the center of the ball and into the Energy Orb.

  Nothing happened for a few seconds as the ball bounced a little and started to roll and Sandra thought for a moment that she had messed something up. However, the process obviously took a little longer for some reason, because the largest explosion she’d ever seen emerged from the bomb. A gigantic flash of flames at least 40 feet wide filled up the middle of the room and the heat from the explosion slammed into everything, charring every single Goblin in the room.

  That wasn’t the worst part, however, as the Dungeon Monsters were already dead by that point; the shockwave from the explosion hit them first, snapping their bones even as they were tossed backwards. The heat of the flames hit them while they were still flying from the force of the shockwave, burning them up in mid-flight – and none of them survived long enough to even land or hit the wall behind them, as they dissolved into Monster Seeds that rolled along with their previous momentum.

  Even Winxa, 400 feet away, tumbled through the air from the leading wave of the explosion, though fortunately she was able to right herself before she hit the ground, unhurt but shocked and confused.

  “Uh…Sandra? What was that? I don’t think that is necessarily safe for your dungeon,” the Dungeon Fairy said after she had recovered enough to form a coherent question.

  That was an understatement. Without the literal limiting factor of the special Limiter rune to keep it at a reasonable transfer of Mana towards the Fireburst enchantment, all 800 Mana involved in the creation of the Energy Orb was consumed instantly. Sandra had thought that it would just be a more impressive explosion than the one that had nearly destroyed her Ape, but the result was much different than even she had expected. Looking at the damage that the explosion of flames did to her Goblins in the room was bad enough, but seeing what it did to her dungeon was even worse.

  A hemispherical-shaped hole was blasted into the hard stone floor of the room about 15 feet across, with stone shards from the enormous force embedded into the stone platforms and even the ceiling; upon further investigation, she discovered that some even went down both the entrance and exit tunnels of the room, reaching incredible distances. It was only by luck that Winxa hadn’t been hit by one – and she didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention the near-death experience to the Dungeon Fairy. She was fine, after all, though she would make darn sure she experimented with anything before she saw it for the first time.

  There were also large cracks on the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room which were likely caused by the shockwave slamming into them, which was just another indication of how powerful it had been. There was no way she could use something like that without compromising the integrity of her entire dungeon, mainly because the explosion seemed to be felt even by the Dwarven villagers, who were miles away from it.

  Ok, yeah – that was a bit too much. I think if I stuck to some smaller Energy Orbs…

  “You’re dangerous, you know that?” Winxa interrupted her thoughts on how to scale back the explosion, though Sandra could see a smile on her face – even despite being almost killed.

  Uh…thanks?

  The Dungeon Fairy responded with something, but Sandra was distracted and didn’t hear what it was. That was because, one right after the other, the 4 Dungeon Cores nearest the Dwarves and the Elves suddenly finished their Core Size upgrades.

  Chapter 28

  Wyrlin’s legs and feet were exhausted and his lungs burned in his chest with every breath he took. He and his group of Rangers had been walking practically non-stop since they had been taken captive back near the forest’s border, with only a few rest stops along the way. He had gotten perhaps 4 hours of sleep over the last three days and he could feel his eyelids wanting to droop of their own volition. The only thing keeping him awake was the fact that they were surrounded by hundreds of huge Orcs that seemed capable of snapping him in half with one green-skinned hand. While he (and many other Elves, he was sure) thought of them as little more than savages that would prefer to rip the leg off a beast and beat it with its own limb rather than adopt the much-safer practiced stealth of a Ranger’s hunt, he had to admit that they were stronger, fitter, and had much more endurance than he or his group did. Savages they might be, but they were powerful savages, nonetheless.

  Well, I guess I can’t complain too much; at least I don’t look ready to kill myself like Fyola and the other robe-wearing Elites.

  The bow-wielding Elites were in relatively the same shape endurance-wise as Wyrlin and his Rangers, but Fyola and the others were like walking corpses. The thought of the undead made him shiver in the midday heat, but it was an apt description; no amount of pleading from their “leader” could get the Orcs to stop for more time than they were allotting. She even refused to move one morning after only being given an hour of rest, but the Orcs were having none of her protestations – and Wyrlin was loving it.

  They weren’t going to carry her and weren’t going to leave her behind, so they resorted to pushing her body with their feet (which such prodding did absolutely nothing to convince her to move) and then kicking her hard enough to shift her forward a few feet (which worked marvelously to change her attitude). Especially when there was a conversation he couldn’t understand, but which he could easily translate to, “We will kick you the entire way to our camp if we have to.”

  Wyrlin was forced to admit that he admired her – and the other Elites’ – restraint, because despite being kicked around and forced to march in the hot sun and even through the night for hours on end, she hadn’t once retaliated by manipulating her elemental energy. He grudgingly also had to admit that if he were in the same position, he would have had a difficult time not making his severe displeasure known, which probably would have ended up with his death when he killed the Orc kicking him.

  From what he could determine, it was only through Mercyll’s efforts that they were all still on their feet. The soft-spoken Elite used his Holy element to soothe some of the aches from everyone’s bodies caused by the forced march, though even that took its toll after a while. He had been forced to use the spell more and more on the robe-wearing Elites (including himself) and it was slowly robbing them of their endurance. From what he understood, the Rejuvenation spell was perfectly safe when it was used in temporary situations, but the prolonged use tended to sap physical energy away quite rapidly. That
was why those Elites who needed it more looked like the walking dead, reluctantly putting their feet in front of each other without really seeing what was in front of them.

  “I think we’re almost there,” Ferio said softly from Wyrlin’s right-hand side. He practically whispered, but not because they weren’t allowed to talk; no, it was because raising one’s voice required entirely too much energy for most of them.

  Wyrlin lifted his tired head and looked ahead; it took him a few moments for his vision to focus on something that wasn’t just a few feet in front of him, but when he did he saw a large camp with hundreds of small tents ringing a larger, central tent made out of what appeared to be a dark, scaly leather of some kind – and without any visible joins, which meant that it was all one piece. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that it looked like it was off of one of the mythical dragons that were rumored to live in the deepest parts of the forests surrounding them. That would be crazy, though, because no one ventured that deep anymore, if they ever did.

  The distance was deceptive, however, and the sky was already darkening by the time they arrived within bowshot. Whether it was because the sight of their destination sapped all of her strength or her body finally gave out, Fyola collapsed into unconsciousness in mid-march just outside the outer ring of tents. Rather than kick her the rest of the way, one of the Orcs easily picked her up and threw her body over his shoulder without even breaking stride, obviously thinking it was better to just carry her rather than shuffling forward an unconscious body.

  A part of him hoped that she died, but then he realized that they might actually need her help if they were to have any hope of getting out of the situation they were in alive. Some of the other Elites spoke the Orcish language, and so did Ferio he thought, but she was their leader – as much as he hated to acknowledge that – and had been the one to talk to the Orcs back at the forest.

  From what he knew about their culture, they respected and followed those stronger than themselves and expected others to do the same; despite the fact that she had passed out on the way there, it was undeniable that Fyola was stronger in her manipulation of elemental energy than he or any other Ranger there. It was hard to tell with the other Elites how they stood in relation to her, but as they treated her as the leader that really said something. If they didn’t go into negotiations to get them out of this situation without their “best”, they might not get out at all.

  They were led to a relatively large tent near the middle of the camp, though not the one he had seen earlier with the dark scaly surface. It was just barely large enough to hold them all even then, and lying down would be difficult but not impossible. As soon as they were inside, the Orc carrying Fyola dropped her unceremoniously on the floor and left. The rest of their escort had peeled away earlier to who knew where, which left a lowly two Orcs standing guard just outside the tent’s entrance. One turned to speak something inside before turning away, completely disinterested in seeing after their care.

  “It appears as though the…Warlord?...is busy right now and won’t be able to see us until the morning,” Mercyll spoke softly to the silence within the tent. “I suggest you all get some rest; I know that I for one need it because I’m almost completely out of Holy energy. Don’t bother to set a guard; if they had wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t have brought us all this way.”

  That seemed like common sense, which just put another positive mark in the soft-spoken Elite’s favor. His more approachable demeanor, accompanied by the fact that he sacrificed his energy to make sure everyone kept moving – and not just the Elites – made Wyrlin, not for the first time, wish that Mercyll had taken charge back in their home forest rather than Fyola. It still would’ve rankled the Ranger, but he also probably wouldn’t want to kill the Elite with every step he took, either.

  Wyrlin dropped to the floor without further prompting and was out before he could count to ten, even with the feel of someone draped across his legs. As sleep slammed into him, he thought that it was almost guaranteed that many of those with him were going to have to get quite comfortable together in order to lie down at all.

  It felt like no time at all when he woke up abruptly, some sense of wrongness settling over him. His eyes shot open, only to see the bright light of morning streaming through the front of the tent. Wyrlin groaned as he pushed himself up with his arms, the pain in his muscles not as bad as it was yesterday but still present, though the wrongness that had woken him up immediately became apparent when he couldn’t feel his lower legs. A quick look back at them revealed the problem; Ferio’s body was still draped over them, cutting off a lot of the circulation to his lower extremities.

  His movements woke up the old Ranger, who sat up and scrambled to his feet in an automatic response, which freed up Wyrlin’s legs. As soon as the pressure of Ferio’s body was gone, the blood rushed down into his legs and feet, causing them to tingle horribly – but he sighed in relief as feeling came back to them.

  “Wh-what’s the word?” Ferio asked, his sudden awakening obviously causing his brain to stutter a little as it caught up to what was going on around them.

  “No idea, but it’s probably time we get everyone else up; I’m sure we’re going to be summoned or whatever soon,” Wyrlin responded, though there wasn’t really any need. Their few words, even lightly spoken, were enough to start a wave of the others waking up in varying degrees of alertness. A few of the Rangers sprang up like Ferio had done, while others just groaned in disappointment of being woken up. The Elite bow-wielders were in that first category, while Fyola, Mercyll and the other robe-wearing Elites were in the latter category.

  At least Fyola woke up, which was a tiny, teensy-weensy worry after she collapsed unconscious the night before.

  “Where are we?” she demanded as soon as she sat up, though her movements were obviously too abrupt by the way she held her hands to her head.

  Before anyone could answer, there was a voice from outside of their tent that snapped everyone’s head around to it. Again, the movement was too much for Fyola as she swooned a little and was barely able to prevent her upper half from collapsing.

  “We have approximately 5 minutes before they come for us, so I suggest everyone get something to eat,” Mercyll stated, before rushing to Fyola’s side. She shooed off his worry and got up under her own power, before following his advice and pulling a strip of dried meat out from her pouch and chewed on it. They had been given plenty of food and water during their march, at least, even though they had to eat it on the – sometimes literal – run.

  Wyrlin did the same and immediately felt better, though still a bit sore everywhere on his body. The rest and a quick meal did wonders for his outlook, however, which was starting to look up now that it was obvious that they weren’t going to be deliberately mistreated as captives – though he was sure some of the others might consider their march mistreatment.

  In much too short of a time, they were fetched and led towards the big tent in the center of the encampment. As they passed through, Wyrlin once again got a look at the material the tent was made of and saw the same dark-colored scale-like leather or hide that he had seen before; whether it was a mythical dragon or not, it still appeared to have all been part of a single creature.

  There wasn’t much to see inside of the large tent, as the sides contained what appeared to be individual rooms separated by some sort of fabric that made it impossible to see inside. The only thing of note, in fact, was a short throne-like chair at one end of the tent and its occupant, which was the biggest Orc he had ever seen before. From what he could determine, most of the Orcs he had seen thus far had been somewhere between 6 and a half to 7 and a half feet tall; this Orc, though he was sitting down and watching them approach, had to have been at least 9 feet tall, if not taller. When you added on at least another foot in shoulder width compared to the others Wyrlin had seen, he was an imposing figure.

  “Greetings. Welcome to my camp – I trust you weren’t mistreated?”

/>   To hear Elvish – heavily accented and barely recognizable, but Elvish, nonetheless – coming out of the giant Orc figure was both a surprise and a relief. For one, they wouldn’t have to rely on the Elites to speak for them; the last thing Wyrlin wanted was for them to make some sort of deal they were unaware of, like one where they traded the lives of him and his rangers in exchange for their freedom. Two, it also meant that there was more going on here than anyone probably realized, especially if this “Warlord” could speak their language. Where did he even learn it.

  “Mistreated? I’ll give you mistreated—” Fyola angrily began and started to walk forward, only to be stopped and silenced by Mercyll’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Sorry, you must forgive our esteemed leader here; she took a nasty fall last night and is still recovering. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to say anything to upset you.”

  Fyola still looked angry, but Mercyll’s words seemed to calm her down and get her back into a “friendlier” mood. “Yes, we were treated…well enough.”

  “Very good. Now, I have no doubt that you may be wondering why you were brought here. First, let me introduce myself. My name is Rothgar Bloodskull, though many just call me Warlord Bloodskull. Does that mean anything to you?”

  It meant absolutely nothing to Wyrlin and many of the other Rangers, but he saw Ferio and most of the other Elites stiffen briefly at the mention of his name.

  “Ah, I see that my family’s name extends all the way to your Elven lands, though I had suspected as much after talking with my tutor.”

  Fyola looked confused, and she wasn’t the only one. “Your tutor? Is this where you learned our language?”

  The Warlord laughed deeply. “Yes, we had captured an Elf some years ago when I was just a young Orcling, though instead of wanting to go back, this strange Elf wanted to stay. Therefore, in return for being allowed to live, she taught me your language and about your culture. Sadly, she died a few years ago because of one of my rivals who thought they could take something precious away from me without retaliation. Suffice it to say…he was dead wrong.