The Crafter's Dungeon: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 1) by Jonathan Brooks (literature books to read TXT) 📕

The Crafter’s Dungeon

A Dungeon Core Novel

Dungeon Crafting – Book 1

Jonathan Brooks

Cover Design: Yvonne Less, Art 4 Artists

Copyright ©2019 Jonathan Brooks

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The following is a work of fiction.  Any names, characters, businesses, corporations, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.  Any resemblance to any actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design Copyright ©2019 Yvonne Less, Art 4 Artists

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all my friends and family who have supported me on my writer’s journey, as well as providing much-needed encouragement.  You’re the best!

 I would also like to thank all of the beta-readers who did such a great job with their suggestions and corrections!

Aaron Wiley

Grant Harrell

Jeffrey McDaniel

Ross Kitchen

Sean Hall

Steve Spence

Steven Gene Mills

Zak Schamell

A special thank you is also in order for Brian O’Neil, who helped immensely with edits and development!

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Author’s Note

Books by Jonathan Brooks

Chapter 1

Sandra cursed her fumbling fingers as she caught the small jewel-encrusted knife – by the handle, fortunately – before it could hit the ground, though she stumbled a bit and had to collapse to her knees to keep from ending up with a face-full of dirt.  Sighing in relief, she ignored the sting of a cut in her left knee; the last thing she needed was to damage some of their merchandise before the day even started.

“Are you ok?” her father asked, looking over his shoulder in concern at his daughter.

“Yes, I’m fine – I just stumbled a little,” she replied, picking herself up – while favoring her left leg – and gently placing the ornate (though still deadly) weapon on the nearby display table.

Ardling put down what he was working on and stooped by her side; without asking, he pulled up her skirt and looked at her scraped knee.

Sandra yanked her skirt out of his hands, a blush creeping up her face.  Luckily, the pair in the merchant’s booth had been blocked from anyone outside seeing her bare legs, but she was still mortified.  “Stop that!  I’m fine – it’s just a little scrape, is all.  I’m not eight years-old anymore, father.”

He stood up straight after making sure she was indeed fine, but he still looked worried.  “I know that, Sandy, but you can’t be too careful.  Even a small scratch can grow much worse if not treated…”  Ardling trailed off, his vision now looking through her as if he was remembering something.

Or someone.

Her mother had passed away when she was a small girl of four from something as innocuous as a small scratch from a normally harmless rat.  Never one to complain, the wound on her mother’s leg had festered over the course of a couple of days; Sandra and her family had been traveling on the road – in between towns – when the fever started.  Although her father had rushed to the next town on his fastest mount, he was too late to save her.

Sandra barely even remembered her face; in fact, she didn’t even remember her name because her father refused to talk about her, as if he wanted to forget she ever existed.  It wasn’t out of malice, however – it was just the opposite.  Ardling had loved her mother so much that it was obviously painful to think about what he had lost.

And Sandra knew that because her father once told her that she was a splitting image of his late wife.  She couldn’t imagine what kind of suffering he had to go through everyday just by looking at her, though she could see the haunted look in his eyes whenever he glanced in her direction.  It was this reason, and this reason alone, that she tolerated his overprotectiveness – but she had to draw the line somewhere.

“I’ll take care of it right now, father, so please don’t worry,” she told him.  “Go on and keep setting up and I’ll be right back.”

She went to one of the closest wagons behind the merchant’s stall and pulled out a small box of medical supplies.  It didn’t matter which wagon it was, as Ardling made sure that every one of their transport vehicles had more than adequate supplies to help with any type of accident.  There was even an ultra-expensive high-quality Health Potion in each box, which would heal and fix almost any non-fatal injury.  Her father’s paranoia about wounds did come in handy sometimes.

Though, “handy”, wasn’t quite the word either of them would normally use.

Born with a defect in both of her hands that made them practically deformed, Sandra had difficulty gripping, squeezing, and holding anything heavier than the knife she had fumbled earlier and moving her fingers in any complicated motions was next to impossible.  In fact, they were shaped more like monster claws than normal hands and had an almost permanent curl to them.  However, after twenty-six years of living with it, she could manage most common things with a little effort.

After spreading a little low-grade healing ointment on her scrape from an easy-to-open jar, she wound a small clean bandage around it