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

More reinforcements?  I wonder if something happened that I don’t know about.  Regardless of what was going on, Kelerim didn’t have the swords ready yet.  “I’m not done yet, but you can take the few that I’ve finished already—”

“What, like this junk?” Razochek interrupted him, as he picked up the sword that Kelerim had just finished before he took a break.  “This worthless piece of crap is shorter than all the rest, not that those others are any better.  These things will barely be able to cut a potato, let alone hold up against some of the monsters that real Orcs face in the dungeon,” the warband leader continued, as he tossed the sword to the ground as if to emphasize his point.

“That’s because those haven’t been sharpened yet.  I do have about a dozen that are—” Kelerim began, before he was interrupted again.

“Not good enough.  In fact, nothing you do is good enough; I don’t know why they didn’t strangle you as an infant, like we do with all the other deformed brats that are born,” the warband leader said seriously, with an intense look upon his face.

Kelerim had heard the same thing many times over the years, so after a while it didn’t bother him; however, the sheer hatred and restrained violence on the Orc’s face was a bit unnerving.  While insults and hurtful words had haunted him for the many years that he had spent inside the land of Orcrim, this was the first time he felt as though it could be backed up by a physical threat.

But the half-blood Blacksmith was tired of all of it.  “Look, Razochek, what do you want me to say or do?  There was no one to train me how to do this, and it’s not like the work that other Orcish Blacksmiths do is any better – I’ve seen the hunks of metal they pass off as weapons—”

Before he knew what was going on, Kelerim was on the ground, reeling from a backhand from the giant warband leader that he didn’t even see coming.  “Don’t you dare speak of your betters like that, half-blood.  Those ‘Blacksmiths’ are better than you’ll ever be, because they are proud, full-blooded Orcs – unlike your tainted trash blood.  You’ll never become anything and never accomplish anything, for one reason: you don’t have the heart of a Warrior inside of you.  You’re worthless,” Razochek practically snarled as he stared at Kelerim on the ground, still recovering from the unexpected blow.

Before the Blacksmith could retort in any way, the warband leader continued.  “I’m done with you.  There’s another who can work the metal that arrived with the new reinforcements, so you’re out.  Your ‘services’ are no longer needed.”  When Kelerim didn’t move, as the shock of the backhand and the statement were still trying to process in his mind, Razochek kicked him hard in the side.  The Blacksmith was flung bodily out of the smithy, landing nearly 20 feet away in a jumble of limbs.  “You are no longer needed here; leave and never come back, half-blood.  You have until the count of ten to get out of my sight, or I’ll hunt you down and I’ll see what you’re really made of.  Like, your insides and stuff.”

As articulate as always, Kelerim couldn’t help but think – at least before the import of what the warband leader said hit him.  He scrambled to his feet, and instantly doubled over as what was sure to be a massive bruise to his side made itself known.  He groaned in pain, glad that his sturdy frame made it likely that he wouldn’t have to worry too much about broken bones from the impact of the Orc’s foot.

It still hurt though.

“Three!”  The pain of his injury must’ve deafened him to the first two numbers, because the third number was the first that he actually heard.  Either that, or Razochek was being a bastard and started the count at the advanced number.

“Four!”

Kelerim took off at a shambling run, holding his side as every step shot pain through his body.  He ran blindly, knowing that he had better get out of sight before the warband leader or his cronies decided they needed to hunt him down; it wasn’t an idle threat, either – he’d seen full-blooded Orcs killed out of hand for seemingly minor infractions before in other cities and towns.  It didn’t happen much out on the border – as they needed nearly every member of their small village to operate properly – but since there was already a “replacement” for him, he wouldn’t be missed.

Which was sad, when he thought about it; there wasn’t a single person, Orc or Dwarf, that would miss him if he died.  He thought his mother’s family might have at least cared for him at one time, but they had abandoned him to the wild as soon as any type of dissention happened in their community.  True, they gave him a pack that contained some extra clothes and enough food to last for a couple of weeks, but he thought that family shouldn’t abandon children like that.  He wasn’t sure what they could’ve done, but something would’ve been better than what they did; as a result, he lost all respect that he had for them – as he was sure they had lost all love or caring for him.

But that was neither here nor there – he needed to get away as fast as he could.

“Five!”

Kelerim could hear the next count a little further away, but not as far as he was expecting.  They must be following me.  Regardless, he kept running, knowing that if he stopped, he would definitely be killed; this way, at least, he had a chance of getting away.  By the time he heard, “Six!” ring out behind him, he was passing through the