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

last of the mostly stone-made buildings of the village.  He exhaled explosively in relief – which pained his side even more – and ran another 100 feet before he looked around for the first time and realized he was going the wrong way.

Grongbak was located on the border of the wastelands, an area of dirt, rocks, and more dirt that stretched as far as the eye could see.  He knew firsthand that it didn’t go on forever, as the Dwarven lands where he was born were to the east, and he had traveled through the wastelands by himself and somehow survived long enough to be picked up by a passing Orc warband.  Rumor said that the Elven lands were located somewhere to the south, and that Gnomes lived to the southeast – but no one had seen nor heard from them in years, if not decades.

And it was in this wasteland that Kelerim now found himself.

Chapter 22

Kelerim immediately turned around to see if he could circle around the village and head back into Orcrim.  He briefly thought about trying to ply his new Blacksmithing trade in another town or village; he realized that it would be an uphill battle getting another place to accept him into their community, but at least he had a skill of sorts to offer.  He wasn’t great at it by any means, but he had gotten incrementally better over the last year of constant practice.

Those hopes were dashed as he saw Razochek and his two subordinates spread out on the edge of the village.  The warband leader had stopped counting, but he had drawn his sword and held it out, pointing directly towards Kelerim.

“We better not find you trying to sneak back in here, or any of my warband will kill you without hesitation.  And—” Razochek said loudly, signaling the rest of his warband that had been previously out of sight to make an appearance along the outskirts of the village— “don’t even think about circling the village and making your way deeper into Orcrim.  You aren’t wanted here anymore, so it’s time for you to go back to where you belong.  From the wasteland you came, so to it you return.”

That was surprisingly…well-spoken.  I have to give it to him – he knows how to make a scene.  The rest of the Orcish warband looked on threateningly, fingering their weapons if not outright drawing them.  “Why…why are you doing this?” Kelerim managed to wheeze out between the slowly lessening pain in his side.

“I told you already, Hafanorc.  You’re worthless and don’t belong here.  I should just kill you, but I don’t want to soil my blade with your filthy half-blood.  But I will do it if I catch you anywhere near here.”

And that was all Razochek would say as he and the others stared at him, daring him to try anything.  Why didn’t he just kill me, if he hates me that much?  I doubt anyone would’ve lifted a finger to stop him, and he probably wouldn’t even get in trouble.

Kelerim didn’t have an answer for that – and he wasn’t about to ask.  He still had his life and wanted to grasp the small chance of prolonging that life a little longer.  Though, faced with the prospect of starving to death in the wasteland, he briefly considered a quick death to be a better alternative – but abandoned that line of thought as it would be akin to giving up.  And despite everything that life had thrown at him in his 19 years on this world, he wasn’t a quitter.

So he turned around and headed farther into the wasteland, the spot between his shoulder blades tingling at the thought of an attack from behind.  It wasn’t likely, as any type of ranged weapon in Orcish society was frowned upon as something only a coward would use, but he wouldn’t put it past one of them to throw their sword at him from a distance.  Smartly – for once – they didn’t throw their weapons away and he was able to escape without harm.  Well, more harm; his side injury was still painful, but he knew it would heal eventually.

Whether or not he lived long enough for it to fully heal, however, was another question entirely.  He had no provisions, no weapons (not that he knew how to use one), and very thin clothing that was suitable for working in his smithy.  From prior experience, he knew that the wasteland got really cold at night; when he traveled before, his traitorous “family” had at least provided warm clothing for him to survive longer, but now he didn’t even have that.  He had his leather apron, of course, but it was a poor alternative for a warm blanket or coat.

Fortunately, if anything could be considered fortunate in his circumstances, Kelerim had eaten a hearty meal before he had been chased out of the village, so his priority wasn’t finding his next meal – it was finding some sort of shelter to hole up in and survive the coming cold night.  If he could find a place that he could somehow insulate against the freezing temperatures, he might be able to live long enough to worry about food…and water…and plans for the future.

Luckily, the barren landscape was rife with hills and valleys, including a few places where tiny mountains protruded out from the earth like goosebumps dotting the wasteland’s

skin.  Kelerim vaguely remembered finding a few caves on his week-and-a-half-long journey when he was 8 years old, but it felt like so long ago that he couldn’t remember exactly where they were – or even what they looked like.  Besides, I think that was at least 10 or 15 miles north from here, possibly farther.

No one really knew how big the wasteland was, but from what he heard after he was found, he had gotten lucky and passed through