The Crafter's Darkness: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 4) by Jonathan Brooks (e book reading free txt) 📕

their “mercenary” position after a year?  I really doubt they would re-enlist like she had hinted, though I could be wrong.

It didn’t take long for Furbrea to reach the supply hut, as she had walked to it every day for the last 20 years and could probably walk it with her eyes closed.  Over the last few days the journey seemed shorter somehow, or it could be because she had hope buoying her steps, making it less of a chore.  Either way, she unlatched the door and went inside, glad to be out of the direct sunlight, but was also hit by the sweltering heat of the enclosed building.  She was used to it, however, so it was easy to ignore; besides, sometimes a little heat felt nice on her aging body.  Going to the corner of the small hut, she lifted up the trapdoor that led underneath the hut and climbed down the stone steps that had been laid to form a staircase leading 20 feet down.

This was where they kept most of their foodstuffs that weren’t being directly consumed, as the coolness of the underground cellar kept supplies fresher, longer. “Not that there’s much to store right now,” she muttered under her breath as she looked around the dark room, only lit by what was coming down the staircase.  She could’ve brought a small candle or even a torch to see with, but she was so familiar with the space that it wasn’t even needed.  That, and she had already transferred what they had left to eat near the entrance, so that it would be easy to find.

All of it fit into a burlap sack off of the bag stack she had stored down there for when she needed to bag allotments up for the villagers – or at least she used to.  That hadn’t been something she’d needed to do for the last few days, except to give those that left to find Warbands the necessary supplies they needed to travel.

It wasn’t much; there were a few strips of dried meat that had seen better days, some extremely stale flatbread that would need to be soaked in water before they could even be eaten, and the last wedge of slightly moldy cheese that came from central Orcrim, where they raised a variety of animals that provided milk that was made into the delicious substance. It was a bit of a luxury that they received every few months in their normal supply shipments, though now this was likely to be the last of it they would see for a long time.

Theoretically, the 6 villagers – including herself – could ration the food out another day or so, but Furbrea knew it was better to have everyone at full strength to finish their preparations.  If something didn’t happen soon, though, like the promised delivery of supplies by that Elf, then they might be in trouble.  They had some options – like attempting to hunt in the forest for meat – if it came to that point, but it was something that none of them had much practice or talent in; those types of activities were usually reserved for members in – or expecting to join – a Warband.

“We’ll do what we have to in order to survive, I suppose.”  Furbrea walked back up the stairs, the cold sinking into her bones enough that the heat above felt wonderful.  She closed up the trapdoor and headed out of the supply hut, only to almost run into Perchunk as he ran up to the hut’s door.

“Whoa!  What’s going on?” she said, catching him before he could slam into her.

He was breathing a little hard, as if he had been running.  “That Elf is back!”

Finally!  “Let’s go and meet her, then.  I hope she’s not disappointed that we don’t have any…volunteers…yet, but I warned her that it would take at least a few days, if we succeeded at all.”  Furbrea followed the relatively young Perchunk as he raced off towards the southeastern side of the village – which was the area nearest the wastelands.  Eagerness lent speed to her own strides and while she couldn’t keep up with him, she arrived soon after him – only to find everyone else already there looking off a short distance into the wastelands.

Furbrea could barely believe what she was seeing.  Standing on top of a floating platform of stone with short sides was the same Elf she had met before—Echo, I believe Kelerim told me her name was—and she was accompanied by two other metallic figures.  Around them all were arranged a bunch of what looked like wooden and stone boxes, as well as piles of…something.  They were still too far out for her to see exactly what it was, but the point was they all appeared to be some supplies.  The whole floating stone platform was hard to fathom, but the fact that the Elf was back boded well for the future. She had to admit that she had almost thought that the deal was some sort of hoax; the sight of Echo was a relief, to say the least.

I hope there’s some food in those boxes; we can’t eat swords, after all.  The boxes didn’t appear large enough to fit swords, at least, unless they were short swords; if that were the case, Furbrea was worried that the Warbands wouldn’t appreciate them.

They all stood in silence as the stone platform approached slowly, floating approximately 5 feet off the ground, and gently rising and falling as it passed over the landscape.  Within a minute, Echo and her unusual conveyance arrived, and the Elf nodded at her and the others but didn’t say anything.  There was no sight of the boy Kelerim there to help them translate, so she wasn’t sure exactly how they were supposed to communicate.

The platform gently fell to the ground where it settled, before the