The Crafter's Darkness: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 4) Jonathan Brooks (best smutty novels TXT) 📖

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.

“Regardless, her presence in my life at such a young age lent me to appreciate the finer…aspects…of our neighbors.  When I was young, I even bedded and begat a child on a Dwarven woman – but that’s beside the point.  I learned that my Warband put you through your paces on your way back here, and I have to say I’m surprised that most of you are even standing here right now.  I know firsthand how fragile your lithe bodies are and can’t even run for a