Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) Alex Oakchest (list of ebook readers .TXT) 📖

her mind, Galatee stared at the boy for the longest time. “You’re too clever for your age. Too clever by half.”

*

Later that day, Galatee went to visit Cynthia the tinker, but she wasn’t in the tent that she referred to as her workshop. The tent was one of the largest in the camp, and it permanently smelled of oil and wax. A table full of holes and scorch marks dominated the center, with an assortment of items spread across it that were so varied it was hard to imagine exactly what Cynthia had been working on, and why.

Pax, her young orc errand boy and future apprentice, was using a hammer and chisel to try and bust the lock on an antique box, the kind a rich lady might keep on her dresser. Knowing it was probably a task set by Cynthia, Galatee didn’t bother asking what he was hoping to find inside.

“Pax, where is Cynthia?”

“In the dungeon.”

“We have two dungeons, lad. Which one do you mean? The one with the nice but dopey core, or the one that thinks he’s so much cleverer than he is?”

“The nice core, First-Leaf.”

Galatee ruffled his hair, which, like all orc hair, felt like a broom’s bristles. “Core Jahn, then. Good lad. Have Cynthia come and see me when she returns.”

*

“You wanted to see me, First-Leaf?”

Galatee was in her chamber in the underground cavern. It was mid-afternoon now, the time when the sun was at its most merciless. Surface labor was halted, and no pickaxes would be swung, nor shovels heaved until later in the evening when it cooled. The workers would then toil all through the night, getting relieved by a new crew in the early morning, who again would work until the sun grew mean enough to burn skin. This would go on for years, perhaps generations, and piece by piece their home would become a town. Such was wasteland life.

“Cynthia, come in,” said Galatee.

She was rubbing a yellow ointment onto her shoulder where her skin, despite all her precautions, was burned. That was the problem with gnomish skin - it burned so easily. Her people were bred for life below ground, not for strolling around in the sun.

The tinker, with her tinker goggles strapped to her head, walked in and sat on a block of stone that had been smoothed down to form a chair.

Galatee prepared herself for all the usual complaints from Cynthia. The ratbrid lady was utterly dedicated to her work, and this made her such a good tinker. Since she was now helping both the Wrotun and Eternal clans, her workload had doubled. Although she showed respect to Galatee, she was not so respectful that she didn’t moan about being dragged away from her duties.

“Take a seat,” Galatee said, gesturing in front of her.

Cynthia brought with her an aroma that Galatee didn’t like at all. A waft of something sour, the smell of something not quite right. That was as best as she could put it, even though it didn’t mean much.

“You haven’t been spending time with Devry, have you?”

“Chief Reginal’s son? No, First-Leaf. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Right. I’m guessing that’s not why you wanted to see me?”

“I had a question for you,” said Galatee. “Something has been nagging at me.”

“I’m an open toolbox, First-Leaf. Ask me whatever you want.”

Curious. Cynthia would usually have complained about being drawn away from her work at least once by now. Perhaps Galatee had caught her on a more relaxed day.

“Your family are from Talapagi provinces, aren’t they?”

She nodded. “So I’m told.”

“I believe the Talapagians used you ratbrids to hunt.”

“Hunt and burrow and anything else that your common ferret can do. They didn’t need us ratbrids to do that work, but they made us all the same. As though our claws were mere shovels and our minds not big enough to realize we were slaves.”

Galatee stroked her chin.

Cynthia continued. “I’m not saying any living thing should be used as a mere tool, so don’t get me wrong. Not a mule, not a bison, nothing. Us ratbrids aren’t the first to be enslaved, and we won’t be the last. Everything deserves to have respect no matter its species. But to use an intelligent race as nothing but property? To my mind, those who do such a thing are fouler than the drips from a tavern gutter.”

There was a silence between them now, one that Galatee imagined they were both filling with their thoughts, and that their thoughts were centered on one thing; free-thinking beings enslaved, being used as tools, being utilized as mere property.

Damn Devry for sending her down this line of thought.

“Thank you, Cynthia,” she said. “You may get back to your duties.”

When she was alone, Galatee pondered on the conversations she’d had today, and the things that she’d learned. More time must have passed than she’d realized, because there was a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Sixth-Leaf Tasgario entered. “Do you need anything, First Leaf?” he asked.

She felt pity for him then. Or was it shame toward herself? The two feelings were so much alike that it was impossible to tell. Maybe pity and shame grew from the same seed.

“Tasgario,” she said. “You may go with the others to find the oasis you told me about, as long as they haven’t left already. If you find it, mark the location. We could use another water supply. Who knows, Tas, they may name it after you.”

A smile, a tentative one, started to form on his face. Not wholly, but more like a spider peeking from under a rock to check no predators were around.

“Truly?”

“Truly. Go, you don’t want to miss them. And thank you, lad.”

“For what?”

“For your devotion to duty. A promotion to Fifth-Leaf isn’t far away if you keep up this attitude.”