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

“No problem. Just study hard, don’t disgrace the dungeon, and I want you back here every night before sundown, got it?”

“Yesss, Dark Lord.”

He skipped off toward the cultivation chamber, jar in hand, whistling to himself.

I had to admit, it felt good to do something nice for one of my creatures for once. A core had to be authoritative, but it was hard work, ordering people around all the time.

“That was rather nice,” said a voice.

Gulliver stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room.

“How long have you been there?” I said.

“I’m always watching.”

“Creepy.”

“A scribe has to know when to stay quiet. The most candid moments happen when someone believes they aren’t being watched.”

“And scenes like this are going in your book?”

“I want to capture the better parts of you, Beno. Not just the parts where you slaughter people.”

“Slaughter will have to be put on hold for a day or two at any rate,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll go to Hogsfeate and visit Mage Hardere and see if he can track Cael for us.”

CHAPTER 6

When a town starts to grow, people follow the gold. It’s just the way of the world. Yondersun was beginning to flourish, and this meant that travelers from other parts of Xynnar visited it. Whether that be merchants seeking new opportunities, wandering craftsmen looking for work, or just tourists seeking new sights, there were lots more strange wagons parked outside the town gates these days.

This meant Gulliver and I were able to pay a cotton merchant named Claus to give us passage on his cart. After failing to convince Chief Reginal to let him become Yondersun’s exclusive cotton importer and exporter, Claus was bound for a dock town on the eastern coast, but would stop at Hogsfeate on the way if I slipped him a few silver coins.

It was a tiresome journey over a wasteland of cracked, dry rocks. Horse hooves pounded and wagon wheels rolled over a plain of orange stone that spread as far as the eye could see, broken only by lonely cacti and clumps of desert weed.

Claus and Gulliver chatted incessantly through the journey, comparing notes on the places they’d seen in Xynnar, the best beers they’d had, the easiest places for a traveler to find some evening company. When they finished with that, Claus launched into a diatribe about his trade.

“Y’see, the thing people don’t realize about cotton is that…”

Every so often, my attention would be drawn to Gulliver’s leather satchel, which he kept on his lap. I would float beside it and listen for a second or two.

“Relax,” said Gulliver, patting it. “He’s safe.”

The journey by cart should have taken the best part of the morning and afternoon, but Claus had an unfortunate blend of impatience and cruelty, which meant he whipped his desert horses and drove them on without rest.

“Nygar!” he would shout, and then lash the horses with his whip.

As Hogsfeate loomed into sight on the horizon, Claus lashed the horses again.

Gulliver leaned toward him. “Listen, I’ve had enough of that. Don’t you think you should put the whip down?”

“Why should I? Nygar!”

Crack. One horse neighed, and the beasts clomped faster toward the town.

Gulliver’s brow furrowed. He looked angry for perhaps the first time since I’d known him.

“I understand that it can be difficult to refrain from whipping things. Perhaps if the urge to wield it comes on you, you could shove it up your arse instead?” he said.

Claus pulled the reins. “Hrargh!” he cried, and the horses stopped. He turned to face us. He stank of whiskey, which was no surprise since he’d spent the full journey supping from a bottle that never seemed to empty.

“Are you tellin’ me how to drive my own animals?” he said.

Gulliver glared at him. “You’re driving them into the ground, you fool! Give them water. Let them rest. Why the urgent hurry when Hogsfeate is right there?”

“You poncy scribe. Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll treat my own stock however I like, and if you’ve got a problem, you and your fancy little core friend here can get off my cart and make your own way. Well? What’s it to be?”

Claus glared at me. Then at Gulliver.

“We’ll make our own way,” I said. “It’ll be good to get away from the stink.”

Gulliver glanced at me. “Sorry, Beno. Still, at least we can see Hogsfeate now. We don’t have too far to go, and anyway, I’m the one who has to walk. You can just float like a grumpy bumblebee.”

“I suppose we should leave this prat to his whipping. Then again…”

I couldn’t help but look at the horses and think about my own dungeon creatures. I had been guilty of overworking my dungeon mates in the past, but never to this extreme. At least I had learned from it, and I had appointed one of my kobolds as the head of a dungeon union and I started giving them more breaks.

Staring at these animals chained to the cart, their life a struggle as they heaved it from one place to the next while the merchant sat on his arse and got drunk, I didn’t like it one bit.

“Dolos,” I said, using my telepathic core voice. “Give this bullying git a scare.”

Unnoticed by the cart driver, the satchel on Gulliver’s lap squirmed, and something slithered out.

“Hello, Dolos,” I said.

A slug-like translucent blob crawled down the scribe’s leg and onto the cart. Gulliver glanced down Dolos, but he knew enough to say nothing.

 “You’re sure you won’t stop this whip business?” I said.

“Nyagh!” replied Claus, then pointlessly lashed one horse’s rump with his whip. The horse moved into a trot before Claus tugged on the reins to stop it.

“Okay, Dolos,”