Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1)

by Keith Ahrens

  A thick, frayed rope serves as a belt from which several pairs of manacles swing and clank together. Some type of animal pelt drapes around its waist like a kilt. All this monstrous bulk is supported by tree-trunk-like legs, ending in four toes with thick, black claws on its right foot. Its left foot and lower leg are made of wood and resemble a badly carved table leg. Overall, it’s near eight feet of ugly. And the smell is five kinds of awful as well. Kind of like an animal musk and onion-flavored body odor wrapped up in a dirty diaper.

  Squeezing its bulk into the small cell, it glares around at the assembled men and settles its vexed gaze on me. It raises its right hand and points a filthy, clawed finger at me. I suddenly feel kind of stupid just sitting there sort of slack-jawed, staring at this thick, black talon that is mere feet from my face. It says something angry and harsh in whatever language it speaks, spit flying from its snout. I'm stuck in neutral for the moment, maybe overwhelmed by the situation, maybe a little scared. It snorts in angry disbelief, and then it turns to Haynes and continues to grunt and yell.

  “Son, stand up and don’t look it in the eye. He’s looking for a reason to hurt someone today. Don’t give him one,” he says in a soft voice.

  With slow, exaggerated movements, I put the rest of the MRE down on the pallet, fix my eyes on the pig-like creature's chest, and rise.

  I keep my hands open and low, away from my body. It stares at me for a few more long moments and makes a harsh snort, its nasty breath rustling my hair. Then it steps back and reaches for something along the wall outside of our cell. Its right hand comes into view as it returns, and I catch a glimpse of a three-foot wooden club decorated with dark brass studs.

  With a disappointed grunt, it tosses a key in the middle of the room and kicks over the water bucket. For good measure, it spits a wad of brown phlegm into the puddle and leaves. From here, I can see a steady stream of dirty, disheveled people walking past the doorway, all heading in the same direction.

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I'd been holding and notice my hands are shaking a little. Now, most people would think this is from fear. It’s not or, at least, not all of it is. The shakes are a normal adrenaline reaction from the fight or flight reflex that every human and mammal have. Fear is nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a person's reaction to that fear where problems usually arise.

  “Okay, today is gonna be a bit of a shock to you. Stick close to us, don’t stare at anyone or anything, and just do what we tell you. Above all else, don’t get separated from us. Do you understand?” Haynes says, grasping my shoulder. Des has already retrieved the key and is busy unlocking the chains from our ankles. Kearningham continues to stare off at the wall like nothing is going on around him. I just nod ‘yes’ to Haynes and watch as Des kneels by my ankle.

  “You ever learn to fight?” Des asks in a conversational tone as he unlocks my shackle.

  “Huh? Yeah, a few years of Martial Arts. Kempo,” I answer, though I’m distracted, still thinking about the thing with the club.

  “That's… good, but did you ever learn to fight with a knife or a sword like in those Kung Fu movies?”

  “What? No, never got up to weapons training. Why?”

  “Well, then, you're in luck! Today, you’re gonna learn to fight by training alongside the rest of us. We’ll start you off slow, so don’t you worry none.”

  “Are you kidding me? Why the fuck would I want to learn to fight today?! I don't know what the blazes is going on here, but jokes over! This has got to stop!” Now I'm getting stubborn and putting my foot down because I hate feeling like everyone else is in on some gag I have no clue about. And I'm still trying to catch on to whatever the blazes is going on.

  “Calm down, Son. We don't have time to explain everything right now, but trust me—we have to get moving now. If you don’t, that eight-foot pig, or one of his friends, is just gonna kill you, and then we have to start all over breaking in another new squadmate,” Des says with a pleading look in his eyes.

  Haynes interjects, “Enough questions for now. Save ‘em for later. The only things you need to know right now are—to shut the hell up and do what we say. Do that, and you’ll have a good chance of surviving for the next few hours.”

  I open my mouth to reply—

  “I said shut the hell up! Were you or were you not just listening to me? Or were you born without the good sense that God gave to a fucking dog? Keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and follow some simple fucking instructions!” Haynes barks, not quite yelling, but with a voice that becomes more forceful and commanding as he speaks. I take the hint and shut up.

  Kearningham giggles a little bit and mutters to himself, “Ogres are going to eat the new guy… pigs eat anything…” He just kind of lives in his own little world, doesn't he?

  “Easy now, Jesse,” Des says as he guides him to the door with practiced ease. Jesse Kearningham puts his tattered green coat on as he exits the room, continuing to giggle and mutter to himself.

  I stand and wait for everyone else to leave before I follow them. We turn right into the hallway and join the flow of people walking in a ragged parade. Glancing around, I can see that there are men and a few women around us, all in different styles of clothing. Most in military-style BDUs or uniforms (all without insignia or patches), but some are in older, civilian dress. Older like, faded tie-dye shirts or t-shirts of bands that were big in the 1980s.

  Everyone is a bit dirty; some have dried blood visible on their heads and faces and smell a little ripe, to be honest. I rub my eyes when I think I spot a man with blue-colored skin in the crowd. The light is bad in here, but I start looking a little closer at the folks around me. I see a few people with pointed ears, and one lady with small horns peeking out of her dirty gray hair. Des drops back and grabs my arm. He puts his face by mine and hisses, “I thought we done told you not to stare!” He pushes me forward.

  The hallway is about fifteen feet wide with a packed dirt floor and stone walls broken every few feet by heavy cell doors. More dim light comes from the weird bulbs set into the ceiling and guides us up a slight incline toward a T-junction. Most of the crowd turns left, and I go along with the flow, studying the folks around me, though a bit more inconspicuously now. Wracking my confused brain, I try to make sense of the scattered clues all around me. A strong hand grabs my right shoulder and pulls me back toward the other hallway.

  “Stay with us,” Haynes says as he propels me in front of him with a firm shove.

  “In a few minutes, we will be armed, armored, and out in an open field. I’m gonna warn you now, cause they sure as hell won’t—don’t try to run, and don’t try to attack anyone or anything. We’ve been training to fight for a while now, and you haven’t. You are no match for an ogre, and all the goblins stationed up on the walls have crossbows. They are not great shots, but there are a lot of them, and volume beats accuracy. You will not be able to outrun the arrows or the dire wolves they keep as pets. Any questions?” This is the longest speech yet from Haynes, and I take a moment to sort out the best response I can muster while none of his words sink in.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” I ask once again, feeling as if the entire world has been turned upside down and shook up like a snow globe.

  “Dammit, that was a rhetorical question. Okay, Boot, I’m gonna spell out the basics for you. We are prisoners. We are being forced to fight as a conscripted army against another army of prisoners. If you don’t fight, you will be tortured. If that doesn’t work, they will just kill you. Right now, you are very, very replaceable. Now, I got a problem with these bastards using us to fight their wars and killing us on a whim,” Haynes leans in close, “so we’re gonna train and fight until we find a way out of here. There is no one to rescue us because no one knows where or when we are. For now, while we are stuck in this Hellhole, you will follow my orders without question until we get out or one of the two of us dies…. Got it?” He intensely locks eyes with me and waits for an answer.

  “Um, s
ure… you’re in charge, abandon all hope of rescue, we have to escape, and we must fight to survive…. Did I get it all? And is there any chance of my one phone call? My family is gonna get worried soon,” I say with a deadpan expression. While I’m still not sure who the crazy one is here, playing along seems the safest bet.

  “Keep joking, Boot. You’ll see in a few minutes. Or you’ll just go soft in the head like Jesse over there. Now, fall in. Our equipment is down here, away from the other groups.”

  Our small cadre joins a few other small groups, mostly clumps of five or six men and women. And some other… things that don't fall into either category; we'll just call them… humanoid for now. I see a few dog-like bipeds, but thinner and perhaps afflicted with mange. Then, my mind begins to rebel at the sight of what I guess to be a troll. It’s a little taller than an average human, with a pointed snout rimmed with fangs. Its back and head have long green and brown hair (maybe fur?), and its chest and arms are covered in glistening scales. The crowd shifts, and I lose sight of it.

  I feel a hard smack to the back of my head.

  “Stop staring, Boot!” Haynes whispers forcefully.

  “Why do you keep calling me 'Boot'?” I ask in a return whisper.

  “Because, right now, you’re the new guy, and you don’t know shit. Your boots are worth more to most of these people than you are. Now, stop staring and keep up!”

  We make our way down a slightly tighter corridor with a little better lighting. Des and Jesse stop in front of a thick oak door banded in brass. It's solid, but splintery, and a little smaller than our cell door. The other groups around us split off to similar doors, some nodding at Haynes in greeting as they pass by. Des pulls the key for our chains out of his back pocket and uses it on the massive lock on the door. He pushes it open and calls out, “Good morning, boys! Any problems last night?”

  We all file in behind him, but I stop when I hear new voices. Not voices per se, more like growls with words mixed in.

  “A few curious scratches at our door…" The voice is deep, and the 'r' sounds have a longer, rolling snarl to them. "They ran when we challenged them.”

  Jesse and Des walk casually past their forms, and I’m now left standing face to face with two… werewolves? …dog-men? …more hallucinations? They're around six-and-a-half feet tall, torsos hunched forward, with canine heads on muscular shoulders. Metal breastplates and shoulder armor cover their upper halves; leather and metal greaves are on their legs, modified to fit their canine physiology.

  The one on my right moves forward with agile steps to get in front of me. He stands up taller, looking me in the eye. He’s got shaggy gray fur on his cheeks and a head with black fur on his muzzle and around his sharp green eyes. His ears are on the top of his head, alert and slightly forward; silver hoops pierce the pinnae, amid the scars and notches cut there. Thin black lips curl up slightly, showing the edges of slightly yellowed fangs.

  A soft growl comes from the second one, and the sound of metal sliding across leather is clear. The other dog-man steps to my left and is trying to divide my attention, his nose quivering as he sniffs the air. His fur is a brindled brown and black, but shorter and smoother than his friend's. I see his muzzle is more pointed while his ears are higher and closer to his skull. I watch his low-hanging tail moving slowly side to side.

  Now, a long time ago, I used to make my living working in animal shelters. Working with aggressive dogs every day helped me to learn their behavior and figure out what made them so afraid or angry. Once I understood that, I spent time training them daily until they were calm, trustworthy pets, suitable for adoption. These two dog-men in front of me are showing classic examples of ‘fear aggression.’ Two different postures but born of the same thing: fear of a new person, a change from what they know as normal.

  The black and gray drops deeper into his offensive posture—the old, “I’ll get you before you get me” routine. The brindle one moves to angle for an attack or to run away if he can. He is trying to gather info and assess the new danger (me). These two are displaying feral, abused dog behaviors. They're also about two inches taller than I am, broader in the shoulders and armed with wicked-looking fangs. Yup, there they are.

  Both bare their teeth in a low, guttural snarl. Long, sharp claws tip their human-like hands. Not a lot of room in here to run, and I really don't like my chances of fighting the two of them. Not that I won't, if I have to. I loosen my arms and shift my weight to center my balance.

  “Easy, Son. They’re friends.” Haynes puts his hands on my shoulders, firm and steady. “Meet the rest of our squad, Nian and Thirax.” He points to the smaller brindle colored one as he says “Nian,” and the larger black and grey one as “Thirax.” He turns to the dog-men. “Nian, we might need him later. Please don’t kill him just yet.”

  The one called Nian slowly blinks his bright greens, makes a chuffing noise, and blows a deep breath out of his nose into my face. Yum, rotted meat. He moves away but doesn’t turn his back on me. Not a real trusting soul over here.

  “They call themselves Gnolls. They’re locals but in the same boat as the rest of us.”

  “Will he be Pack?” asks Thirax, again in his deep growling voice. “He smells of blood and fear. Not all of it is his own. The blood I mean… the fear is all his.”

  Wow, that’s kind of impressive…. creepy and insulting, but impressive, nevertheless.

  “We’ll see after today. All right, kids, suit up, weighted shields and dull blades only today in honor of the new guy,” says Haynes in a fake jovial voice. A low chorus of groans from everyone comes the reply. What a great way for me to feel welcome and part of the crew. Make everyone resent me by having to work harder. Thanks a lot, jerk.

  Covering the left wall are real looking wood and steel shields, some spiked, some banded. On the other side of the room, the right wall boasts all manner of swords, axes, maces, and spears of every shape and size. Every implement appears well-maintained. In contrast, a poorly-made, wooden bench, that looks like it's on its last leg, divides the room in half. The back half of the room contains stands for various helmets and pieces of metal or leather armor. In the far back corner of the room, behind all the armor, I see a pile of blankets, half-hidden in the shadows.

  The kid in me kind of lights up at the thought of wearing real armor and holding a genuine sword and shield. The grown-up part of me starts thinking that this is crazy, and someone is gonna get hurt around here.

  I look over at Thirax, who still seems to be studying me, both by sight and smell, sizing me up and not looking very impressed with what he finds. I decide to take a small chance and approach him with caution, hands loose by my sides. I move in a slow walk, making no sudden movements. “Why do you guys stay locked in here instead of in the cells with us?”

  He stands his ground as I approach, but his ears swivel forward while his head canters to the side.

  A moment passes until he replies, “We guard for the Pack. Weapons are in danger left alone, and we cannot take them to the cells. Leader made a deal for us to stay here, locked up at night. Many would see the Pack fail in trials, then no more Pack. Enough talk, human… arm yourself.”

  I nod to him and force myself to act like this is part of a normal day for me. I turn toward the weapons wall and stare for a bit. I am more than a little familiar with many of the sword types and various blunt instruments. I admit it—I've been to a lot of Ren-Fairs over the years, and yes, I played plenty of 'Dungeons and Dragons' as a kid. Still read a great assortment of sci-fi and fantasy books. Maybe this is why I’m not freaking out as hard as I probably should be. Maybe I just have a more flexible mind than I thought. Maybe, I’m already insane and haven’t noticed yet. Whatever.

  I shrug my shoulders and pick a falchion off the wall, testing its weight and balance. It has a nice heavy basket hilt to protect the hand, and a two-and-a-half-foot blade that widens about two-thirds of the way up before it tapers to a pretty sharp point. This is a single-edged sword, we
ighty and designed for slashing and the occasional stab.

  “Good choice, but not what we are using today,” Haynes says as he takes the blade from my hands and passes me a wooden version. It's heavier than I expect, about three feet long and without a hand guard.

  “It’s lead-weighted, to build strength and stamina. So is the shield. The armor is heavy enough without extra ballast, so get used to it.” Haynes pulls a round shield from the wall, wood banded with steel and leather straps. He steps closer and helps me to affix it to my left arm. Damn thing must weigh twenty pounds and the sword another fifteen. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it adds up quickly after you carry 'em around and use 'em for a few hours.

  Everyone else is already putting on various pieces of armor. Des steps over with a few shaped metal plates in hand and begins to name them and explain how they go on. We go basic, nothing fancy. Most of the pieces are mismatched but in decent condition. I strap on a steel breastplate to cover my chest and back, accompanied by steel pauldrons for my shoulders. My forearms get leather bracers with steel bands sewn into them, and heavy leather gauntlets with steel plates are tied to my hands. I strap padded leather cuisses to my thighs, and thick leather greaves buckle around my shins from my knees to my boots. Finally, a steel helmet with a visor to protects my eyes and nose completes the ensemble. The padding in the helmet is flat and covered with cracked leather that has seen better days. I have no doubt it has lice. And it smells… bad.