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

by Keith Ahrens

  A thought strikes me, so I turn to Des and ask, “How come these have steel in them when everything else around here is made of brass?”

  He stops and looks at me with a hint of surprise. “That’s pretty observant for a new guy. We’re almost sure that most of the monsters here have an aversion to steel and iron. And that fits with the stories my granddad used to tell." His Southern drawl gets a little thicker the longer he talks. "We don’t have that problem with the steel, and they don’t seem to much care how much we hurt each other. We use it because it’s a damn site lighter than the brass and holds an edge better. Stand up now, let's see how this stuff hangs on you.”

  I get to my feet, a little slower than usual. This 'stuff' is heavy, but not much more than a full Scott-pack and Haz-Tac suit that I’ve worn during my normal day job. If you don't know what a Scott-pack or Haz-Tac suit is, think of any movie that has military guys in a gas or nuclear attack scene. Adding in the sword and shield, I realize I’m in for a long and sweaty day.

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t resist pushing the leather band aside and pressing a finger to my wrist. The circle is fully red now. Instantly, the image projects into the air in front of me. I scan through the changes:

  Hit Points: 55

  Current Damage/Injury/Affect: None

  Armor Class: 23 +1 Dex bonus; 24 Total

  Armor Equipped: Helmet +1 A/C, Breastplate +6, Greaves +2 (both legs), Pauldrons/Gauntlets +2 (both arms/shoulders), +2 Round Shield (Heavy, Wooden), +1 Dexterity Bonus

  Weapons Group:

  Practice Sword (wooden, weighted): -6 Nonproficiency, +8 / 1d6-2 (Subdual)

  Shield, Heavy Wooden: +2 Armor Class, +5/1d6+3

  It takes me a minute to remember what the numbers mean, but I played enough D&D to get the gist. Hit Points are the amount of damage I can take before I get killed or knocked out if it’s ‘subdual or non-lethal’ damage. The Armor Class number indicates how good my protection is. The higher the number, the better my chances of surviving a fight. Each piece of armor contributes to the number. The ‘weapons’ numbers are a bit more confusing. I take a big penalty to try and hit something with a weapon I have no idea how to use, hence the -6. The +8/+3 means I can add my Strength bonus and level (aka experience) to hit something and to the amount of injury I can cause. The 1d6+2 subdual means that the damage is equal to rolling a six-sided die. Then -1 from that number and that indicates how many Hit Points I take from an opponent. I’ve always thought the randomness of the dice parallels the real world accurately. Sometimes you land a punch, but it doesn’t hurt the guy much. Sometimes you get a knockout with the same punch.

  I also notice there seems to be a few other pages stacked underneath the first page of the projection as I hear Jesse and Desmond begin to laugh.

  “It’s okay, Son, everybody does that the first few times. You'll get used to it,” Des says, amused. Embarrassed, I let it drop before I can see what the other pages are all about.

  Before I have a chance to reply, we hear loud porcine shouts and grunts from the hallway.

  “Shit, get a move on, Boot! Last squad out usually gets whipped,” says Des. “Let's go, now!”

  The Gnolls leap past us and into the hall. Right away, they begin barking and growling with aggression. I jog a few steps across the short distance behind everyone else, wondering what all the commotion is about.

  As I cross the threshold of the doorway, a large, brass gong smashes over my head, spinning my helmet partway around and blinding me. I crash into someone else on my way to the ground and lose my wooden sword in the process. Loud, angry shouts fill the small hallway, along with growls and grunts, metal clashing and men screaming. I grab my helmet with both hands and pull it off as I try to roll to my knees, my head still spinning from the hit. Haynes and Jesse stand with their backs to us, automatically forming up a wall with their shields and lashing out at blistering speed with their wooden swords. There are grunts of pain every time they land a blow, and I’m sure more than a few would have been deadly if they'd held real blades.

  Des grabs my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. In the blink of an eye, he draws his sword and leaps into the fray. Just then, a filthy, pale human slips past Haynes while he is engaged with an ax-wielding psycho. To my surprise, this guy stabs at me with a long, thin dagger. “Hey! What the hell did I do to you?' is what I want to say.

  Yet, all that comes out is a less than courageous, “Aaahhh!”

  Instinct takes over as I swivel my hips to the left, allowing the blade to slide along the front of my breastplate, it leaves a thin gouge in the metal. I follow through with the twist and bring my helmet crashing down on his head. Blood sprays from his scalp as he goes down. His momentum carries him forward, right into the edge of my shield as I swing it at the bridge of his nose. His head snaps back while his lower body continues falling, and he lands on his back, bleeding from his head and shattered nose. The dagger rolls from his hand, and for some reason, I take note of the tattoo on his inner wrist—an almost completely black circle with a small sliver of red.

  He stays down, motionless. I put my back to the wall and my shield up in front of me, trying to see what the hell is going on around me without getting hit again. The Gnolls are in the middle of the hallway, two or three bodies scattered on the floor around them, all bloody. Nian is swinging two short wooden swords at the faceplate of an armored humanoid. The man is built like a bear and wearing a full helm with just a slit for vision. He’s distracted as he fends Nian off with a mace and shield, so he never sees Thirax flank him. The Gnoll takes a moment to line up a devastating blow and cracks him across the back of his neck with a stout, oaken club. He hits the ground and crumples, face-first.

  Suddenly, a deep, echoing roar fills the air, easily overpowering the sounds of battle. All fighting immediately stops, and everyone starts scrambling back down the hall from the way we came.

  My squad forms around me, the Gnolls in the lead, and we join the flow of bodies rushing away. Jesse strides beside me and passes my sword back to me. I realize then that he didn’t have a shield and had been fighting only with his oak sword and mine, one in each hand. Haynes drops in next to me, keeping a fast pace. “You okay?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Ogre guards are sweeping the halls; we need to get outside to the practice fields before they catch up to us.” Distant boots marching in step are beginning to be heard as they get louder.

  “What the hell just happened?” I ask, still reeling from the sudden violence.

  “Well, you just got jumped, and a bunch of folks just got their asses kicked.” Haynes is matter-of-fact, as if this is a normal occurrence.

  “I think that guy might be dead!” I wave vaguely behind me.

  “Then the guards will eat well tonight." He pushes me forward with one strong hand in the middle of my back. "Now, keep up!”

  A loud cadence of stomping feet and swords smashing in a steady rhythm against shields comes echoing down the hall. We make a right into the wider corridor and continue to the darkened tunnel, past where the turn off to the cells are. The ground now rises steeply, the hard pack dirt almost slick under my boots. Scattered about in alcoves set into the walls are bits and pieces of dented armor and dull, notched blades. I assume this is where everyone else’s gear is stowed. Up ahead, sunlight is visible from the end of the tunnel, and we head toward it.

  “When we get outside, avoid the other groups and move to the right, by the wall. Look for the white banner with the big red ‘X’ on it,” orders Haynes as he quickens his pace. “Nian, Thirax, scout the doors, please. No more surprises today!”

  The Gnolls lope off with their noses raised to scent the wind. The light gets brighter as we approach the doorway. The open double doors stand ten feet high, fifteen feet wide, and banded in, you guessed it, brass. I notice spikes above the door in a neat row. Probably the bottom of a portcullis; yup, I can see the corresponding holes in the floor. Would they drop it to keep us in or something e
lse out?

  We step out into the fresher air; I raise my hand to shield my eyes and realize it’s not necessary. The sunlight seems muted, a dull yellow that a person could stare at all day with no problem. The sky is a washed-out blue and cloudless. And the air isn't as fresh as I'm expecting or hoping for. Not exactly stale, but it's missing the usual smells of the outdoors, like fresh dirt, flowers, pollen, and things like that.

  Off in the distance, maybe a mile or two, I note a large, stone tower rising above a walled stone keep, all built atop a steep hill. I step to the side of the doors and look around. There are perhaps a hundred assorted humans and other races (creatures?) forming up in groups, each by a different flag or banner. We are in a high-walled enclosure, like a courtyard, maybe two or three hundred yards square. Beneath my boots, the ground is hardscrabble dirt with trampled grass. The stone walls are mostly smooth and gray, rising about thirty feet in height. Two other gates are set into the walls to my left and right, with a much larger gate directly across from us.

  Small, humanoid figures walk along the crenellations, their movements spidery and quick, each holding a crossbow in their hands with a quiver on their back. I can’t see much more from here, but of what I can distinguish, most seem to be wearing body armor and helmets. I think they might be kind of short with a yellow and green cast to their skin. Haynes had said something about goblins guarding the walls, so this tracks.

  A lone, hooded figure, thin in stature, paces along the eastern wall, stopping every few feet to drop something and push it into the dirt with the toe of his boot. He’s too far away to note any real details, so I continue to scan the field.

  A slight breeze picks up, and I get a whiff of something dead and rotten. It’s a very distinct smell. If you’ve ever smelled a dead and decomposing body, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven’t, good for you; it’s a smell you’ll never forget. If you really need it described for you—put a pound of chop meat in a wet cardboard box and leave it in the sun for a few days during the summer. Grab a spoon, mix up the sludge, and inhale deeply. It’s guaranteed to be an unforgettable experience. Anyway…

  I turn into the breeze and notice the fourth wall of the courtyard, the one we just came through. The doors are set into a natural cliff face, which towers unevenly above the stone walls adjacent to it. At the base of the wall, I see suits of armor in a rigid line, as if they are standing at attention. Each one looks to be in various states of rust and disrepair, the suits pressed into the stone face of the cliff wall, almost like the stone itself had melted over them. The ground beneath each one is darker than the rest of the light brown dirt. It looks more like a mud puddle than dry ground, except more black and reddish in color. I step closer to the nearest suit and notice the full-faced helmet is slightly askew. The stench grows stronger, and I realize the armor isn’t just rusty but welded at each joint. No, not welded; it's as if the metal was liquified, and it flowed like rusty water but was forced to keep its rough shape. A thick, brown liquid slowly drips from the tops of the greaves and runs down the legs.

  I hold my breath and peer into the eye slit of the visor. It’s dark, but inside I can see decayed, burnt meat and charred bone. A chunk of something falls from beneath the chainmail skirt and hits the ground with a wet plop. To my left, a helm tries to turn with a weak squeal of metal scraping, and I hear a faint, raspy voice say, “Help me.” I jump back a step and swallow thick bile.

  “Just walk away, friend. These poor bastards have been dead for months. Those Highborn bastards just won’t let ‘em die all the way,” Des says all somber as he steers me back to our squad. “That’s just one of their fun lil' punishments for rebelling. C’mon, we got some work to do.”

  I stop short and realize that this is really happening. What I am seeing cannot be faked this well. I am now in a place where it is literally ‘kill-or-be-killed,’ and I still have no idea why I'm here. I've spent much of my life working in veterinary hospitals or with EMS, doing my best to help and heal animals and humans. I've sacrificed my own health and safety on many occasions to accomplish this. Now, it seems I may have to fight for my life for reasons unclear to me. The way I see it now, my options are to fight for survival or get tortured to death or murdered if I refuse to take part. What real choice do I have?

  4

  Yup, this is my training day. Let me sum it up in a few words: I suck at sword fighting. I’m more of a shotgun and pistol guy, not a sword and shield guy. Over the years, I’ve owned and become a pretty damn good shot with all kinds of rifles, shotguns, semi-auto handguns, and revolvers. I've also owned a few swords, mostly wall hangers, but also a few solid blades. However, growing up in New York City, there's not a lot of opportunity to learn to fight with a sword. So, I’m basically out of my element here.

  Haynes is busy organizing sparring matches when Des and I join the group. Hayne is to spar with Thirax, Jesse will spar with Nian, and Des is stuck trying to teach me some basics.

  We all spread out and square off. I glance up at the top of the wall again, now that we are closer to the base. Momentarily returning my gaze is a hook-nosed, greasy, yellow-skinned goblin wearing a skull cap helmet. His notched and pointed ears stick out flatly from his head. He surveys our group and spits a brownish glob of phlegm in my general direction. Hefting his crossbow in a nonchalant manner, he ambles away with an arrogant air. What a jerk, a jerk who looks like a cross between a lizard and a rat walking on its hind legs.

  Des smacks me in the shoulder with the flat of his wooden blade. “Hey, pay attention, Boot. Now get ready!”

  I tear my gaze from the wall and move to put my helmet back on. That’s when I notice a large dent on the right side of my helm, about the size of my fist. I only now realize that had I not been wearing it when I walked out of the armory-like room, I’d probably be dead by this point. That’s a sobering thought. The helmet still fits okay, smell notwithstanding. There's a tender spot on my head that corresponds with the dent as I place it snugly on, but I’m grateful to wear it anyway. I lower the half-visor, and I can still see reasonably well. Tightening the straps of the shield on my left arm, I swing the sword side to side to loosen my arm. I then proceed to get my ass kicked again and again for the next few hours.

  Des is clearly taking it easy on me, but after a while, I think he's getting just as frustrated as I feel.

  “Are you trying to block my sword with your head? ‘Cause that’s all you seem to be doing. It’s almost like you enjoy gettin’ hit or something.”

  Apparently, sword fighting and martial arts may be closely related but not close enough to help me. Almost every time I bring the shield up to block, my sword is out of position. When I swing the sword, I drop my shield too low, and Des is right there to take advantage of each instance. Even through the armor, I feel the bruises already forming.

  My arms are heavy with fatigue, and sweat drips off me from everywhere. Finally, I toss the wooden blade to the ground in disgusted defeat. “I need a break. This isn’t working.” I drop down to one knee, breathing heavily. I open the visor and try to wipe the sweat from my face. Not so easy with thick plated gauntlets on.

  Haynes notices me and halts the other matches. “You givin' up already, Son?”

  “Not giving up, just need a break. Something’s wrong. I just can’t get the hang of this.”

  “'That is an understatement, Hoss. You got no style and no finesse with a blade,” Des cuts in. “I think he’s more of an ax-man. All that brute strength, but no skill.”

  “Nay, he’s not proficient in blades. You’d best be served to Level Up and pick a weapon then. Perhaps, try a mace,” Jesse states, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Sure, Jesse… you could be right… I guess," says Haynes with a frown. "Okay people, let’s all take a breather. We should be stopping for midday soon anyway.” He, Jesse, and Des take a knee with me. The Gnolls join us and squat down, all of us gathering in a loose circle.

  Surreptitiously, I check
the tat on my wrist. I've taken quite the beating today, and I want to confirm a theory. The red circle is still there but almost two-thirds of it displays a light grey color. As I watch, a little sliver of it turns red again. This pretty much confirms that this is my Hit Point meter. The grey is probably non-lethal subdual damage; the black is real damage. I look up and see Des watching me. I quickly cast my gaze elsewhere, starting a conversation before he can ask any questions.

  “So… why are they making us fight, and who are we supposed to fight anyway?” I ask, still a little short of breath.

  The group seems to pause, each unsure of what to say or how to answer. For the moment, even Jesse seems more focused and alert than I've seen him yet, though just as reluctant to speak.

  “I think one of the Gnolls could answer that best. They’re locals and have been here the longest,” answers Haynes at last.

  Nian and Thirax glance at each other until Thirax snorts and turns away, as if he can't be bothered to talk to me. Nian clears his throat with a little self-conscious growl. “Human speech can be difficult for us at times. I will be brief.”

  He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and begins with a little hesitation. “The lands here are… divided into kingdoms and smaller… Fiefdoms. The strongest rule here, as in any good pack. The Highborn Elves reign over all due to their powerful magics. Over the past few centuries since we all arrived here, the Highborn became tired of killing their own kind for dominance, so they began recruiting from the other Folk—”

  “Other Folk?” I interrupt. Nian stares hard at me; Thirax growls softly.

  “Ahem,” Haynes steps in. “Most people find it rude to interrupt when others are talking. And Gnolls find it particularly offensive for a new pack member to do that to an older member. Consider it a pecking order, and right now, you are at the very bottom.”

  Shit, just when I’m finally getting some answers. “I apologize, Nian. No offense was intended.”