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

by Keith Ahrens

  A loud shriek interrupts my short-lived nap. I blink my eyes several times to clear my vision, and I'm rewarded by the sight of a herd of six or seven water dragons charging the stockade. The two ogres left alive outside don't stand a chance and are torn apart in seconds. The loud gonging of several large bells peal across the clearing. There's the alarm I was hoping for.

  The defenders on the wall rain arrows and crossbow bolts down on to the enraged lizards but have little effect. The dragons just lower their heads and charge at the wooden wall, trying to bash it down with brute strength and the weight of their numbers. Their jagged claws shred at the wooden barricade, leaving deep gouges in the wood.

  I try to stagger to my feet and take stock of my current state. I've lost my dagger, and my horse is nowhere in sight. Then I notice that I've slid back down and am once again seated at the base of the tree. That’s strange.

  Damn Horse. He must have run off and left me behind, which, come to think of it, was pretty smart of him. I've done nothing but lead him from peril to more dangerous peril. Still, he left me behind. Jerk. Now I'm glad I didn't name him. I realize that it’s my turn to try to run away while the focus is on the dragons and not me. But a brief rest also sounds great right about now. Maybe I’ll just wait a few minutes until things calm down. Perhaps everyone else will show up soon and wake me up…

  25

  Acri

  Acri Grainleaf knows he has always been underestimated and underutilized. His Sage Wizard instructors constantly claimed he was too witless and apathetic to amount to much. That assessment destroyed his chances of rising in the ranks of Mage society and House Caeruleum.

  But he knew he wasn't as dim as they claimed him to be. In truth, he was bored by their teachings and preferred his own experiments. Sure, most of them failed, but they failed with style.

  For the past six years, his sole assignment has been to guard one of the gates to the human lands. A gate paid little mind, save for its menial purpose, while never being in any sort of danger or jeopardy. Acri's only company is a platoon of ogres and a squad of goblins. Twenty dark Fey in all, and not one among them makes for any type of good conversationalist.

  A tedious post, the monotony breaks only once a month for a foray through the gate to gather supplies. And even that’s handled by others. Still, the elves do, on occasion, bring him fresh supplies and equipment for him to tinker with.

  Six years of watching other elves cross the gate, and six years spent wondering what's on the other side and how it might benefit him. However, his orders are simple: keep everyone and everything from crossing the gate except those with a writ from Lord Dullahan or the wizard troll, Skemend. So, he sits, day after day, and wonders, growing more bored with each passing moment.

  That was until he discovered the pleasures of the 'wine' the goblins brewed from moss and fermented fruit… and possibly other things. He always felt it was best not to ask, each batch making his interminable post that much easier to deal with. This night is no different… or so it seems until the alarm bells begin ringing.

  Acri awakens with a start, his mind confused and befuddled by the sweet, noxious wine. His head already throbs in time with the toll of the bells. If this turns out to be another false alarm, he swears to himself to roast every pig-snouted one of them! He hurries to throw on a robe and grab his staff. Brushing his long, brown hair back from his pointed ears, he slides a dagger into the sheath at his belt. A quick swig from the dregs of his cup, and he's out the door and into the dimly lit caverns.

  It takes a bleary minute for me to fully wake up. Dammit, everything hurts… again. I’ve almost become accustomed to feeling good with all the magic healing I've been getting and using lately. Even old injuries and my bad knees have been working good as new since Thorn's first real healing.

  I get my feet under me and slide my back up the tree for the second time. I notice my legs feel very weak, particularly my right one. My lower back protests with a dull ache as I stand all the way up. I think I popped a few discs out this time. That’s gonna slow me down a bit. I remember that I don't have any healing stones left and groan inwardly. And a little out loud.

  I glance at my wrist; my H.P. are around ¾’s. I decide against reading my sheet right now. That'd be of no help in my present state.

  On the plus side, I’m out of the way of the raging battle and not in any immediate danger. I might be able to skirt this whole thing and wait it out until the others get here. Then we just mop up whoever survives and take a quick jaunt through the gate. Easy.

  I glance up and assess the fighting before me. Two dragons look permanently dead with several spears sticking out of each of their heads. The remaining five are concentrating on ripping the doors from the rest of the wall. I make my way around the edge of the clearing, and I am almost at the trailhead when a bright light coming from the stockade distracts me.

  It starts as a dull orange light shining through the gaps of the wooden wall but escalates to a blinding white flash. I feel and hear the detonation a heartbeat later as the gate set in the stockade wall explodes outward. Two of the fighting dragons are caught in the initial blast and incinerate in moments. The remaining three are knocked back a few yards, pelted with large chunks of burning logs. One coughs and vomits out nasty black smoke before collapsing in a heap.

  The last two renew their charge on the wall and head straight for the new opening. I remain down on one knee, both shields up to protect myself from more flying, burning debris. Chunks of charred wood and roasted lizard bounce off my protection and land all around me.

  As the water dragons try to smash their way through the opening of the gate, I hear a panicked voice shouting orders in Elvish. I have no idea what he is saying, but he sounds scared. One of the dragons manages to breach the gate, and more screams ring out.

  Another massive blast of fire erupts, and another section of the wall goes up in flames. I think that mage is taking care of the stockade for us. Let’s hear it for panic and friendly fire!

  Just as I'm thinking this, a man-sized flaring ball of orange and white fire shoots from behind the wall and arcs gracefully through the air, right toward where I am standing.

  Jesse

  “I think we should get moving. Jesse reckons there must have been at least seven of these beasts on Caleb's trail,” Des says from the driver's seat, his long, bushy beard blowing in the wind.

  “I agree. The moon will set soon, and the Stupid One should not be left alone for too long,” says Thorn, contempt still evident in her voice.

  “Fine. Vince, get topside with your bow. Jesse scout ahead and let me know what we're rolling into. Berserkers, Olivia, and Gnolls be prepared to jump out. Everyone, weapons primed and ready. Move out,” the Sergeant says with authority. He sighs with worry and loosens his pistol in its holster, but his game face is back on before anyone can notice. He's riding shotgun without the requisite equipment, and he knows it.

  Without a word, Jesse gently nudges the horse's sides with his legs and rides off down the small trail. He doesn't comment as he spies the signpost and skulls trampled into the ground by many webbed and clawed feet. Blood smears and claw marks almost obscure the single set of hoof prints in the soft ground.

  Spear held low and loose in his left hand, he steers his mount with his knees, a slack grip on the reins. The horse continues at a quick trot while Jesse moves with the rhythm of a seasoned rider. The faceplate of his helm is down, but he easily ducks under the low branches and twigs. The trail is easy to follow, and he leaves the lumbering wagon far behind.

  In a few minutes, he sees the distant glow of bonfires. Sounds of a fierce battle reach his ears, but the roaring of the water dragons rise above the rest. Dismounting, he ties the horse to a sapling. His soft boots pad softly on the sandy trail with almost no sound as he makes his way through the last few yards to the clearing's edge.

  He takes in the whole scene in mere seconds, but the sheer violence of it leaves him galvanized. Large section
s of the shattered stockade wall are burning with fierce flames. Thick smoke obscures the air, but the bodies of three or four dragons lay scattered about. Scorch marks on their hides indicate an intense fire was used to destroy these undead creatures.

  He finds no sign of their squadmate's horse. Of course, he takes a few seconds more to double-check the area, but it’s too churned up from the battle for him to read any tracks that were left behind. With a frown, Jesse turns and sprints back to his horse. He has a report to make.

  I roughly calculate the arc and trajectory of the fiery orb for a moment and conclude that I'd better run away, and fast! I take three leaping steps, then throw myself into a forward roll just as the flare impacts with the ground with a dull boom. Flames wash along the ground and end in almost a teardrop shape. I jump back again to avoid the wave of heat that radiates from the impact site. Of course, it just happens to now block the trailhead. Just my good luck for holding out a bit longer. The dense foliage around me will make getting around this blasted inferno and back to the trail a bit of a chore.

  Then the fire starts moving, and I don't mean spreading. If anything, it seems to creep back toward its center. A vague man-shape forms and stands up in the center of the impact zone. In a dull flash, accompanied by a small popping sound, the fire reduces in size, and a robed elf stands amidst the ashes. Smoky wisps waft from the singed hem of his sleeves, his exposed skin blackened with ash. The ends of his staff smolder with a subdued orange glow.

  His eyes widen as he sees me standing there, agape with surprise. The whites of his eyes stand out in sharp contrast with his blackened skin. Then they narrow as he thrusts his staff out at me, barking a word in Elvish.

  I hunch down and brace for impact. Both shields raise almost without thought and catch a streaking blue globe of compressed fire. The impact sends me reeling, both arms swing about as I try to catch my balance. The heat was intense but very brief, doing little damage except to scorch my armor.

  The shields are a different story. I had overlapped them in front of me, and that may have saved my face. As I flail backward, I see globs of molten metal flying off the melted edges of the steel plates. The heat begins to travel through the metal, and the leather straps start to smolder.

  I twist hard and fling the right-hand shield off my arm and at the mage. I get lucky for a change, and it hits him square in the chest.

  The elf screams as the molten metal connects with his thin robe and burns right through, interrupting his next spell. His wooden staff clatters across the clearing. The left shield is still tightly strapped to my arm as it also begins to burn. I wish I hadn't lost my dagger when the horse threw me. While the elf is distracted with his own smoldering clothing, I begin ripping at the straps to loosen the damn shield. My main goal is to get it off my arm before it engulfs the whole damn thing. I'm only partially successful; I get the shield off but sustain a pretty decent second-degree burn all along my forearm.

  Once again, my leg goes weak, and I stagger as a wave of pain shoots down my back and exhaustion sweeps through me. The elf doesn't look much better, but he's still standing, so this fight ain't over yet. He has torn open his singed robe; a nasty charred slash is evident across his thin chest, still smoking.

  He looks at me, draws himself up to his full height, and spits carbon-laced sputum to the ground between us. Locking glares with me, he says something in Elvish that is mostly lost on me.

  Mostly, but not totally. I've been cursed at by a lot of people over the years in many different languages. The words aren't that important; the tone is. His tone is contemptuous, arrogant, and very nasty.

  I feel the same way.

  But then, I almost feel bad for him as I look over his shoulder. Lumbering across the clearing, dragging one of its rear legs, is the final surviving water dragon. The majority of its deathly pale hide consists of soot and cauterized scales. Several spears stick haphazardly from its back, swaying along with its spiny crest. Much of its skin has been torn from its face, exposing most of its three-foot-long row of jagged teeth in a death-like grimace. Its eyes glow a malevolent, baleful green as they lock onto the elf's exposed back.

  I nod over his shoulder, and instead of pulling my mace, I point past him. I know this looks like an obvious attempt to distract him, and it’s clear that he's thinking the same thing. He sneers at me, a disdainful smile on his lips as he begins to cast another hex.

  Hey, I tried.

  Turning in place, I run as fast as I can into the thick underbrush, hoping to parallel the trail. I'm also hoping the dragon gets him before he can get that spell off. A loud detonation goes off behind me, streaks of orange fire cascading all around me, some hitting me in the back. The dragon screeches in rage and pain, and I hear its massive body crash to the ground.

  Damn, I'm glad that one missed me. I grab onto a tree, panting, and look back just in time to see the dragon dragging itself back to its feet. It’s lost its left eye, as well as its horns and some teeth on that side of its face. The remaining skin seems a bit melted, but it's mobile again and even more pissed off. Shit. And it sees me.

  A shower of flames and burning embers fall from the tree above me and land on my back as I turn to run again. I ignore it and concentrate on getting some distance between the undead dragon and me.

  I've never been into jogging or running or anything like that. Matter of fact, I've always hated it. I find running for exercise to be tedious and boring. The last few months of training and conditioning have been paying off in spades, especially, these last few days, but everyone has their limits. I think I'm getting close to mine. My lower back is killing me. My legs feel like lead, and I'm just not able to draw enough air into my lungs to keep this up for much longer. And I feel a strange weight on my shoulders, not a lot, but enough for me to notice. At this moment, I figure it’s just more spinal damage. I just hope it doesn't get worse.

  The water dragon charges forward, smashing down small trees and crushing bushes with each step. It doesn't seem to be able to get up to full speed while dragging its rear leg, so at least I have that going for me.

  I somehow remember that alligators can run very fast on dry land but can't corner worth a damn. I start to run in a long zig-zag pattern, going a few yards in one direction before changing it up. It seems to be working. I gain some ground, the beast roaring in frustration.

  The weight on my back grows a little heavier as I push through the brush as fast as I can. Stumbling a little, I recover and try to put on some speed. But like I said, I'm getting close to my limits here. I know I can't run for much longer. Time to change tactics here.

  My mace is useless, about as effective as hitting a bear with a Nerf hammer, so that’s out. No dagger, but again, that would be just as useless right now. What I do have is a small copper rod with a crystal at its tip. Sometimes, the best things come in small packages.

  I've seen this thing in action, and I'm pretty sure it would stop this dragon dead in its tracks. The problem is, I haven't had a chance to test it yet. From what Thorn explained, I just have to point it and concentrate to make it spit a few thousand joules of electricity. In theory. In practice, this could prove a lot more difficult.

  Haynes

  “All right, the distraction is working so far; let’s get moving again,” Haynes says.

  “But what about Caleb? Jesse couldn't find him, and he didn't double back on the trail like he was supposed to,” Colt asks, concerned.

  “We can't wait. That moon is gonna set real soon, so we continue on as planned. Let’s go!” the Sarge says, the last phrase more of an order.

  “Besides, he knew the risks when he volunteered for this,” mutters Vince. This earns him several cold glares.

  “He's one of us. We're not leaving until we locate him,” states Olivia.

  “For all we know, he jumped through already, and he's waiting on us,” Vince retorts. “Maybe he saw his chance and he took it.”

  “No way!” Miles says angrily. “He wouldn’t d
o that!”

  “This is getting us nowhere, dammit. Move out, now!” Haynes cuts sharply through the chatter with a snarl on his face.

  Des snaps the reins without warning, and the wagon lurches forward. Vince almost loses his footing but regains his balance. Olivia has to jog a few steps before she can grab the back of the wagon. Grayson takes her wrist and pulls her in.

  “Nian, Thirax! See if you can pick up Caleb's trail. Don't stray too far; we ain't got a lot of time,” Haynes orders over the clatter of the cart. He looks up and glimpses the full moon through the thick branches. “Fifteen minutes, no more!”

  Des tries to pitch his voice low for only Haynes to hear while competing with the sound of the wheels rolling across the ground. “Not saying we should do it, but don't the Gnolls belong here? Thorn, too, for that matter. What are we gonna do with 'em? Keep 'em inside a kennel?”

  Haynes stays silent long enough that Des thinks he isn't going to answer. The two men watch the humanoid dogs lope off into the thick foliage on the side of the trail. Finally, he replies, “I don't know. What I do know is they can't stay here. If they do, they’ll be hunted and slaughtered… or worse. No, they come with us. We all remain together until we figure this out.” He pulls out his pistol for the umpteenth time, drops the magazine, and makes sure it's full. He half-racks the slide of the gun, ensuring there's a round in the chamber. He slams the mag back in place. “Let’s get our people home.”