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

by Keith Ahrens

  27

  I make it to the top of the gully, dripping with sweat from the heat, pain, and exertion. I roll over the lip, the fire hot on my heels (if you'll excuse the expression).

  The dragon, tangled in the fallen trees, is roasting and raving mad. It claws its furious way up the steep incline, dragging its dead leg through the fires and coals. Most of its skin and scales have charred to a flaking black, exposing bone and desiccated muscle.

  I grab hold of a thin sapling and haul myself back to my feet. The elf is cutting a trail that is easy for me to follow, but each running step sends a dull lance of fire from my spine down my leg. I try not to limp as it wastes energy and is a lot slower, but my leg still seems to be unable to hold my full weight.

  For a second, I consider ditching the helmet and chestplate armor to get rid of some weight but dismiss the idea as shortsighted. While heavy, this stuff has saved my ass a few times, and I'm sure it’ll come in handy again.

  The trees thin out, and the air seems a bit damper here. I've lost all sense of direction since encountering this damn elf, but I think we might be heading back toward the lake. Not the direction I would've picked, seeing as how it’s the water dragon's home turf, but to paraphrase an old joke, I don't have to outrun the dragon, just the elf.

  His steps are also beginning to falter, and I think he just puked a little while running. I'm guessing he hasn't had the benefit of forced conditioning. I gain a lot of ground on him, but like I've said before, between the armor, my spine, my leg, my size, and my big ol' boots, I'm not exactly set for stealth mode.

  He hears me rattling up behind him just as I'm reaching out to give him a little shove. The little jerk ducks under my arm and throws himself sideways at my legs. I try to jump over him, but I'm left on my bad leg. It buckles as I try to push off the ground. On the plus side, my knee rams into his ribs with a sharp crack. The downside is, we both go tumbling down the trail, tangled up with each other.

  Seriously, who the hell wears a robe outside their own home? The thin cloth tears and snags on the various buckles and edges of my armor. We roll to a stop, and I shove him hard off of me. The robe tears more, and he curses at me in Elvish. I really should try to learn this language. Then again, maybe not. I don't plan on being here much longer. And wild horses couldn't drag me back once I'm gone.

  We both get to our feet again, warily watching each other. Then the dragon screeches as it catches sight of us. By mutual consent, we begin running again. The trees are smaller and thinner here, and the ground is getting softer. Despite its bad leg, the dragon has almost caught up with us. The end of the trees is just ahead, the packed, flat road just beyond it. And past that is the lake. This monster will run us down without a problem on open ground, and diving into the lake is not an option for obvious reasons.

  Bursting out of the edge of the wood, we hit the road, still running. I reach into my belt pouch and grab my 'last-ditch' weapon. I wonder if the elf has a backup plan too. I also hope it doesn't involve feeding me to the dragon while he runs away.

  I look both ways and see the road stretching out into the darkness past my line of sight. No place to hide or use for cover.

  Both of us stagger to a ragged halt, panting from exertion. By unspoken decision, or just lack of options, we turn to face the rampaging beast. The copper rod seems to tingle with trapped energy that I can feel through my heavy gauntlet. The crystal at its tip seems to glow with malicious eagerness.

  The elf pulls a small, silver mirror out of his pocket. Meh, kind of unimpressive as a weapon, but what do I know? Then he begins chanting.

  The undead monster crashes through the few remaining trees and lands, legs akimbo across the road. Its long neck and ruined face whips in our direction. I raise the copper rod and aim down its length, but before I can fire, the elf darts out in front of me and runs right at the dragon. The monstrous beast lunges and snaps its jaws low, but the elf nimbly leaps over it, placing a hand on its head to help him over the spikes on the skull.

  He hits the ground and tumbles into a low, forward roll as the dragon turns and attacks again. Teeth clack together mere inches above the tumbling elf. Then he abruptly changes direction and avoids a swatting claw that slams into the ground.

  “Bide your shot until you see its unarmored flank,” the elf says from behind me and to my right, his voice steady and monotone.

  I turn in mild surprise and see the battered elf standing next to me and staring intently into the mirror. The silvered glass is at arm's length in his left hand, and his right hand is poised behind it, rapidly going through a series of gestures. In the mirror itself, I can see the dragon chasing after the 'elf.'

  I look back and see the same scene, except it's playing out on the road. The other elf (image of the elf?) ducks one more snap of the dragon's jaws and then makes a bad move. He leaps into the swampy edge of the lake and lands knee-deep in thick mud. Large rocks jut out of the muck, further limiting his chances of escape.

  The water dragon crowds the edge of the swamp and roars in triumph as the elf sinks further into the muck and cowers in fear and despair. With an evil leer, the dragon opens its mouth as wide as it can go and then strikes down at the vulnerable elf.

  Its long, sharp teeth shatter as its jaw splits open past its natural range. The lower jaw snaps in at least two places as the illusion of the elf fades and reveals a hidden boulder. The rock shatters from the force of the crushing bite, sending sharp shards down its throat and in all directions.

  The water dragon rolls over on its side in agony, broken fangs and clotted blood falling from its ruined jaws. Its soft, pale belly and flank now lie exposed, so I waste no time.

  I throw all my concentration and focus into the copper rod. The crystal flares, and I feel a recoil unlike any firearm I've ever shot. For one, it doesn't end, and two, it feels like it’s trying to jump out of my hand. All this is making it very difficult to aim, so I grab it with my other hand to help steady the blast.

  So far, I've set the treetops above the dragon on fire, but now with a steadier aim, I direct the fluctuating bolt of lightning more or less at its unarmored belly. It screams again as the electricity superheats the water and moisture in its skin and organs. A lot of people don't realize that electricity can travel over skin and also along all the nerve pathways in a body. Nerve cells act just like a normal electrical wire in the way they transmit electricity everywhere, short-circuiting every muscle they reach. But this wasn't the most gruesome part. I stare, open mouth and surprised, at how it also burns a deep hole in the dragon's flesh and roasts it from the inside out.

  Its legs and long neck twitch and spasm, and the dragon cannot move at all, except for those involuntary twitches. Its claws dig massive gouges in the soft dirt and mud.

  I keep the lightning directed at the same spot for a few moments, and I watch as the small scales blacken, swell, and burst a hole in the monster’s flank. Gore and charred bone explode from the rendered flesh. I keep pouring on the lightning. I don't know what it will take to kill this thing, but I'm not taking any chances.

  Smoke begins to pour from the hole, and I see flickers of flames. I break my connection with the rod, and the lightning cuts off like flipping a switch. The giant body of the water dragon stops shaking and slumps to the ground, its fractured jaws splashing down in the thick, bloody mud.

  Just now, I realize how hot the copper rod has gotten. The leather wrap is smoldering, and I feel the heat through my gloves. I drop it to the ground to let it cool down for a bit.

  I turn back to the elf and see him lying on his back, semi-conscious and vulnerable. I walk slowly over to him; my mace is now in my hand, and I don't remember pulling it. I look down at the bastard that has tried to kill me several times since meeting him less than an hour ago. Knowing the power this elf can throw around, it would be stupid for me to leave him here. After all, he helped guard the gate back to my home. He's one of them.

  He looks up at me, eyes glassy and unfocused. Def
enseless.

  I think back to the long months I've endured, the daily beatings, the broken bones and burns, the hopeless suffering of my fellow prisoners. I ponder the borderline malnourishment, the cold nights forced to sleep on moldy straw and rough wood. I think about the life I was torn from, the family and friends, the ex-girlfriends. Everything I've ever known.

  Can I truly hold this one elf accountable for the untold and unquantifiable misery of so many? Maybe. Probably. Hell, I'm not a lawyer or an ethicist. I just know what the right thing to do is. But I also know who I am and what I am not.

  I am not a cold-blooded killer, and I like to think, that for right now, in this moment, I'm above revenge, regardless of how good it would feel or how I could rationalize it later.

  This would be murder, not a fight for survival. It is a line I'm unwilling to cross. Or maybe I'm just too damned tired to think clearly.

  The elf stirs and grins up at me somewhat stupidly. He moves his hand toward an inside pocket of his robe. I step on his wrist firmly, but gently. Well, maybe not that gentle. Crouching down, I reach into his pocket, watching him for a reaction. I pull out a flask. A simple silver flask with a clever latch for a lid. I pop it open, and the smell of strong, unrefined alcohol hits me. More like assaults me. I've smelled better toilet wine at Riker's Island.

  Glancing down, I see the elf has passed out again, the stupid grin still on his face. With no small amount of trepidation, I look up at the moon. My stomach drops into a deep pit when I see how low it is. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will not be able to make it back in time. I drop the flask in the dirt next to the elf and take a step away from him.

  I plop down on my ass, in the middle of the dusty road, mere yards from the gigantic rotting corpse of the burning water dragon. Next to me is a real-life elf, and I'm dressed and armed for medieval combat. I'm overwhelmed for a moment by a sense of surrealism, but it soon passes.

  Changing my mind, I pop the top of the flask and take a deep swig. I gag a little at the horrible taste and feel it burn all the way down. Recapping the flask, I toss it onto the elf's chest and get to my feet. I still have to try to get home.

  Limping, I set off in the fastest jog I can manage.

  28

  Haynes

  “How are we doing, Thorn?” Haynes asks, tension in his voice.

  “It is done, but we must hurry. You men, fashion a litter from that tabletop, and be quick!” She points to Miles and Grayson, giving orders like the elf-lord she used to be. The two men hop up to comply.

  “Belay that order, gentlemen. I think things are gonna get nasty in a minute. I got a real bad feeling that something's coming,” Sarge pulls his pistol out and checks the chamber out of habit. Vince nocks an arrow and peers out past the waning bonfires. Grayson pulls his ax and takes a defensive position with the other Berserker. Miles stoops down and hoists Jesse up over one broad shoulder in a fireman's carry. No one thinks to question the Sergeant’s instincts. He's gotten them this far.

  Just then a pair of footsteps, one light, the other heavy, echo out of the cavern behind them. Olivia and Thirax come trotting up the corridor, illuminated by the few torches burning in sconces on the walls.

  “Haynes, we found the gate! Colt and Jimmy are guarding it now. There was almost no resistance, only a random ogre hiding by the exit. It’s a clean stroll right out of here!” Olivia says with unconcealed excitement.

  “Has the rest of our pack returned?” asks Thirax, first noticing everyone's tense mood. He pulls his short, double-bladed ax from its sheath.

  “No, not yet. Everyone get behind the wall and get ready.”

  The sound of galloping hoofbeats begins to echo from the distant trees and across the field.

  “We've got company,” Vince mutters.

  “Fall back… make for the gate,” Haynes says with reluctance, knowing what's to come next.

  “Wait. We can't leave without Caleb. And Des and Nian aren't back yet! We can hold out for a few more minutes!” Olivia says, stress in her voice.

  Four horses break from the cover of the tree line and spread out across the clearing. Each horse carries a fully armored knight with their lances at the ready.

  “Vince, slow them down,” orders Haynes in a neutral tone. “Olivia, we can't ask everyone here to give up the chance to get home and away from this… hell… just for one man. He knew that when he volunteered for his crazy plan. I'm sorry.” His voice weighs heavy with regret.

  “No need to be sorry, Sergeant; it’s just that I never agreed with this stupid mission in the first place. No offense to you, but I'm a Lieutenant in NYPD ESU. Different chain of command, but I still outrank you. I'm staying until I find him, or his body. He's earned at least that much from us,” she finishes defiantly and forcefully, leaving no room for argument. She holds out Jesse's pistol, butt first. “Get this back to him when he wakes up.”

  Vince lets loose two arrows in rapid succession. They whistle across the field, the first glancing off a polished breastplate, the second hitting the same elf in the gap just above his greaves. The horse turns, carrying its wounded rider away.

  The strident voice of Captain Darcasson of Lord Dullahan's personal guard, rings out loud and clear, calling for a tactical retreat. Haynes fires off two rounds, spaced about a second apart, just as a reminder. The knights regroup at the edge of the clearing, just out of effective bow range.

  “Sergeant, tell Nian that I've stayed to find our missing pack," Thirax growls softly, in hopes that the others can’t hear. "He will understand.” Staring out at the knights, he twirls his ax with impatience.

  Haynes sighs deep and sad but nods his agreement to the Gnoll, and takes the proffered gun from Olivia. The remaining members of their group come up to bid their good-byes.

  “We will wait for you at the gate during the next full moon, and the one after that if need be,” Grayson says. “Good hunting.” He pats the taller Gnoll on the shoulder.

  Thorn steps in front of Olivia. “If you find the Stupid One, I'm sure he'll have need of these. Good luck.” She embraces the taller woman and presses two small green and white stones into her free hand.

  Olivia smiles and squeezes Thorn's hand in thanks.

  A clarion horn sounds as an ebony coach, drawn by six coal-black, red-eyed horses, breaks through the flames of the trailhead, their heads broken and battered with sawed-off nubs resting where single, long horns used to be. The horses are agitated and constantly shake their heads as if the seared and broken stumps continue to pain them. An unearthly wail emits from the carriage and begins to build in volume.

  The group of humans and the one Gnoll start to feel an unnatural fear. As the volume increases, so does their sense of unease and dread.

  “Shiite… cover your ears!” Thorn shouts as she rummages in her bag. “They've brought a damned banshee with them!”

  From her satchel, she produces a thick, black candle and thrusts its end into the dying bonfire. The wick catches right away and sputters out a gleaming, white light. The candlelight continues to brighten, and the sense of panic and dread melts away from the group.

  “Bloody amateurs… a simple thing to counter,” she mutters. “We need weapons of silver to destroy that creature. She can eventually overpower this talisman.”

  “No,” the Sergeant says with force, “we are leaving now! The moon is almost set, and we are out of time! Go, now!”

  He leans around the corner of the battered stockade wall and begins to fire off measured shots from the big .45. Vince joins in, launching arrows as fast as he can reload them.

  Olivia and Thirax take advantage of the distraction to slip out of the sundered gate and off into the darkness together.

  Hayes fires his gun dry, the slide locked open. “Well, I'm out…”

  Thorn stands and stares at a figure off in the distance. Her sharp elven eyes widen in fear and confusion as the carriage draws closer. “But this cannot be… I saw him die! Skemend murdered him and then disapp
eared with his body and his head…”

  “Not something to worry about now, sweetheart. We have to get out of here,” Haynes says as he grabs her arm and pulls her behind himself.

  Lord Dullahan stands atop the wagon, clad in night black, charred armor, his head nestled under his left arm, encased in its helmet. His amplified voice roars over the open field, “Grimarm the Harrow! Fetch me those escaped slaves and kill their leader.”

  The trees and foliage at the far edge of the clearing seem to bleed out redcaps. They crawl from the roots in a ragged fashion until they form a line. Grimarm and his monstrous hound, Cu Sith, step out in front of the line.

  “All right boys, we've got our marching orders! Let’s hunt us some humans!” He pulls a large, sharp cleaver from its sheath and leads the charge.

  Fifty mercenary killers begin to charge across the field, gathering speed as they go. Their battle cry is beginning to rival the banshee's wail. The very ground shakes with the ferocity of their charge.

  “Grayson, lead the way! RUN!” Haynes shouts as he draws his sword, determined to be rear guard for what’s left of his people. He swings around to the right at a sudden fast movement in his peripheral vision. He checks his swing as he recognizes Nian and Des. The pair race past him without a word, a look of terror on both their faces. They make it into the globe of light from the candle but continue past into the caves, catching up with the others. Haynes smiles to himself in relief and follows them in.

  The group descends into the gloom of the cave and navigates the rough hallways by the torches on the walls. Haynes tries to block the path behind them, tossing tables and barrels into the path, but it doesn't feel like enough. The best it might do is slow their pursuers down by a few steps, if that at all.

  Finally, they see a silver-white glow up ahead around a bend. Grayson calls out a challenge, and Miles answers it. The group bursts into a small chamber. The walls and ceiling are rough-hewn stone. At the far wall, an irregular puddle of solid silver acts as a threshold for a silver Arch raising seven feet high and about five feet wide. The Arch itself seems to have grown out of the silver floor, almost like the way a quartz crystal would grow from a rock. The center of the Arch is dark and obscured, but the silver arc glows softly with an internal light.