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

by Keith Ahrens

  I pull out a short knife from my belt and cut the leather straps from his leg armor. Briefly, I think about activating his sheet to see how bad he is, but I opt against it. This is what I do for a living, and I don’t need any fancy spell or game stat to tell me what I can see with my own eyes. Besides, even the thought of doing so feels like an unnecessary invasion of his privacy.

  Blood is still welling up from under Steve’s hands and pooling beneath Colt's leg. The sick, copper smell of blood and sweat fills the immediate area. I slit the fabric open and tear it away from the rest of his pants. Quickly, I fold it over a few times until I have a long strip of material about three inches wide and two feet long. I slide it under his leg, close to his groin, pull it tight and tie a quick overhand knot. Next, I take the knife handle and put it in the middle of the knot, tie another knot over it, and begin twisting. After two or three twists, the blood flow from his leg begins to slow. I press my fingers to the side of his throat, where I can feel a weak pulse. Good. I twist the handle one more time and tell Steve to move his hands. He glances at me with a look of mistrust but still removes them. I let out a breath of relief when I see the flow of blood has ceased. I look up at Steve, nodding my head. “Go get Thorn, now!”

  He jumps up without arguing and shoves his way through the crowd. I tie the end of the fabric to the knife handle to keep it in place. I look around and notice the fighting has stopped. My squad stands shoulder to shoulder with Colt’s squad, forming a defensive ring around us.

  I glance up at the walls and see a few goblins laughing and what looks like betting as silver coins exchanges hands. Bastards. I don’t see Rat-Face or Spike-Hair Girl anywhere. Haynes squats down next to me and reads my searching face. “They ran away, but I’m pretty sure they did what they already came to do.” He nods at Colt. “How is he?”

  “Not good,” I say quietly so only he can hear me. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Right now, he’s unconscious and in deep shock. Can Thorn do anything for this?”

  He gives me an uneasy shrug. “I don't know, but if Colt pulls through, I think we’ve earned a few friends. Colt and Steve have been here at least as long as Des and I have, and they're real good fighters.”

  I raise both of Colt’s legs into shock position to make it easier for the blood that’s left in his body to reach the heart and brain. “If Thorn can’t take it from here, he’s fucked. I don’t have any of my equipment in this primitive world, so there’s not much more I can do. This will only buy him a few hours”—I point to the tourniquet — “but he’s gonna need more than that.”

  “What else do you need?”

  I snort quietly. “I need a suture kit and a few pints of whatever blood type he is. He could also use a lot of antibiotics and a tetanus shot. Hell, while we're making wishes, I could use some good whiskey and a fat steak.” My voice turns sour, knowing Colt is almost as good as dead.

  The crowd around us begins to thin out a bit; people suddenly seem anxious to be somewhere else. Over the heads of the defenders, I see a trio of ogres headed our way. One uglier than the next, all wearing mismatched plate armor and leather. Two have axes strapped to their backs, and the leader carries a large oak and brass studded club in his hand. This one walks with a familiar limp as he drags his wooden leg through the dirt. He gestures at Colt and says something in that guttural, grunting language of theirs.

  The rest of Colt’s friends form up between us and the ogres. A skinny, bald man steps up and says angrily, “He's not dead yet; you can’t have him!”

  The ogre snarls and pokes the bald guy in the breastplate with the end of his club, knocking him backward. Two squadmates catch him as Haynes and I get to our feet.

  “What the hell do they want with him?” I ask, confused. “Do they not care who dies around here?”

  “Nah, they don't give a crap about any of us, but they do care about fresh meat,” says Haynes, disgust clearly evident in his voice.

  People and ogres are now shouting and gesturing at each other, neither side understanding what the other is saying. The shouting soon progresses to more shoving, and a few humans are knocked to the ground. One man goes to draw his sword, but Haynes quickly puts his hand on the hilt before it can clear more than a few inches from the scabbard.

  “Don't!" he urges. "Remember the archers!”

  The man shoves Haynes away in anger. “Screw them! I'm sick of this shit!”

  He pulls the blade out with a flourish, dull sunlight winking from the sharpened edges. His mouth opens to issue a challenge when crossbow bolts suddenly flit across the field. The first one glances off his breastplate and buries itself in the dirt. The second bolt bangs home through his armor and plants itself in his gut. Haynes has the foresight to dive to the side as a third bolt gets lost in the crowd. Another person screams, and the mob scatters even further. The remainder of the arrows land strewn into the dry dirt.

  I drop back down and mutter, “Sorry, pal,” as I grab the thick muscle at the top of Colt’s shoulder where it meets the neck. I pinch it hard and give it a vicious twist. Colt moans in pain and weakly tries to slap my hand away.

  “Hey! He's not dead,” I yell in my loudest ‘crowd’ voice. “Look!” I twist his flesh again, and he groans louder this time. Now, it’s not in my nature to torture a wounded man, especially when I still have his blood all over my hands, but this was a special circumstance. I shout again as I notice the ogres and everyone else looking at us. “Hey, look! He's not dead!”

  I twist a third time. Colt moans louder and tries again to smack my hand away.

  The lead ogre pauses and peers down his snout at us. He half-turns to the other two and points his club at Colt. Then he says something that sounds like a grunt and a squeal to me, and all three of them laugh. Damn, I hate that guy. The ogres saunter away like they've already forgotten about us. I glance up at the walls. A few goblins appear to be reloading their crossbows, and a few others are laughing and exchanging more coins. I really hate this place.

  About ten feet away from me, the jackass who drew the blade is writhing in the dirt on his back, clutching the bolt lodged in his gut. His squadmates run over to him. I see the fletching of the bolt sticking out of his abdomen, near the midline. Bad place to be hit. My eyes widen when I see his friend trying to help.

  “No! Don't pull it out! Leave it alone!” I yell, jumping to my feet.

  But, I’m too late. His buddy grabs the shaft and yanks before I finish shouting. Blood fountains up in the air as the barbed head of the arrow pulls free. A chunk of glistening red meat is stuck on the end. The impaled man howls in pain and curls up into a ball, a wide pool of blood already forming around him.

  “Get that armor off him, now!” I slide to my knees next to him and begin pulling at the leather straps. His movements are getting weaker and his moans fainter. “Give me a hand here!” His friend stares dumbfounded at the crossbow bolt in his hand. I reach up and grab a knife off his belt and begin to saw through the thick leather.

  I barely get two of the straps cut when I realize he's already stopped moving. I cut through one more and roll him onto his back, flipping the breastplate aside. No more blood flows from the wound. I look at his face, his mouth slack, eyes half-open and glassy. His chest doesn't rise. Glancing at the wound, I see the bolt had landed just left and high of his belly button. At a guess, it went right through the abdominal aorta, one of the largest arteries in the human body. The bolt was keeping the hole plugged, but once it was ripped out, he bled out in seconds. I sigh and grab a handful of loose dirt to soak up the blood on my hands.

  I glance up at his friend. “He's dead.”

  The bolt drops from his nerveless fingers, and he begins to cry without making a sound. I stand and put my hand on his shoulder for a moment and say nothing, a silent understanding briefly passing between us.

  But, of course, he refuses to believe it. Frantic desperation drives him to start tearing the gauntlet and bracer off his friend’s wrist.

  I can s
ee from here the whole circle is black, but his friend presses a bloody finger against it anyway. An image of a leering, grinning skull pops into view for everyone to see. I catch a glimpse of the man’s name etched on the skull, but it fades before I can see details.

  I turn and walk back to Colt. As I pass Haynes, he says, “Well, they'll get their dinner after all.”

  “Where the hell is Thorn?” I ask, the anger in my voice evident.

  Des walks over. “She ain’t gonna show up out here, not with all these hungry bastards around. It’d be like a sparrow landing in a cat’s mouth and not expecting to get eaten.”

  “Well, we gotta bring Colt to her, then.” I look around and then pick up my spear. “Hey, Nian, let me have your spear. Sarge, I need a couple of shirts, pants, or long rags.” Nian hesitates but tosses me his spear and puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, scanning and sniffing the area for other threats.

  Haynes goes and talks to the other squad. They pull the pants and shirt off the dead guy, and the bald man volunteers his own shirt. His skin is pale and littered with thick, ropy scars, looking like he had been slam-dancing with a woodchipper. I wince to myself when I think of the injuries that must have caused them.

  Sliding the two spears parallel to each other through the legs of the pants and then the armholes of the shirts, I construct a very crude litter. The spears are about seven feet long, so if we let Colt's feet drag a little, we can easily carry him back to the cells. Nodding to the bald guy, I ask, “What’s your name?”

  “Vince. Vince Holmes… Why did you do all this?”

  “What, help him? Seriously? 'Cause we're all in this together, and we need to start acting like it. We gotta stop letting them play us off each other. None of us want to be here, and we're only making it worse on one another.” I look around at the few people still in the immediate area and see a few heads nodding, though most look down at the ground or up at the walls.

  I position the litter next to Colt and get my hands under his shoulders. As I get ready to lift him up, I see Vince picking up his feet. He nods to me, and we shift him over onto the makeshift stretcher.

  Our squad, with Haynes and Des in the lead, forms up around us, Colt’s squad filling in the gaps, and we make our way across the field to the cells. We leave the other body behind. There's no use carrying him with us; there won't be any funeral. From behind, I can hear the laughter and grunts of the ogres returning. The crowd parts before us, and a lot of people stare at our ensemble.

  “Hey, Sarge,” I mutter to his back, “Are we expecting more trouble?”

  “Maybe. Jesse cut one of 'em up real bad. We don't know who else they're friends with. Or why they targeted Colt.” He never stops scanning the crowd, his hand on the hilt of his sword. As we near the double doors leading to the underground halls, the crowds get closer and more claustrophobic. The sweat running down my back turns cold as my arms begin to burn with the strain of carrying my half of the two hundred and fifty pounds between us. Tightening my grip, I roll my shoulders to relieve some of the strain. I'll be damned if I'm gonna call for a rest after all this in the middle of a semi-hostile crowd. Not a great place to show weakness.

  After what feels like a ten-mile hike, we finally pass through the doors. No one else takes a shot at us, but it feels like we barely made it. Steve meets us halfway down the hall.

  “Thorn is waiting in our arming room. Hurry!” he says, panting.

  “Yeah, hurry up!” echoes the guy standing next to him.

  ‘Hurry up’ he says. Why is it the people who aren't doing anything helpful always think that they have to tell those who are to hurry?

  We finally reach their armory, only two doors down from ours. Steve stops me at the door and says, “We can take it from here, thanks.”

  I put my end of the stretcher down, and Vince hurries to match my movement.

  “I guess this is where the trust ends, eh?” I raise my eyebrow as I watch them.

  He doesn't say anything, but he also doesn't meet my gaze. I sigh aloud and turn with my squad to our own armory. I shake the strain out of my arms and say over my shoulder, “Let us know if he makes it.”

  “Will do,” Steve replies. The door slams shut as the ogre guard in the hall suspiciously watches us all.

  For the next few hours, we remain in our cell, trying to relax, yet alert for any trouble. No one speaks much. Not that there's nothing to say, just no point in saying it. After a while, we hear the goblins' roach coach rattling down the hall and making their evening stops at each door. My stomach begins to growl in anticipation of some solid food.

  The door swings open, and the usual routine begins. One points a crossbow threateningly into the room, the other holds his own weapon at the ready, and the third checks his ledger. A brief discussion ensues before they toss MREs at each person… almost each person. Maybe I should have seen this coming, but I honestly never considered it.

  “Hey, where's mine?” I ask in surprise.

  Crossbow Goblin points the bolt at my chest. Ledger Goblin laughs as he looks at me and says in almost understandable English, “Learn your place, human! Or don't… we always need more meat for our pantry!” He continues laughing in his lizard-rat kind of way. Asshole.

  The door closes, and the cart rattles on to the next cell.

  My stomach growls as I reach under my pallet and pull out my meager stores of leftover food. Between the intense physical exertion every day, Thorn’s magic healing, and trying to figure out how to escape this place, I haven’t managed to save much at all. And now as I sort through the remains, I see all that I have left is moldy and rotten. Without refrigeration, the food spoiled a lot faster than I thought it would. I’m sure the constant dampness of our cell didn’t help either. Whatever, it's all inedible. My stomach complains again as I flop down on the pallet. It's gonna be a long night until breakfast.

  “Hey,” I look over at Haynes calling to me. He tosses me the brownie from his MRE as I quickly sit back up and catch it. “I think they noticed you out there today. Tomorrow, we'll see who else did.”

  Des and Jesse also toss me the desserts from their meal pouches as well. I nod to each in thanks. We quietly eat our 'meal' and wonder what we started today.

  7

  The next day begins like any other in this Hellhole, with one notable exception—the breakfast wagon passes right by our cell without even pausing.

  “Pretty pitiful psychological warfare is what that is,” says Haynes, “trying to get us to turn on Caleb.” He finishes his thought loud enough so everyone else can hear him, and I'm grateful to him for saying it.

  Des snorts. “Shit, that’s pathetic. Don't you worry now, Hoss. We ain’t gonna turn on you… just yet.” He throws me a smirk as he says the last two words.

  I shake my head as I say, “Thanks guys, but we're all gonna get pretty hungry real soon if this keeps up.”

  “They're not gonna starve us for long. Only until we get the point,” Haynes says.

  The others break out the little remains of their stashed leftovers. Just like mine, most of it is rotten and inedible. Anything still good is divvied up between us, but it’s not enough by a long shot. We drink plenty of water just to fill our bellies, gear up and get out into the practice yard. With caution, we head to our usual spot on the field.

  Colt’s squad is in their normal place but without Colt himself. Most of them make a point to avoid looking at us with one exception. Vince meets my eye and nods before turning away.

  The air is tense, and the practice yard seems quieter than usual. I can't help but notice that more than a few people are staring at us. None of them will meet my eyes, turning away, as if they'd never looked our direction in the first place. Angry or ashamed or neither, I can't really tell.

  We run through our normal stretches and warm-ups. Each one of us keeps looking around; by unspoken consensus, we're all expecting trouble. But none comes. We spend the morning going through half-speed drills so we aren't distracted if s
omething happens. We keep waiting all morning for the next shoe to drop, but it doesn't.

  My nerves are frazzled by midday. Even though we're close to the wall, I feel exposed and out in the open. Any sudden movement has me spinning around to meet the nonexistent threat, flinching at any fast motion in my peripheral vision. This is no way to live.

  In the early afternoon, the goblin wagon comes by. A little late today, but we have been looking forward to our bucket of water. Jesse reaches for the ladle when Nian stops him. Thirax takes a quick sniff of the water and kicks the bucket over in disgust.

  “Goblins pissed in the water,” he snarls angrily.

  Cruel laughter comes from another squad. Thirax whirls around in a fighting stance, blade in hand, and thunders, “WHO DARES?!”

  The laughter stops right away. Not knowing who it came from, we're all starting to feel surrounded and outnumbered. We fall into a loose circle, facing outward. None of us have drawn a weapon other than Thirax, but the tension is thick in the air. Other squads are conspicuously not looking at us.

  The area around us is unusually quiet. Quiet enough that we can hear a hushed argument beginning not far from we are. As a unit, we shift to face that direction in case it turns into something bad for us.

  Part of me wants to regret helping Colt. It seems to have made my squad and me pariahs around here. The ogres and goblins are enjoying this and take pleasure in watching us suffer a bit, though I worry the real threat is going to come from our fellow prisoners.

  Who knows what they were promised to make an example of us? Well, probably just me. I'm the one who stopped the assassin from a clean kill, disrupting someone's plan. Also, I cheated the ogres out of a free meal. It only sucks that my squad has to suffer as well. I'm pretty sure they're on my side, but how much abuse and starvation are they willing to take?