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

by Keith Ahrens

Thorn

  The great hall is bright with fairy lanterns and cooled by large, open bay windows set in the northern wall. Soft music from a string quartet plays discreetly in the background. Trivial conversations compete in volume despite their light subjects. Free-flowing wine helps fill the air with laughter, some genuine and some forced, the conversations all but drowned out with the din of scraping forks and knives. Human servants glide silently through the diners, masks covering their faces, with hoods set over their rounded ears. Large portraits of the Royal Highborn Family hang high on the walls, interspersed with large, ornate tapestries.

  The elves enjoy breaking their fast with as much elegance and luxury as they do most everything else. The females of several different species are all done up in gowns and jewels, the males in doublets and cloaks, all fashioned from silk and other exotic materials. Delicacies in the form of rare fruits and wines cover the tables and are enjoyed, yet often discarded unfinished.

  Boisterous laughter erupts from the largest table closest to the open windows. This is the only table to be served any type of meat, and only to a few of its select guests.

  Occupying the middle, most ornate chair at the head table, sits the host of their opulent meal. A scented handkerchief is tucked into his ruffled collar, and his thin crown keeps his long hair swept over his pointed ears. The Lord picks at his food and contemplates his guests, particularly the one to his right. In more normal times, he would never stoop so low as to speak to some of these guests, much less break bread with them. But these are not normal times. Events are building, and time runs short.

  Lord Seneschal Arias Dullahan does his best to ignore the lack of table manners from his least favorite hireling, Grimarm the Harrow. As Chief of the Redcap Mercenaries, he's allowed a lot of latitude. His leather cap reeks of dried blood, and his white beard is stained crimson around his mouth. Gray, weathered skin covers his stalwart frame. A large cleaver sits on the table within easy reach, and a short, stout spear with a broad head remains strapped over his shoulder.

  His penchant for raw meat and chewing with his mouth open doesn't get him invited to the main table often. When he laughs, spittle and blood spray onto the ornately set table in front of him. His monstrous dog, Cu Sith, lies curled next to him. The size of a small horse, its wiry fur is black as coal. It boasts a murderous temperament to match its master's. Cu Sith yawns in a bored fashion, showing off all of his yellow, jagged fangs.

  To the Lord Seneschal’s left sits Cailleach the Hag. Her wizened blue face stares over the crowd, and she mutters to herself a lot. Her thin, stringy, gray hair falls like a greasy threadbare mop to her shoulders. Still, her powers of Winter Magic make her nearly indispensable to this court. Her cold and callous demeanor is easy to overlook when compared to her usefulness.

  Her Sister Hag, Nicknever, sits beside her, sucking the marrow from a small bone and cackling with glee. A stooped and plump old witch, her taste for children of all races is well known. Her mastery of fire and brimstone earned her a place at this table, as well as the respect of her enemies and allies.

  “I'll tell ya' again, m'lads are ready for the raid as soon as these bitches make with the magic,” Grimarm says between mouthfuls and a belch to end his sentence, tossing a large bone to Cu Sith. The nightmare of a canine swallows it with one splintering bite.

  “The timing is almost right, laddie. You'll get your fill of blood and carnage on the morrow,” Cailleach says softly, never looking at the redcap. Her meager meal is left untouched before her, ice rimming her plate.

  “When you and your sister can promise a breach of their walls, we will send in our raiding force. There will be several different groups, each with their own agendas. Grimarm, just be ready to assault the gates when the Ladies here take them down. I need your troops to cause as much havoc as possible but be able to pull back quickly. Take heed, I will need your strength again soon enough, no pointless deaths this time. Your role in this is a hit and retreat raid,” Dullahan says, slightly annoyed, as if he's already mentioned this several times before to the redcap and the Hags. “Others will handle the human forces.”

  “We've pored over your maps and plans for weeks now. 'Tis the time for action! My men thirst for blood, and it's been too long since they've had a proper meal! Living with elves, it's a wonder we all ain't starved yet!” Dishes clatter as Grimarm slams a fist onto the table.

  Nicknever rolls her eyes in disgust then goes back to her meal. A mischievous smile flits across her face as she flicks two fingers in the direction of Cu Sith. Mere moments later, the tip of his long, furry tail begins to smolder and smoke.

  “Quiet your rantings, child. These things cannot be rushed and done well,” whispers Cailleach, the temperature around her dropping fifteen to twenty degrees.

  “Hold your tongue, Hag, your betters are speaking,” snarls Grimarm. No love lost between those two.

  “Enough!” Dullahan booms loudly. “After this morning's feast, you may go your own ways until the Determination! Up to that point, you will each behave yourselves in my Court under the Accords of Guests!”

  Without warning, flames flare up at the tip of the beastly dog's tail. It roars in surprise and leaps to its feet, knocking Grimarm from his chair. His great bulk smashes into the table of Nobles next to him. Bodies dressed in finery scatter among the broken wood, food, and plates. The temperature in the room suddenly rises twenty degrees in a few seconds, and the air becomes stifling.

  The laughter in the room dies as quickly as the hall heats up. Now, angry voices rise, and there is much confusion as to who's to blame. All around the room, elves get to their feet, yelling at each other, full of anger, though moments before, they'd been laughing and drinking together. Old insults and arguments boil up, and ancient feuds are automatically rehashed. Hollow challenges fly back and forth as prides and egos are assaulted.

  The huge dog runs in circles, howling and trying to extinguish its flaming tail. More elves are knocked down and sent sprawling from their seats. Fine porcelain plates shatter on the stone floor, and silver pieces of cutlery scatter across the room.

  Cailleach stands calmly and slams the end of her staff to the ground. Instantly, a circle of ice and frost covers everything—living and inanimate—for about twenty feet around her. All fighting and flames extinguish as combatants, including the giant dog, momentarily freeze in place.

  All except, Dullahan, who shrugs off the frost and says, “This went as well as expected. I will see you all in the morn.” He turns with a resigned sigh and stalks out of his own great hall.

  Far across the large room sits a petite figure, wrapped in robes and misery, as she watches the events unfold before her. She is far enough from the great table to not be caught up in the commotion. Sitting alone at a table designed for at least five others, Thorn eats her meal without enjoyment and tries to ignore the loud whispers around her.

  “She eats like a human!” Barely concealed giggles easily reach her sharp ears.

  “I heard she’s tattoo hexed just like the slaves,” another one titters.

  “Well, no wonder, she's a House-less Half-breed! What would a proper person expect?”

  She winces to herself at that one. Everyone knows her lineage, something she's lived at peace with for all of her former life until her own House betrayed her and sent her here as goodwill hostage. Her role and title are ‘Visiting Royalty,’ but the reality is, she is a prisoner with little more freedom than those locked in the cells.

  Self-consciously, she looks down and ensures the wide sleeves of her robes are covering both her wrists.

  Her continued life and health guarantee a tentative truce between her House and Lord Dullahan's. But it does nothing to stop the other Noble Ladies from treating her worse than the servants. They take it as almost a challenge to make her life more miserable with each passing day.

  “I heard she sleeps in the barrack cells with the other animals!” faux-whispers a stunningly pale blonde.

  Thorn snaps b
ack without thinking, “Drucilla, you know perfectly well I sleep in the room next to your own! Forced to listen to you fake pleasure whenever your fiancé deigns to visit you!”

  An offended hush falls over the next table; the pale blonde Drucilla sweeps a stray lock of hair over her delicate pointed ear and says, “Ladies, the air here grows foul with the stench of the unwashed. It has quite ruined my breakfast! Let us be on our way at once!”

  Her actions match her words as she arises from her seat in a huff. Her layered dress twirls around her, her entourage all jumping to their feet, food forgotten on their plates. They all hurry from the hall, a few casting murderous glares back at Thorn.

  Thorn glances over at the chaos mounting at the other end of the great hall, thinking to herself, I guess a few thousand years of boredom makes any horrid behavior acceptable.

  Thorn gives up any pretense of eating and opens the satchel on her lap. She paws through her various healing foci and glass vials of herbs and powders. She makes a note to herself to visit the apothecary soon to replenish a few odds and ends.

  Just then, the room darkens dramatically. Thick, black clouds begin to obscure the view from the large bay windows. Thin tendrils of blue and green electricity creep angrily through the clouds. Her skin starts to crawl with the gathering energy.

  “Oh, sweet Danaan!” Thorn swears in a scared whisper before screaming and pointing at the window. “We're under attack!”

  The crowded great hall is still engrossed in the spectacle at the far end of the room. No one hears her shouts over the angry mob, which has gone back to chasing the giant dog about.

  She tries to force her way through the spectators, but she is too small, her voice too soft.

  The storm unleashes its fury with a deafening crash of thunder. The stunned crowd begins to realize something is wrong as screams of pain drift up to the windows from the distant practice fields. The cries of anguish are drowned out with more peals of thunder and blinding lightning.

  Thorn now uses her natural nimbleness to thread her way through the immobile crowd and rushes to the windows. She braces her hands on the window sash and stares out in horror at the wanton destruction of the courtyard. Even at this distance, her keen eyes can see bodies writhing in misery and many more lying unnaturally still.

  Smoking craters fill up with the driving rain as the survivors, desperate for shelter, run to the cells. Tears fall unnoticed from her eyes as she hugs her bag of healing tools tightly to her chest.

  “Ye cowardly bastards!” bellows the Redcap Chief at the echoing thunder. “Mangy knaves attacking during a truce!”

  “Calm your theatrics, murderer; we were just planning the same thing for the morrow,” Cailleach hisses at him with scorn.

  Lord Arias Dullahan hastily returns to the great hall with an incredulous look on his face. “Witches! You gave me no warning! Do your auguries fail you? My troops are burning in the open fields, and you did nothing!”

  Cailleach and Nicknever turn as one and regard the Lord Seneschal with cold disdain.

  “Now the time is consummate for the attack on the morrow. Yon enemies have wasted their strength on your mortal pawns!” Cailleach says in a harsh whisper.

  Nicknever picks up the thought, “The time is nigh, their defenses weakened with the use of so much magic. Loose your attack amid the darkest part of the night, just before the dawn!”

  Dullahan glares at the Hags for a moment, nonplussed as he ignores their urgings. “You knew! You knew, and you didn't warn me! I've lost valuable troops today because of you!”

  “You hired us to ensure your attack will succeed, fool. We have guaranteed your raid's victory. The death of your fodder will mean less than nothing when you've murdered their Spellcasters and poisoned their wells and stores.” The temperature again drops as Cailleach stares at the Seneschal. “Have a care to not insult those who can lay waste to your entire home and hearth, Elf!”

  Nicknever steps close to Cailleach and puts her withered arm around her sister's shoulders. “Be calm, my dear, mind your temperament. We can always destroy this castle after we are paid.” She sends a wicked smile at Dullahan, each red-stained tooth sharpened to a delicate point.

  Dullahan clears his throat, arms swinging in a placating gesture. “Lady Hags, no need for anger. Your payment will be awaiting you outside the keep when you return in the morning. Know that your talents are highly valued, and I will happily re-engage your services anon.” He forces a smile at the older witches.

  Mollified, the two decrepit sisters lean on each other for support as they slowly make their way from the hall.

  “Good riddance to those evil bitches,” grumbles Grimarm. “I will take my leave as well to ready my clans.” He makes a sharp whistle, and Cu Sith bounds over to heel at his side, his tail still smoldering. Grimarm heads in a straight path to the door, shoving or punching any and all dumb enough to not move out of his chosen route.

  Thorn stays motionless at the edge of the crowd as she begins to understand the magnitude of what has just happened. Her large blue eyes shed tears unnoticed.

  Thorn had rushed straight to the apothecary from the great hall, grabbing handfuls of important plant parts and bandages, all the while, dreading the time she felt she was already wasting. Sprinting to her own rooms, she gathered up foci and semi-imbued objects to aide her own healing magics. Lastly, she remembered to throw a bit of bread in her bag, knowing the healing she'd soon be doing would drain her. It always left her weak and ravenous.

  She finally makes it down to the cell blocks, the thick wood and brass bound gates to the practice yards standing closed and barred before her. The ogres guarding the gate do their best to ignore her after informing her in their natural tongue that the gate was to stay locked until further notice.

  The petite, angry elf paces in front of the secured gates to the practice yard, glaring at the loathsome ogres before her. The rain has lessened, but smoke still wafts from bodies and craters scattered about the open area. Other ogres and a few goblins make their rounds of the field, gathering corpses and body parts in one large wagon, and they seem in no hurry to complete their tasks.

  “Our troops are dying while you waste my time, Muc1!” Thorn glowers up at the much taller ogre.

  It snorts with derision at her then continues to ignore her presence.

  “Lord Dullahan will not be pleased if more of his troops die when I could've saved them!”

  The ogre looks down at her now and bares his bottom tusks at her with a growl. She stands her ground and stares back without flinching, right into the eyes of the much taller, much larger ogre.

  A door opens from behind her, and light footsteps tap across the stone.

  “Well met, Daughter! No fair teasing the mentally impaired help, now is it?” a bright and smooth voice says. An elf, tall and lean, dressed in tattered finery, steps in between the great and small figures. His thinning brown hair is matted down with rainwater, his ruffled waistcoat also damp.

  Thorn turns to glower at the newcomer. “Osmanthus Wylde! I'm no daughter to you; your entire family crawled from that bottle in your hand!”

  “Whoa, ho, ho! So much anger from one so young!” He laughs and takes a swig from the bottle of wine he is indeed holding. “It must come from being in such close proximity to all these mortals.” He then offers her the bottle. And quickly pulls it back as she takes an angry swipe at it.

  “You, who has spent years among the mortals, know my anger is for them, not caused by them, you fool!”

  “And I share your sorrow and pain, Little Daughter! These simple brutes will not let ye pass 'til they are compelled to. Come and join me; a brief distraction may prove fruitful in the fullness of time.” He extends his arm as befit a gentleman.

  With a defeated sigh, Thorn takes it and allows him to lead her off down the hall. He discreetly passes her the bottle. With a sad smile, she accepts it without a word.

  They walk in companionable silence for a time, sharing the bottl
e of bad wine. They soon come to Wylde's rooms. He produces an iron key in his gloved hand and swiftly unlocks it, the key disappearing back into his silk vest pocket. Pushing the door open, he bows with a flourish suited for court. “Milady! Ye brighten my doorway. Pray enter and lighten the room!”

  “Foolish old man.” Thorn tries to conceal a blush as she crosses the threshold. A slight tingling dances across her skin. She stops and shudders. “You've been strengthening your wards again! They're so obvious and crude!”

  “The doorway charm is meant to be felt, a warning of sorts, but perfectly harmless on its own. My welcoming of ye to these humble quarters renders the rest impotent, rest assured.”

  Thorn gazes around the rooms and judges the housekeeping. Empty wine bottles lie forgotten and left where they were finished while a thin layer of dust covered most surfaces. Rumpled bed sheets and piles of dirty laundry are strewn about. She takes a few delicate steps to the one small window and throws it open. “I believe this room could use a bit of fresh air... and maybe a strong fireball.”

  A damp breeze flows in, bringing with it the smell of rain and wet earth.

  Wylde gasps, a hand to his heart. "Ye wound me, madam!” he replies. “A man has many more things of import to consider than the mundane task of housekeeping! Things such as sampling fine wines, creating epic poems, and—”

  Thorn interrupts him with a girlish laugh. “You haven't created an epic poem in over a hundred years, you silly old Daoine Maithe2!”

  “How can one create verse and prose of greatness when surrounded by evil and drudgery? There will never be a place as inspirational as the illustrious Emerald Isle! Certainly not in this barbaric realm,” he finishes, sad and wistful.

  “Oh, Osmanthus, I did not mean to sadden you! I wasn't thinking—”

  “Enough, child,” he cuts her off with a smile. “I did not bring ye here to relive old pains. My banishment from this realm was the greatest adventure of my long life! Which brings me to my point… alas, there is no delicate way to put this.” He holds up a hand to stop her from speaking before he could finish. “Ye cannot stay here much longer. Each day ye are held captive here, ye die a bit more. Each human ye try not to befriend, hurts ye upon their inevitable dearth—”