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

by Keith Ahrens

  “Oh, like the tuning fork the first time she healed me,” I say, catching on.

  “Nope,” Des replies, matter-of-fact. “That’s a focus, and that was the second time she healed you. A focus just makes it easier for her to use that particular spell. Kinda like a magnifying glass but only for that type of magic. She couldn't use it to say… throw a fireball or something."

  “How the hell do you know all this?” Haynes breaks in, suspicion heavy in his voice.

  “Well, ya' know how I said I could feel the wards on the arming room? Thorn's been teaching me some things when we get a few minutes. I can't do much yet, but I'm working on it.”

  “Well, work harder, Son. We gotta get outta this Hellhole soon, and a little magic could go a long way.” Haynes sits up, careful not to wake Thorn. “It’s getting worse around here.”

  “Has anyone else ever tried to escape?” I sit up as well, rattling my leg shackle.

  “Shh!" Haynes puts his finger up to his lips and glares at me. "Yeah. You saw most of them outside lining the wall of the practice fields… in the decaying armor. Last one was over six months ago, and he's still alive in there. Or alive as one could be.”

  I shudder, thinking about those poor bastards rotting in those rusting suits.

  “Has anyone ever made it?”

  “Dunno. No one's ever sent a postcard back to us. Or the cavalry to come get us…” sighs Des.

  “Cavalry?! Is the charge happening so soon? Where's the bloody Colonel?!”

  “Jesse! Shut the hell up!” whispers Des as loud as he dares.

  “Set bayonets, men! Fire on the horses!”

  “Stand down, Soldier! That’s an order!” Haynes whispers in a harsh, commanding tone.

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Jesse seems to freeze in place for a moment, then slowly lies back down. He's snoring again before the jailer even reaches our cell.

  We wait a few more minutes after the ogre shuffles off to make sure everything has quieted down once more.

  “It’s becoming obvious that I will gain no rest here tonight,” Thorn mutters aloud, breaking the silence.

  “Thorn, I—” starts Haynes.

  “No, it’s all right, Elias. Anyway, I may have some… news. I wanted to tell you sooner." She tries to stifle a yawn. "It’s from a less-than-reliable friend, but we may have a way out.”

  “What?” I blurt, almost too loudly.

  “Calm yourself, Stupid One. I need some time to gather more information. You should use that to gather any allies you trust.”

  “What kind of time frame are we looking at?” asks Haynes, all professional.

  “The next full moon. The lunar phase links up with your own world for three nights. If we can even escape the castle and keep in the first place, the nearest gate I know of is nearly a day's ride from here, deep within the woods.”

  “I think a moonlit hike sounds just darlin' right about now,” quips Des. “Sure beats dying in here or out on someone else's battlefield. I was born and raised in the backwoods of Pennsylvania. I can get us through any woods y’all got.”

  “There are dangers. Wild Fey who owe no allegiance to any House, and unpredictable Mage Storms. The very real possibility of dying in a myriad of horrible ways…” Thorn finishes, unsure and unsettled.

  “Wild Fey can't want to kill us any more than the assholes already holding us captive… but what’s a Mage Storm?” I ask, not liking the sound of it.

  “Well, all magic comes from one of the Six Basic Alchemical Elements: earth, fire, wind, water, death, and life.”

  Six elements? I’ve always thought there were only four, but I guess Life itself can be considered an element in this sense. And each one has an opposite, so I guess if Life counts, Death must also.

  She continues, “Some areas are prone to stronger pockets of magic, such as a lake that many generations of Naiads have called home, or a forest grove protected by numerous Dryads. When the borders of these areas grow large enough to meet, the Magics collide and unleash wild magics or 'Mage Storms.' Sometimes it will be burning rain or poisoned air. Other times, a Storm can literally drown your soul while your body lives on.” She shudders faintly with that last one. “On rare occasions, they can create healing waters or glades of solace.”

  “So, who is this friend, and can he be trusted?” asks Haynes, suspicion thick in his voice.

  “He is called Osmanthus. A Highborn who was banished to your world for a century. He talks of his 'punishment’ as the best one hundred years of his existence. He developed a deep fondness for you humans and your world. I think he's been looking for a way and an excuse to return for a long time. He thinks he's found a way, and I believe him.”

  10

  The sword crashes against my shield hard enough to make the bones in my forearm vibrate. I swing my mace wide and low; Steve drops his shield down to block it with ease. This opens him up to a straight kick to his gut, which I take full advantage of. The wind blasts out of his lungs, and he falls forward, doubled at the waist. I tap my mace to his helmet, signaling to him that it would have been a fatal hit.

  I step back and scan for another attacker. The sun is sinking low over the walls, and the shadows stretch far. We’ve been sparring with Colt’s group and the Berserkers since the storm, giving as good as we've got.

  Not a one of us isn't bruised from head to toe and aching in every major muscle. Damn, what I wouldn't give for some aspirin and a hot bath. Without looking at my wrist, I know most of my injuries are subdual damage—non-lethal—and will heal in a few minutes.

  I feel a solid jab to the center of my back, and I whirl around, weapons ready, only to realize Colt has killed me with a spear to the spine. Shit.

  I kneel next to Steve, a signal to the other fighters that we are out of the action, both of us breathing heavy. I lean in and continue a previous conversation, “I can’t go into much detail right now, but there is a plan in the works to get us all out of here.”

  “That’s impossible! Even if we got out of here, where would we go—”

  I cut him off, “We have some inside help. The problem is, we can’t directly communicate with them, so we are in the dark about most of this as well.”

  He pauses to think for a moment. “This is a pretty shitty plan, you know that, right?” he says this with a grin. “But count us in.”

  “Okay, cool. Now, discreetly, start spreading the word to people you guys think we can trust, but be careful. If the wrong person finds out, we’re dead before we even get the chance to break out.”

  He takes a deep breath. “We'll do some poking around, but we don’t have a lot of friends here; every group tends to stay by themselves, as you know.”

  “Yup, and a week ago, we didn’t know you guys or the Berserkers. Just make sure you and anyone else you trust can be ready at a moment’s notice.”

  “Will do. You be sure and keep us posted,” he replies in a whisper. “And be careful of who you guys talk to, never know who’s a changeling.”

  Before I can ask what that is, the evening horn sounds, the call to return to our cells. Haynes, Colt, and the Berserker leader, Grayson, meet up for a quick huddle as we gather our gear up from the field. They break, and we all move with practiced efficiency, making our way through the tunnels and to the arming rooms. I start to pull dented pieces of sweaty armor off as I sit down on the splintered bench.

  “Okay, folks,” Haynes begins after he shuts the door behind us, “we have about twenty people, including Nian and Thirax, on board so far. The squads are feeling out their allies and letting them know when to expect to move. We're in a holding pattern for now until Thorn's friend gets us some more info.”

  “Dunno if I like trusting the plan of someone I've never so much as met,” Des says under his breath as he removes his breastplate.

  “We follow the Pack. Where Leader says to go, we go,” Nian growls, as if to end the conversation right then. I find their loyalty impressive; I just wish I knew what Haynes did to inspire th
is much devotion.

  “What are changelings?” I blurt out, the question popping into my mind as I remember Steve mentioning them back on the practice field.

  The room pauses for a moment until Des laughs a little. “Well, Son, there's a bit of mixed opinion on that one. Some of us don't think they exist, but others seem convinced they are real.”

  “Okay, what are they supposed to be?”

  “Ever hear of cot death?” Haynes asks quietly.

  Cot death? Yup, I sure have—also known as SIDS. I still have nightmares of ambulance calls involving that particular horror. For those who don't know, it’s when an otherwise healthy baby goes to sleep and never wakes up again. In my opinion, there is nothing more tragic or devastating to a family.

  I reply more neutrally, “Sure.”

  “Well, back in the day, there were stories that the babies never died. They were taken by the Fey and brought here, to the Underhill, and raised as spies or slaves. An enchanted bit of wood or a sickly Fey would be left in its place, and everyone would think it was the baby.” Haynes tells this matter-of-factly, but I can't help but notice a hint of sadness in his voice. I file that away for later. “I don't see the point in ignoring a potential enemy among us just because there is no proof,” Haynes finishes firmly.

  “And I don't see the point in worrying about things we have no proof of!” replies Des wearily.

  I get the feeling this isn't the first time this conversation has taken place. “But what do they change into? Goblins? Ogres? A house cat?” I ask.

  This stops Haynes short. “What?”

  “Ah, jeez, man, they don't change into anything; they are just called changelings. And so are the Fey or dead body or whatever they leave behind. It’s just a name, Hoss.” Des laughs a little.

  “A spy in our ranks will tank this whole mission before it starts! We’ll die for no reason!” an exasperated Haynes jumps back in, as if I never interrupted.

  “As opposed to the reasons we are dying now?!” Des nearly screeches incredulously.

  “Enough now, Lads. The turncoats are all about us. The Colonel will hang them from the highest bough when we catch them! No need to fight among ourselves when the damn Rebels are itching to battle!” Jesse chimes in, the message garbled, but his point lands. At least he's almost lucid today.

  “Look, guys, what’s so hard to believe about the changeling legend? Is it any more unreal than anything else that has happened to us?” I ask. I also wonder what or if anything possibly stayed behind when each of us were taken.

  Seriously, after all the amazing and incredible, even disturbing, things we've seen in this Elven Hellhole, this is what they have a problem with? Unbelievable. I shake my head as I look at the two friends glaring at each other.

  Des slowly blows out the deep breath he's been holding. “All right. I reckon you got a point. It still leaves us with the problem of how the hell do we know who's a damn changeling?”

  “Well, we're gonna need some more intel… we could ask Thorn. Maybe she'll have an answer,” replies Haynes.

  The conversation fizzles out now as everyone finishes removing their armor and knocking out some new, hard-earned dents. We return our various weapons to their proper racks on the walls. Another great benefit of the Gnolls is they spend their free time maintaining all of our weapons and gear. Thirax managed to set up a small anvil made from a block of granite and an old breastplate melted to the top of it. He was a blacksmith for his original pack and seems to still enjoy the work. Nian whiles away the hours, sharpening blades. It’s a poor setup, but our equipment is in better shape than the other squads.

  As a group, we make our weary way back to our cell. Home sweet home. At this point, I think I've gotten used to the smell. Someone replaced the dead pixie with a new one in stasis, only this one has a reddish cast to its light.

  On the bright side, everyone in our cell has recently been getting at least two meals a day. Haynes remarks that this happens in the days preceding this 'Mortis Causa.' Which means we are running out of time.

  We haven't seen Thorn much lately, but that’s not unusual. She always shows up when someone's injured; she only socializes on rare occasions. It works kind of like a sadistic Bat-Signal. I wonder who will volunteer next to get stabbed for us to get some new info.

  Almost a week has passed since the lightning barrage. Thorn, Des, a couple others, and I spent much of our spare time caring for the wounded. Thanks to the magic, most are back on their feet by now. Though their scars are pretty awful, and the smell in the hallway still lingers.

  Des says he has no knack for healing magics, but I see a big difference in his before and after. I guess he's either a quick learner or the situation is just bringing out the best in him.

  Thorn lent me a few stones imbued with a touch of healing magic. I was kind of excited about them until I realized how tired and drained I felt after using them.

  Wait, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not using the magic. The magic is kind of using me. Like Des explained to me, I'm just activating the magic and directing it. And sort of acting as a battery for it. The magic is in the stones; it just needs to be aimed and powered.

  It was kind of worth it though. Second- and third-degree burns can be healed this way in a matter of minutes without infection. I just feel like sleeping for a week each time I use it on even the smallest wound.

  On top of that, the stones burn out all too quickly. They each start off pearly white with streaks of deep green in them. Kinda pretty. After a certain amount of usage, they end up crumbled and black, like a charcoal briquette. I'm told if they're left alone in the sunlight near living things like plants and people, they will regenerate over time. I really don't know, and I haven't had time to test the theory.

  I flop down on my pallet and adjust the straw into a more comfortable pillow pile. My stomach growls as I stare at the ceiling, waiting for our evening MRE delivery.

  Right on cue, we hear the clank and rattle of the goblins and their wagon. But this time, there is a new sound to go with it. It sounds like a lot of shuffling feet and the rattling of chains. The door swings open, and we see the usual crossbow pointed into the room and the little bastard with the ledger. Ledger Goblin squints into the room and asks, “Who leads here?”

  This break in routine makes us all pause for a moment until Haynes stands up and replies, “I do. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem, human. The leaders of each cell have been invited to dine with Lord Dullahan this evening.” The third goblin sheathes his rusty short sword and steps toward Haynes with a set of brass manacles.

  “Well, this is a new turn of events,” Des comments as he stands and steps in front of Haynes. I do the same.

  “Your leader will be returned, unharmed, foolish humans. Step aside or I call the ogres!” Ledger Goblin says with a sneering grin.

  “At ease, boys. I'd best go see what our host wants with us.” Haynes puts a hand on each of our shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushes us aside. He nods to Jesse, who had somehow popped up in the corner behind the goblin. Jesse relaxes and leans against the wall.

  Haynes steps forward and allows the gob to lock the manacles around his thick wrists.

  “Now, join the line, human, and maybe we'll feed the rest of your wretched friends.”

  Haynes is led to the back of the wagon, where a small line of men and women are chained together. The goblin adds the Sarge's manacles to the chain with a loud clack.

  Ledger Goblin tosses three sealed MREs into the room. They land with dull thuds in the middle of the floor. He slams the door shut without another word, and the cart moves off to the next cell, taking our friend with it.

  11

  Haynes

  Haynes and the other cell leaders follow the small wagon as it makes a final stop in front of the arming room. Haynes watches as the goblins stop and argue with themselves for a brief time. Ledger Goblin finally has enough and slams his leather-bound book into the side of the third goblin
's head. The one with the crossbow laughs from atop the cart as Ledger Goblin grabs the short sword from the dazed goblin's sheath. He jumps back and yells in his hissing, chittering language while he waves the sword at his companion. The losing goblin straightens his short helm and spits at Ledger. He grumbles as he pulls aside a dirty tarp and lifts a bloodstained, oilskin package from the cart. A few maggots fall loose and curl up when they hit the floor. He casts a baleful glare at the other two goblins and turns to the door. No one ever volunteers to feed the Gnolls.

  Crossbow Goblin raises his weapon and crouches down as low as he can from his vantage point on top of the cart. Ledger steps to the door and puts a key into the lock. He glances at the third minor Fey, who nods with hesitation.

  Ledger twists the key and jumps back. The door slams open, and a feral roar floods the hall. The humans all drop down into crouches, as low as their chains will allow. All except Haynes, who was expecting it.

  The unlucky goblin squeaks like a scared rat, trying to throw the oilskin bundle into the room and scramble away, but a large, black-furred hand shoots out first. It lifts the goblin off his feet by his head and drags it into the shadowed room.

  A moment later, he flies back out and crashes against the side of the rickety cart. The wagon rocks to the side while the goblin shrieks in pain before hitting the ground in a disheveled pile.

  “Nicely done, boys,” Haynes says under his breath, a small grin on his face. The door slams shut before the cart even settles back on its axles. Ledger lets out a long sigh and tosses his cohort's short sword onto his unconscious body, leaving him to rest as the cart rolls down the hall.

  “Get moving humans,” Ledger snarls. “To the courtyard.”

  The procession makes its way slowly through the tunnels and out into the courtyard. The waxing gibbous moon hangs low in the sky over the western wall. Guards above walk their rounds, silhouetted by the moon’s light. A large circle of torches burns brightly, surrounding a large trestle table. A corridor’s worth of armed and armored ogres stands at attention, long spears in hand. The twin lines of foul beasts stretch from the open gates to a long table set perpendicular to them. The wagon makes its way between the ranks, towing the line of humans behind it.