Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📕

Olivia, on the other hand, had taken me aside earlier to have a chat about my plan. After a while, I knew I couldn't completely convince her that this was the best plan for all of us. The fact that she couldn’t come up with anything better just added to her frustration. I didn’t ask, but I like to think that she would be happier with this plan if someone else were carrying it out. I also can’t bring myself to say that I'm doing this not only for our entire group but for both of us, because I think that would have made it harder for both of us. But what choice do I really have? I couldn’t live with myself if someone else died because of my stupid plan.

Turning on her heel, she marches to the back of the group, her blonde hair flashing in the moonlit night. She doesn’t say another word to me. I guess we’ve both made our choices.

Colt pats the horse as we pass but doesn't say anything.

Kicking my mount with my heel, we set back out on the road, just the two of us. Oh, and some baggage that is beginning to smell ripe.

Now for the plan. But first, a little background. I know nothing about water dragons, but I do know a little bit about crocodiles and alligators. And what I know is that they like rotten meat.

The behavior of the water dragons reminded me of how alligators hang out in shallow swamps near the shore and drag their prey underwater to drown them. Then, they store the body there for a few days until it has rotted and gone soft, making it easy to break apart. Their jaws are made for crushing and holding, not tearing, so this is the easiest way for them to eat large game.

And just like most apex predators, these guys should be able to smell a little blood or meat a long way away, and that’s what I'm banking on.

On the enchanted road, the horse and I make it back to the fork by the lake in only a few minutes. I slow when we're still a good thirty yards away, and take in the scene. The mage storm still rages far away and doesn't look like it has moved at all. Gentle ripples in the water belie what I know lurks beneath the surface.

Time to chum the waters a bit. I take the two-foot-long, cylindrical package from the saddle horn and unroll the sticky blanket scraps. This was the thing that had made Thorn snap and scream at me.

The stump of the severed arm, freshly pruned from an elf corpse, flops in my hand. With a little trouble gripping the… bait… due to the shields strapped to both my arms, I manage to toss the bloody limb into the lake.

Almost right away, I’m rewarded with frothing and churning water. I catch a brief glimpse of pallid white scales before the lake's edge erupts in a charging water dragon.

“Let’s a get a move on, Horse!” I yell as I kick the horse with my heels again. He doesn’t need the encouragement as the horde of undead reptiles burst onto the shore, mere yards away from us. Still on the road, we pick up speed much faster than the dragons, but the difference is, this time I'm not trying to outrun them.

I yank on the leather strap that binds the package tied to the back of the saddle as I pull back on the reins to slow the horse. The body hits the ground behind us with a dull thud, splashing the mud around us. Of course, my mount is smarter than I am and resists, especially since we just dropped about a hundred and eighty pounds off his back. He bucks once, but I hold my seat, his eyes rolling back at me and his expression asking, “are you effing kidding me?”

Scowling at the horse, I take a firmer grip on the leads and refuse to argue with him. In retrospect, I really should have named him before this. It would make this easier, I think. Now it just doesn't seem like the right time.

I jolt forward in the saddle when the slack is taken up, and the horse stumbles before the body pulls free of the soft, swampy ground. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms we have our quarries' attention, and they are closing in fast. I duck down lower in the saddle and let the horse set his own pace for the moment. Of course, his preferred pace is a terrified gallop.

Up on the left, I see a crude wooden post stuck in the dirt. Perched on top of it are human skulls. Not dried and bleached ones like you would see in an anatomy class, these are just the rotted remains of multiple heads stuck on a pole and left to decay in the elements. It may not be the most subtle of trail-markers, but it works. The dense foliage splits just next to the signpost and opens into a darkened trail made cave-like by the intertwining branches above it.

I have just enough time to snap my visor down into its locked position before I have to haul hard on the left rein to steer the still-panicking steed. We crash through the underbrush and almost sideswipe the signpost, but we come out onto the trail as fast as the horse can run. The road enchantment must not extend to this side trail, so we slow down significantly the moment we leave the main road.

Low branches slap and scrape across my visor, and I squint and flinch. I hear thundering crashes right behind us, so I don't have to turn to look to see if we still have our tail. The garbled roars and angry hisses are even louder than the thunder of my horse's hooves. The ground is much drier here, and we gain a little distance,