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

of the bells. If this turns out to be another false alarm, he swears to himself to roast every pig-snouted one of them! He hurries to throw on a robe and grab his staff. Brushing his long, brown hair back from his pointed ears, he slides a dagger into the sheath at his belt. A quick swig from the dregs of his cup, and he's out the door and into the dimly lit caverns.

It takes a bleary minute for me to fully wake up. Dammit, everything hurts… again. I’ve almost become accustomed to feeling good with all the magic healing I've been getting and using lately. Even old injuries and my bad knees have been working good as new since Thorn's first real healing.

I get my feet under me and slide my back up the tree for the second time. I notice my legs feel very weak, particularly my right one. My lower back protests with a dull ache as I stand all the way up. I think I popped a few discs out this time. That’s gonna slow me down a bit. I remember that I don't have any healing stones left and groan inwardly. And a little out loud.

I glance at my wrist; my H.P. are around ¾’s. I decide against reading my sheet right now. That'd be of no help in my present state.

On the plus side, I’m out of the way of the raging battle and not in any immediate danger. I might be able to skirt this whole thing and wait it out until the others get here. Then we just mop up whoever survives and take a quick jaunt through the gate. Easy.

I glance up and assess the fighting before me. Two dragons look permanently dead with several spears sticking out of each of their heads. The remaining five are concentrating on ripping the doors from the rest of the wall. I make my way around the edge of the clearing, and I am almost at the trailhead when a bright light coming from the stockade distracts me.

It starts as a dull orange light shining through the gaps of the wooden wall but escalates to a blinding white flash. I feel and hear the detonation a heartbeat later as the gate set in the stockade wall explodes outward. Two of the fighting dragons are caught in the initial blast and incinerate in moments. The remaining three are knocked back a few yards, pelted with large chunks of burning logs. One coughs and vomits out nasty black smoke before collapsing in a heap.

The last two renew their charge on the wall and head straight for the new opening. I remain down on one knee, both shields up to protect myself from more flying, burning debris. Chunks of charred wood and roasted lizard bounce off my protection and land all around me.

As the water dragons try to smash their way through the opening of the gate, I hear a panicked voice shouting orders in Elvish. I have no idea what he is saying, but he sounds scared. One of the dragons manages to breach the gate, and more screams ring out.

Another massive blast of fire erupts, and another section of the wall goes up in flames. I think that mage is taking care of the stockade for us. Let’s hear it for panic and friendly fire!

Just as I'm thinking this, a man-sized flaring ball of orange and white fire shoots from behind the wall and arcs gracefully through the air, right toward where I am standing.

Jesse

“I think we should get moving. Jesse reckons there must have been at least seven of these beasts on Caleb's trail,” Des says from the driver's seat, his long, bushy beard blowing in the wind.

“I agree. The moon will set soon, and the Stupid One should not be left alone for too long,” says Thorn, contempt still evident in her voice.

“Fine. Vince, get topside with your bow. Jesse scout ahead and let me know what we're rolling into. Berserkers, Olivia, and Gnolls be prepared to jump out. Everyone, weapons primed and ready. Move out,” the Sergeant says with authority. He sighs with worry and loosens his pistol in its holster, but his game face is back on before anyone can notice. He's riding shotgun without the requisite equipment, and he knows it.

Without a word, Jesse gently nudges the horse's sides with his legs and rides off down the small trail. He doesn't comment as he spies the signpost and skulls trampled into the ground by many webbed and clawed feet. Blood smears and claw marks almost obscure the single set of hoof prints in the soft ground.

Spear held low and loose in his left hand, he steers his mount with his knees, a slack grip on the reins. The horse continues at a quick trot while Jesse moves with the rhythm of a seasoned rider. The faceplate of his helm is down, but he easily ducks under the low branches and twigs. The trail is easy to follow, and he leaves the lumbering wagon far behind.

In a few minutes, he sees the distant glow of bonfires. Sounds of a fierce battle reach his ears, but the roaring of the water dragons rise above the rest. Dismounting, he ties the horse to a sapling. His soft boots pad softly on the sandy trail with almost no sound as he makes his way through the last few yards to the clearing's edge.

He takes in the whole scene in mere seconds, but the sheer violence of it leaves him galvanized. Large sections of the shattered stockade wall are burning with fierce flames. Thick smoke obscures the air, but the bodies of three or four dragons lay scattered about. Scorch marks on their hides indicate an intense fire was used to destroy these undead creatures.

He finds no sign of their squadmate's horse. Of course, he takes a few seconds more to double-check the area, but it’s too churned up from the battle