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

swing the sword, I drop my shield too low, and Des is right there to take advantage of each instance. Even through the armor, I feel the bruises already forming.

My arms are heavy with fatigue, and sweat drips off me from everywhere. Finally, I toss the wooden blade to the ground in disgusted defeat. “I need a break. This isn’t working.” I drop down to one knee, breathing heavily. I open the visor and try to wipe the sweat from my face. Not so easy with thick plated gauntlets on.

Haynes notices me and halts the other matches. “You givin' up already, Son?”

“Not giving up, just need a break. Something’s wrong. I just can’t get the hang of this.”

“'That is an understatement, Hoss. You got no style and no finesse with a blade,” Des cuts in. “I think he’s more of an ax-man. All that brute strength, but no skill.”

“Nay, he’s not proficient in blades. You’d best be served to Level Up and pick a weapon then. Perhaps, try a mace,” Jesse states, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Sure, Jesse… you could be right… I guess," says Haynes with a frown. "Okay people, let’s all take a breather. We should be stopping for midday soon anyway.” He, Jesse, and Des take a knee with me. The Gnolls join us and squat down, all of us gathering in a loose circle.

Surreptitiously, I check the tat on my wrist. I've taken quite the beating today, and I want to confirm a theory. The red circle is still there but almost two-thirds of it displays a light grey color. As I watch, a little sliver of it turns red again. This pretty much confirms that this is my Hit Point meter. The grey is probably non-lethal subdual damage; the black is real damage. I look up and see Des watching me. I quickly cast my gaze elsewhere, starting a conversation before he can ask any questions.

“So… why are they making us fight, and who are we supposed to fight anyway?” I ask, still a little short of breath.

The group seems to pause, each unsure of what to say or how to answer. For the moment, even Jesse seems more focused and alert than I've seen him yet, though just as reluctant to speak.

“I think one of the Gnolls could answer that best. They’re locals and have been here the longest,” answers Haynes at last.

Nian and Thirax glance at each other until Thirax snorts and turns away, as if he can't be bothered to talk to me. Nian clears his throat with a little self-conscious growl. “Human speech can be difficult for us at times. I will be brief.”

He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and begins with a little hesitation. “The lands here are… divided into kingdoms and smaller… Fiefdoms. The strongest rule here, as in any good pack. The Highborn Elves reign over all due to their powerful magics. Over the past few centuries since we all arrived here, the Highborn became tired of killing their own kind for dominance, so they began recruiting from the other Folk—”

“Other Folk?” I interrupt. Nian stares hard at me; Thirax growls softly.

“Ahem,” Haynes steps in. “Most people find it rude to interrupt when others are talking. And Gnolls find it particularly offensive for a new pack member to do that to an older member. Consider it a pecking order, and right now, you are at the very bottom.”

Shit, just when I’m finally getting some answers. “I apologize, Nian. No offense was intended.”

He stares at me for a moment longer. “It takes some pups longer than others to learn their place. I accept your apology,” he responds with just a bit of condescension.

I rankle a bit at his tone. I’m not used to being the useless new guy. For years now, I’ve been the guy in charge of the large crews at emergency scenes, barking the orders and knowing exactly what to do. It’s been a long time since I've had to suffer as the rookie, and now I'm getting treated just as one might. Yes, I know I’m the noob here, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Also, I begin to wonder what would've happened if he didn’t accept my apology.

He continues with reluctance, “The other Folk—races of Gnolls, Goblin, Troll, Ogre, Redcap, and others. I will not name them all… most are beneath our notice or worry. And some should never be spoken of openly. The Highborn have always been few in number but great in magic, and each passing war lessened their numbers even more. They began to subjugate the other races… using them as foot soldiers, easily dispensable. Some races joined them willingly for the chance of plunder or killing. But soon, even those ranks grew thin, and they had to turn to Above the Hills for fodder. This is how you, and those like you, ended up here. You are fighters in your world as we are here. Our natural Packs have been broken up, and we are forced to make new ones as time goes on. Most of you Humans are fragile. We see many of you pass through here each year just in our preparations for war.”

I wait a few moments to make sure I don’t accidentally piss off the large dog-man again, before I ask, “But what are these wars over? Like is it over land, money, or maybe some ancient rivalry?”

Thirax now gets a look of concentration before he chooses to speak. “Control… these wars are fought for control of the very air we breathe and the sun shining upon us. The magics that surround us create and maintain the world we live in. Hence, each year, the victor controls the magics, and by extension, the rain and the drought, the moon and the tides—all that which allows us to live. That is what they fight for… and now what we are forced to fight for them.” He snorts in