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

be. I bite back another scream, brace myself with my right arm, and raise my shield to fend off the next attack.

“BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!” Haynes’ authoritative voice cuts through the din of the practice field.

Thirax stops mid-stride and drops to his haunches, mouth open, panting and dripping bloody drool. Then he lets out a guffaw. Though loud and growly, his laughter is clear and distinctive. “Well fought, human.”

“Goddamn, Son. I guess you can fight after all!” crows Desmond.

5

Ever break a bone? I have. Too many of them at one time or another, in fact. I’m a big guy, and I’ve played all kinds of contact sports, ranging from football to motocross to martial arts. Injuries are kind of inevitable. That being said, breaking a bone hurts a lot. In my humble experience, the bigger the bone, the greater the pain. The leg is on my list of top three bones I’ve tried not to break again, and yet here I am, depleted Hit Point meter and all.

Thirax carries me back to the cell, chatting all the way. Yup, chatting. Apparently, trying to kill each other has made us BFFs. It makes sense in a weird way. In a dog pack, order is sorted out pretty much the way we just did, only usually with less armor. When the dust settles and the fight is over, everyone in the pack knows where they stand and disputes are laid to rest. No more wondering who is tougher.

I'd like to think that this was a draw, but I’m not eager to argue about it or try for a rematch. He continues to yak on about the fight and other fights he’s enjoyed in the past. During all this, he keeps jostling my leg as he tries to swing his arms while acting out each brawl. Add in his odd, loping gait, and you get a definitively painful ride.

We had to make a quick stop at the arming room to drop off our weapons and armor. Apparently, no one cares how broken or maimed a person is, you're still required to return your gear. "The ogres," he explains to me, "are very strict about this."

While I’m pulling off bits of dirty, sweaty armor, I notice my tattoo is flashing a brighter red, about once a second. A closer look shows a small blue arrow in the center, pointing up. Tentatively, I press on it. Right away, the flashing stops, and I feel a small surge of strength through my whole body. At the same time, my legs seem to hurt slightly less. The stat sheet pops up, but at a quick glance, I don’t see anything different. I let it close when Thirax growls at me to hurry up. I make a mental note to look at it closer later on.

At the intersection where the cell hallway meets the exit, we find a pair of ugly brutes blocking the way. The smaller of the two steps forward and begins grunting questions at us. Seeing that we don’t understand him, he begins to none-too-gently ensure we aren't trying to smuggle a codpiece or a battle-ax back to the cells. It’s a thorough frisking that feels more like a mugging, and I'm wincing with every pat, hoping I don't pass out right in front of them. I do not want to be beast-chow. Satisfied, he and his partner step back and let us pass.

Finally, Thirax dumps me gently (for him) onto my pallet. He sniffs the bucket of water. Deeming it clean, he slides it and a cup where I can reach them. Then he tells me that Haynes is arraigning for 'Maidin Dealg' to meet me here.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Not a what, Maidin Dealg is a point ear,” he chuckles.

“Well, that doesn’t help at all. What’s a point ear?”

He laughs a barking, yipping sound. “I forget you are so new. She is a Highborn brought low, but an ally, nevertheless. Our Pack has to share her with the others, but I think you are among the first to be injured today, so you may not have to wait too long. I must return before the jailers come looking for me.” With that, he turns around, pausing briefly at the doorway and sniffing. He cautiously steps into the hallway and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I slump back on the pallet and roll with the pain for a few minutes, wondering what the hell is gonna happen next. Calling 9-1-1 is out of the question, and I don’t think a quick trip to the ER is an option, either. At least Des was kind enough to bind my legs together with some old rags. That stops the broken one from flopping around too much, but it does nothing for the pain.

The pain also brings more clarity to my new situation. I am going to have to get better at this. I may have to eventually hurt someone, possibly even kill them. I have no desire to be beaten or broken any further, and the thought of ending up rotting in a rusting suit of armor fills me with horror and revulsion. Why the hell is this happening? What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

Okay, enough self-pity. I take a long drink of water and get ready to assess my leg. It’s a common fact among the medical community that doctors, nurses, and medics make the worst patients. We all think we know best. Lucky for me, there is no one here to contradict me. So, I delve in and start untying the rags. Right away, I feel the bones shift and grind together as the muscles spasm. I drop back flat on my back and bite down on the wad of rags to stifle a scream.

The pain is rather intense, but I ride it out. Hard-won experience tells me this will pass in a few minutes, but it will feel like hours. Experience never lies. When the waves of agony and spasms finally