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

the brain of the great beast. The rest of its tremendous bulk crashes to the ground, snapping what’s left of the spear into several pieces and crushing the smaller human underneath.

Several moments pass as the minotaur's legs continue twitching and kicking the ground, causing more dust to fly up and fill the air. Finally, it ceases, and a long silence covers the area.

“Dammit… I think I broke my ass when we hit the ground,” the man named Des says with a slight Southern drawl.

The two men begin laughing and coughing on the dust until the coughing overtakes the laughter.

“When you two jackasses are finished, maybe you can get these seven hundred pounds of hamburger off of me,” comes a strained voice from underneath the general area of the minotaur's head.

This sets off a fresh fit of chortling and hacking.

“I'd love to help, Sarge, but I seem to be pinned under a horn at the moment,” replies the man with the Southern accent. “How about you, Kenny? Ken?”

Scuffling boots in the hard-packed ground and grunting comes from the other side of the dead beast. With a tired grunt and a rough shove, the head and horns tilt briefly, and the third man rolls out from under the corpse. He slowly gets to his feet and begins knocking dirt out of his armor. “Here. I'm here. Half-crushed by a dead minotaur, bruised and filthy, but still here.” He reaches up and adjusts the metal plates of his shoulder armor but gives up when he realizes they are hopelessly warped and misshapen. “Just a minute, I'll try to dig you guys out.”

As he finishes speaking, the dusty air suddenly flashes with a suffocating green light all around them.

“Oh, shit! Did we just get picked again!? Quick, get us out!” shouts the Sergeant as he struggles to free himself.

A tired and resigned sigh comes from Ken. He glances at the inside of his left wrist, the way someone would check a watch. “Well, shit. Sorry, fellas, no time for digging. Why don't you guys catch a quick rest; I got this round.”

“What? No! Ken, get me out of here. You can't fight them alone!”

“Don't worry, Des. You can get the next one.” Ken unhooks a crescent-bladed ax from his shoulder harness and swings it back and forth to loosen up his arm.

Mere yards away, four thick, almost obese, towering forms march forward through the polluted air. The lead figure grunts something in a loud, porcine way, making the other three laugh and snort. As the dust clears, the leader adopts a serious expression and points at Ken with grim authority. Without hesitation, two of the other large humanoid figures begin to charge forward with their weapons raised, squealing battle cries.

Ken waits a beat and then moves with near-inhuman quickness. Springing forward in a graceful leap, he lands sure-footed right into the path of his attackers. A fast dodge to the left and forward takes him inside the effective swing of the studded club. It misses braining him by mere inches.

Swinging his ax as hard as he can, he lets out his own fierce war cry. The razor-sharp blade finds its target with a meaty thud against the tibia, just below the ogre’s right knee. Thick, brownish-red blood sprays as the leg splits apart from the body. Bits of bone and sinew scatter onto the blood-clotted dust behind it.

Ken continues to move with the momentum and drops to one knee, sliding across the hard dirt. He buries the head of the ax into the ground, arresting his movement like an anchor and allowing him to spin a bit more than ninety degrees. Hopping back up to both feet, he lands in a balanced fighting stance, ready to take on the next attacker.

The second combatant is already jaunting toward him, swinging his heavy, studded cudgel. Ken swings to intercept the club, and the ax bites deep. Despite the force of the blow, it doesn't manage to cleave the weapon as it did to the leg but instead stays lodged in the hardwood. His opponent grunts in a very piggish and surprised way and struggles for control of the trapped weapons.

More out of brute strength than any finesse, it manages to twist the ax from Ken's hands and toss both locked weapons away. Moving much faster than is fair for a creature of its size, the ogre latches its clawed, green-hued paws onto the human's shoulders. Before Ken can react, the creature spins him around and pulls him into a bear hug after lifting him off the ground. Ribs crack as all the air explodes from his lungs.

Relying on the steel of his helmet, Ken rocks his head back as hard as he can, smashing into the creature's enormous snout and tusks. A large tooth snaps with a noisy crack, followed by a second, wetter fracture as the cartilage in its truncated nose shatters. Viscous blood splatters his helmet, along with a flap of scaled, green skin. The creature's grip slackens, and Ken lands on his feet, his hand already reaching for the sword sheathed at his side.

Unseen by Ken, the wounded, one-legged ogre on the ground behind him recovers faster than anticipated. It snatches at the human's ankle, knocking him off-balance. With his sword only half-drawn, Ken pitches headlong, trying to catch his balance, his arms spinning in a windmill-like fashion as he tumbles across the ground. In the mayhem and the blinding dust, he never sees the club coming for him.

At the same moment, the Sergeant manages to pull himself just far enough out from under the minotaur's lifeless body to see his friend catch a brass-studded club to the forehead. A sickeningly loud snap echoes through the small clearing. Helpless, Sarge can only watch as Ken is blasted from his feet. The force of the hit throws his broken body into a boneless, graceless backflip. He hits the ground like a ragdoll, rolls once, then remains quiet and unmoving.

With quick resolve, Sarge compresses his