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

and your own natural magics! And I still have contacts from my years in exile to the human realm! Don't ye see? We could be free, safe, and living in luxury far away from these cruel tyrants!”

“This is nonsense and fantasy; your own exile was over a hundred years ago as humans measure time. No mortal could remember you. Your plan borders on the insane, and I fear you may be delusional from the drink.”

“Well, now. I never said my contacts were mortals, my dear.”

As comprehension began to dawn, she stares open-mouthed at Wylde, unsure of what to say. She is saved from having to reply when the air suddenly fills with the blaring call of a loud horn. The sound of distant chains pulling on rusted hinges, as the large gates finally open, carries to them through the open window. Thorn rushes to the window and looks down to the courtyard below.

“They've opened the gates. Os, I must get to the cells and attend the wounded!” She stands on tiptoes and kisses the older elf on the cheek. “Thank you, Old Father, but I have to go!” She grabs her satchel and almost sprints from the room.

“Think on what I've said, Young Daughter! There is always hope! Remember, an idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all!” He finishes his sentence to an empty room.

Thorn makes it almost down the hallway when a nagging sensation takes hold of her and doesn't let go. Osmanthus’s parting words had struck a sour chord with her. Glancing fretfully toward the field, she makes a decision.

On near-silent feet, she creeps back to Osmanthus’s door. The drunken old fool has left it ajar. Listening intently, she views an odd scene of an elf with much to hide.

Osmanthus slumps down on his bed with a heavy sigh, upending the bottle of wine into his mouth. When nothing pours out, he frowns at the empty vessel and tosses it aside. Leaving the comfort of his bed, Osmanthus Wylde pulls a fresh piece of parchment from a drawer. He considers it with a frown, pen poised, deep in thought. A moment passes then he begins to write neatly and at length.

When he finishes, he holds both hands above it and begins to chant. The thick paper starts to glow, as if a small bit of sunlight is trapped within. A moment passes and the paper quickly folds itself into the shape of a small songbird.

The paper bird shakes itself as the glow fades. It chirps once and hops to the windowsill, launching itself into the air. It begins to whistle as it soars off, as if it were a real bird.

Osmanthus starts a new chant, and the paper bird fades from sight as if flying on swift wings to the north, its song fading into the distance.

He takes up another paper for a second letter but pauses to gather his thoughts. Thorn decides she has seen enough and hurries away to do what she can to help the humans on the field. New questions, and maybe some doubt, are turning in her mind, but she pushes them away.

9

The first thing I notice as I come floating back to consciousness is that everything hurts. My sense of smell kicks in before I open my eyes, and I wish it hadn't. The scent of burnt hair and skin is thick in the air. I cough, and my head feels like its splitting open from my forehead to the back of my skull. I open my eyes up to the sight of the stone ceiling of the tunnel. The light is dim, but I can see multiple forms lying near me as I sit up. Glancing at my wrist, I see much more black than I’m comfortable with, but at least I’m upright and alive.

Some bodies are still smoking from the burns; others are smoldering where plates of armor seared into their skin. A few move weakly. Not far from me, I watch a man whose mouth is open in a moan or a scream. That’s when I realize I can't hear anything. The harder I pay attention, the more I discover that I can only pick up on a muffled high-pitch ringing noise.

Des must have noticed that I'm not dead because he comes over to me, stepping with care around the people strewn about the tunnel. I get to my feet and sway as a wave of dizziness hits me. Shit. Another concussion? This can't be healthy.

Des steadies me by my shoulders, and I see his lips moving as he tries to tell me something. I put a hand up to get his attention and interrupt, “How long was I out?”

He flinches back and says something else, so I repeat my question louder, “How long was I out?” He puts his hand over my mouth and raises a finger to his lips as he seems to repeat what he just tried to say.

A lightbulb goes off in my mind, and I realize he's trying to tell me to stop shouting. I attempt to speak much quieter (at least, I think I do) and say, “Des, I think I'm deaf. How long was I out? It’s important!” I never really realized how hard it is to control your own volume, much less talk out loud when you can't hear yourself speak. I look around at the people strewn about us.

Tapping my shoulder, Des nods his head and holds up two fingers and then forms a circle with the same hand. He repeats the gesture, and I get it. “Twenty minutes?” I gasp.

He holds his hand, palm down and waggles it side to side, pantomiming 'approximately.' I nod again as I continue to glance around. It’s pretty much too late to do much for most of these people. Lightning strikes, at least the regular kind, cause massive burns, but also cardiac arrhythmias and respiratory arrest. In other words, your heartbeat is disorganized, and you