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

to make the bones in my forearm vibrate. I swing my mace wide and low; Steve drops his shield down to block it with ease. This opens him up to a straight kick to his gut, which I take full advantage of. The wind blasts out of his lungs, and he falls forward, doubled at the waist. I tap my mace to his helmet, signaling to him that it would have been a fatal hit.

I step back and scan for another attacker. The sun is sinking low over the walls, and the shadows stretch far. We’ve been sparring with Colt’s group and the Berserkers since the storm, giving as good as we've got.

Not a one of us isn't bruised from head to toe and aching in every major muscle. Damn, what I wouldn't give for some aspirin and a hot bath. Without looking at my wrist, I know most of my injuries are subdual damage—non-lethal—and will heal in a few minutes.

I feel a solid jab to the center of my back, and I whirl around, weapons ready, only to realize Colt has killed me with a spear to the spine. Shit.

I kneel next to Steve, a signal to the other fighters that we are out of the action, both of us breathing heavy. I lean in and continue a previous conversation, “I can’t go into much detail right now, but there is a plan in the works to get us all out of here.”

“That’s impossible! Even if we got out of here, where would we go—”

I cut him off, “We have some inside help. The problem is, we can’t directly communicate with them, so we are in the dark about most of this as well.”

He pauses to think for a moment. “This is a pretty shitty plan, you know that, right?” he says this with a grin. “But count us in.”

“Okay, cool. Now, discreetly, start spreading the word to people you guys think we can trust, but be careful. If the wrong person finds out, we’re dead before we even get the chance to break out.”

He takes a deep breath. “We'll do some poking around, but we don’t have a lot of friends here; every group tends to stay by themselves, as you know.”

“Yup, and a week ago, we didn’t know you guys or the Berserkers. Just make sure you and anyone else you trust can be ready at a moment’s notice.”

“Will do. You be sure and keep us posted,” he replies in a whisper. “And be careful of who you guys talk to, never know who’s a changeling.”

Before I can ask what that is, the evening horn sounds, the call to return to our cells. Haynes, Colt, and the Berserker leader, Grayson, meet up for a quick huddle as we gather our gear up from the field. They break, and we all move with practiced efficiency, making our way through the tunnels and to the arming rooms. I start to pull dented pieces of sweaty armor off as I sit down on the splintered bench.

“Okay, folks,” Haynes begins after he shuts the door behind us, “we have about twenty people, including Nian and Thirax, on board so far. The squads are feeling out their allies and letting them know when to expect to move. We're in a holding pattern for now until Thorn's friend gets us some more info.”

“Dunno if I like trusting the plan of someone I've never so much as met,” Des says under his breath as he removes his breastplate.

“We follow the Pack. Where Leader says to go, we go,” Nian growls, as if to end the conversation right then. I find their loyalty impressive; I just wish I knew what Haynes did to inspire this much devotion.

“What are changelings?” I blurt out, the question popping into my mind as I remember Steve mentioning them back on the practice field.

The room pauses for a moment until Des laughs a little. “Well, Son, there's a bit of mixed opinion on that one. Some of us don't think they exist, but others seem convinced they are real.”

“Okay, what are they supposed to be?”

“Ever hear of cot death?” Haynes asks quietly.

Cot death? Yup, I sure have—also known as SIDS. I still have nightmares of ambulance calls involving that particular horror. For those who don't know, it’s when an otherwise healthy baby goes to sleep and never wakes up again. In my opinion, there is nothing more tragic or devastating to a family.

I reply more neutrally, “Sure.”

“Well, back in the day, there were stories that the babies never died. They were taken by the Fey and brought here, to the Underhill, and raised as spies or slaves. An enchanted bit of wood or a sickly Fey would be left in its place, and everyone would think it was the baby.” Haynes tells this matter-of-factly, but I can't help but notice a hint of sadness in his voice. I file that away for later. “I don't see the point in ignoring a potential enemy among us just because there is no proof,” Haynes finishes firmly.

“And I don't see the point in worrying about things we have no proof of!” replies Des wearily.

I get the feeling this isn't the first time this conversation has taken place. “But what do they change into? Goblins? Ogres? A house cat?” I ask.

This stops Haynes short. “What?”

“Ah, jeez, man, they don't change into anything; they are just called changelings. And so are the Fey or dead body or whatever they leave behind. It’s just a name, Hoss.” Des laughs a little.

“A spy in our ranks will tank this whole mission before it starts! We’ll die for no reason!” an exasperated Haynes jumps back in, as if I never interrupted.

“As opposed to the reasons we are dying now?!” Des nearly screeches incredulously.

“Enough now, Lads. The turncoats are all about us. The Colonel will hang them from the highest bough when we catch them! No need to fight among ourselves when the damn Rebels are itching to battle!”