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

“Look, guys, what’s so hard to believe about the changeling legend? Is it any more unreal than anything else that has happened to us?” I ask. I also wonder what or if anything possibly stayed behind when each of us were taken.

Seriously, after all the amazing and incredible, even disturbing, things we've seen in this Elven Hellhole, this is what they have a problem with? Unbelievable. I shake my head as I look at the two friends glaring at each other.

Des slowly blows out the deep breath he's been holding. “All right. I reckon you got a point. It still leaves us with the problem of how the hell do we know who's a damn changeling?”

“Well, we're gonna need some more intel… we could ask Thorn. Maybe she'll have an answer,” replies Haynes.

The conversation fizzles out now as everyone finishes removing their armor and knocking out some new, hard-earned dents. We return our various weapons to their proper racks on the walls. Another great benefit of the Gnolls is they spend their free time maintaining all of our weapons and gear. Thirax managed to set up a small anvil made from a block of granite and an old breastplate melted to the top of it. He was a blacksmith for his original pack and seems to still enjoy the work. Nian whiles away the hours, sharpening blades. It’s a poor setup, but our equipment is in better shape than the other squads.

As a group, we make our weary way back to our cell. Home sweet home. At this point, I think I've gotten used to the smell. Someone replaced the dead pixie with a new one in stasis, only this one has a reddish cast to its light.

On the bright side, everyone in our cell has recently been getting at least two meals a day. Haynes remarks that this happens in the days preceding this 'Mortis Causa.' Which means we are running out of time.

We haven't seen Thorn much lately, but that’s not unusual. She always shows up when someone's injured; she only socializes on rare occasions. It works kind of like a sadistic Bat-Signal. I wonder who will volunteer next to get stabbed for us to get some new info.

Almost a week has passed since the lightning barrage. Thorn, Des, a couple others, and I spent much of our spare time caring for the wounded. Thanks to the magic, most are back on their feet by now. Though their scars are pretty awful, and the smell in the hallway still lingers.

Des says he has no knack for healing magics, but I see a big difference in his before and after. I guess he's either a quick learner or the situation is just bringing out the best in him.

Thorn lent me a few stones imbued with a touch of healing magic. I was kind of excited about them until I realized how tired and drained I felt after using them.

Wait, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not using the magic. The magic is kind of using me. Like Des explained to me, I'm just activating the magic and directing it. And sort of acting as a battery for it. The magic is in the stones; it just needs to be aimed and powered.

It was kind of worth it though. Second- and third-degree burns can be healed this way in a matter of minutes without infection. I just feel like sleeping for a week each time I use it on even the smallest wound.

On top of that, the stones burn out all too quickly. They each start off pearly white with streaks of deep green in them. Kinda pretty. After a certain amount of usage, they end up crumbled and black, like a charcoal briquette. I'm told if they're left alone in the sunlight near living things like plants and people, they will regenerate over time. I really don't know, and I haven't had time to test the theory.

I flop down on my pallet and adjust the straw into a more comfortable pillow pile. My stomach growls as I stare at the ceiling, waiting for our evening MRE delivery.

Right on cue, we hear the clank and rattle of the goblins and their wagon. But this time, there is a new sound to go with it. It sounds like a lot of shuffling feet and the rattling of chains. The door swings open, and we see the usual crossbow pointed into the room and the little bastard with the ledger. Ledger Goblin squints into the room and asks, “Who leads here?”

This break in routine makes us all pause for a moment until Haynes stands up and replies, “I do. What’s the problem?”

“No problem, human. The leaders of each cell have been invited to dine with Lord Dullahan this evening.” The third goblin sheathes his rusty short sword and steps toward Haynes with a set of brass manacles.

“Well, this is a new turn of events,” Des comments as he stands and steps in front of Haynes. I do the same.

“Your leader will be returned, unharmed, foolish humans. Step aside or I call the ogres!” Ledger Goblin says with a sneering grin.

“At ease, boys. I'd best go see what our host wants with us.” Haynes puts a hand on each of our shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushes us aside. He nods to Jesse, who had somehow popped up in the corner behind the goblin. Jesse relaxes and leans against the wall.

Haynes steps forward and allows the gob to lock the manacles around his thick wrists.

“Now, join the line, human, and maybe we'll feed the rest of your wretched friends.”

Haynes is led to the back of the wagon, where a small line of men and women are chained together. The goblin adds the Sarge's manacles to the chain with a loud clack.

Ledger Goblin tosses three sealed MREs into the room. They land with dull thuds in the middle of