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

sludge. It takes a few minutes, but they eventually fill in the remaining squares of the grid on the opposite side of the field from us.

Next, a large wooden coach, plated in thick brass armor, is pulled through the thick bog by eight massive horses. The brown and green knights split up and form an honor guard surrounding the crystal and the coach. The entire entourage continues to the empty grandstand on the far end of the arena. The elves stay mounted as the ogres labor to carry the metal- and stone-encased crystal to the top of the structure and set it behind the ornate chairs. The carriage and its inhabitants seem content to just wait at the bottom of the steps.

While this is happening, we have a chance to size up our opponents. We’re matched almost evenly in numbers, give or take a few, yet these humans seem a bit sickly and gaunt. Sure, they're all armed to the teeth and armored at least as well as we are, but they look malnourished. They mill about listlessly, neither eager nor visibly afraid. Just kind of zoned out.

I squint into the rain, trying to get a better view. I catch some occasional spastic movements from our foes, though most remain still with a glassy-eyed stare. Each one also sports a tattoo similar to ours, except it's on the right side of their necks. It's tough to tell at this distance, but it looks like the red of the tattoo is muted by a swirling grey.

“Hey, Sarge, I'm pretty sure those guys are drugged to the gills,” I say as I walk up next to Haynes.

“You sure? Why would they do that?” he asks skeptically.

“Lots of armies experimented with drugging soldiers in our own world. Anything from psychedelics to amphetamines and hypnotics. Could make them meaner, not feel pain, easier to control, or maybe a combo of all that. I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure I'm right.” In my line of work, I've gotten pretty used to seeing people who are under the influence of some mind-altering substance or another.

“Could also be an enchantment." Haynes looks around. "All right, let’s spread the word.”

We split up and begin telling anyone within earshot what we suspect. The story quickly passes through all the ranks, grass blade or not. It never hurts to have more information, and it just might help some people live through this.

As this is happening, yet another trumpet fanfare begins. Damn, but these pompous bastards like their grand entrances.

With banners flying in the wind, a silver and blue carriage comes rolling through the muck, led by six pure white unicorns. Not a speck of mud is on either the horses or the carriage. It all seems like an extravagant waste of magic to me, but what do I know?

The carriage glides to a stop in front of the entrance to our cells, just below the grandstand. A gaggle of goblins rush out and begin unrolling a silver carpet to the midpoint of the field. They hastily set out a small table and two chairs, struggling against the wind for a few minutes while they try to put a canopy over the little setup.

The fanfare ends with a closing flourish, and the carriage doors open simultaneously. Pairs of servants step out, holding oiled canvas sheets on poles to shelter those who exit after them.

One servant calls out in a loud carrying voice, “His High Lord Seneschal Arias Dullahan of Terram Caeruleum has taken the field!”

The eastern gates slam shut with a sense of finality; a flash of white light courses down its seam, indicating a magical seal. Well, that's that. I briefly steal a glance to the east, hoping Thorn's friend will follow through on their end. If they don’t, this is gonna be a long day. And an even longer year after that, provided we all live through the next few hours.

Lord Dullahan steps out wearing an intricately engraved breastplate of pure silver. Upon his head is a finely wrought silver crown festooned with clear gems. At his waist is a thin-bladed sword with an engraved and bejeweled basket hilt.

He begins to march imperiously across the field on the brilliant silver carpet. Three hooded and robed advisers follow closely behind. A pair of servants follow, holding the end of the oiled tarp aloft on poles.

From the brass armored coach emerges a hulking mountain of a figure. Clad in a voluminous brown, hooded cloak with a large two-handed flail strapped across his back, he stomps down into the morass. A servant squeezes out past the figure with some difficulty. The splendidly dressed servant, in trappings of brown and green livery, is tiny in comparison to his master, but his voice echoes loud and clear.

“I present Lord Kairn Midchain, ruler of Terrestris Laminis, Conqueror of Corydalis and Destroyer of Sativus Exalta! Be it at his Mercy that you all bask in his glory!” The small elf finishes with a grand bow, his fine vestments now soaked and sodden.

Lord Midchain strides confidently across the muddy yard; three of his own advisers, all heavily armed with functional axes and flamberges, follow in his wake. One adviser is slightly smaller than Midchain; the other two are of average elf size.

He stops at the table and swings the chair around backward. He plops down, straddling the seat, and reaches up with black leather gauntlets to pull back his hood. The pouring rain immediately mats his long hair to his large skull. I'm a little surprised to see his hair parted evenly, half-albino white, half-jet black. One eye is a dark, pupil-less red orb, the other is a drab brown. His skin is quite a pale green, and twin tusks stick out from his square lower jaw. He smiles and leans forward on crossed arms.

“I tire of all your pomp and ceremony, Elf. Are we not here to fight?”

Dullahan sits on the edge of his seat, somewhat primly, with a slight sneer on his