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

I take the right side. I drop the spear into the harness on my back and pull my mace. I raise my shield defensively and wait. I try very hard not to look down at the bodies. I'm thankful that the rain keeps the stench of blood from reaching our nostrils.

Don't get me wrong. Over the years, I've pronounced more people dead than I graduated high school with, and it was a big graduating class. This is different. Very different. Normal dead bodies stopped bothering me years ago. These aren't normal. These I helped kill. I’m not getting all weepy, or suddenly need to suppress vomit, but I still don't feel all that great.

Without warning, the square in front of me lights up almost at the same time ours does. My throat goes even drier as I yell, “Right side!”

A scrawny bastard, wild-eyed with spit frothing at the corners of his mouth, charges at me with a great sword raised over his head. Looks like he means to end this quickly with one big swing.

This is amateur barroom brawler kind of crap—telegraphing your intended attack from a mile away. I leap forward about a yard and slam my shield into his upraised forearms, hard enough to knock the sword from his grip. I swing my mace sidearm and cave in his breastplate and probably more than a few ribs. He falls to the side and tangles up in his companion's legs, knocking them both down.

Thirax has already eliminated two more foes by the time Jesse leaps past us, dagger in his left hand and saber in the right. Before his feet even touch the ground again, he has buried the dagger through one man's eye socket and nearly beheads a second with a powerful swing of his razor-sharp sword. Haynes chops through the neck of the last man before he regains his feet.

I stomp my boot down on the chest of the man I smashed with my mace. I am sick to my stomach, and my hands are trembling from adrenaline and disgust, disgust at myself and at the situation, in general. None of us want this, none of us asked to be here. These men are drugged and probably don't even know what’s going on. I've killed too many, and I don't want to kill any more.

I've spent about fifteen years as a Medic trying to save people in this exact situation—drugged, not able to think for themselves, and in danger. And now, I'm expected to just end their lives without a second thought? That’s a long walk from my usual beat.

“Stay down!” I shout at the man held below me. “Just stay down! I meaAAGGHHRR!”

I fall backward with a dagger sticking through the side of my calf. The jerk gives me a malicious grin as he twists the blade a bit. I promptly add this to my ever-growing list of injuries I never want to repeat. This is the first time I've ever been stabbed—can't say I'm enjoying the new experience.

Thirax ends the attack by crushing the man's throat under a clawed foot. The customary flash of white light completes the fight. I stare across at the lifeless form as his face goes slack. It doesn't look peaceful like in the movies; it just looks empty.

Here's another little fun fact. It’s almost always better to leave an impaled object in place until it can be properly removed. Pulling it out right away usually causes a lot more bleeding, cutting through tissue and other important body parts and causing worse damage on its way out or possibly unblocking a severed artery that it’s up against. With no real option of 'properly' removing this dagger, I worry about pulling it out right now. And besides, it fuckin' hurts.

Our square flashes again, and I'm still sitting on my ass in the mud. Jesse solves my silent dilemma by grabbing the hilt of the dagger and in one motion, rips it from my leg and throws it into the group of men currently attacking us. I don't see it land, but I do see a streak of white light cut through the air.

I may have let out a less than manly yell when the blade ripped free, but I recover quickly and pull my spear out, using it as a crutch to get to my feet. I hang the mace back on my belt and search for a target.

I almost lose my footing again when Jesse is thrown back with a large gash to his breastplate. A gap-toothed, grinning lunatic bulls through the hole in the line that Jesse just vacated, swinging a crescent-bladed ax.

I try to balance on my good leg as I launch my spear at Jesse's attacker. My leg buckles, but the spear strikes true. It rips through his rusty armor like paper as it pierces the center of his chest. He dies in a flash of white light, the grin still on his bloody lips. This time, I'm a little surprised by my own lack of reaction to his quick death at my hands. It may be the first true steps to insanity, or maybe my brain is shutting off the things it can't deal with right now. I'll have to deal with this later, but at least it will be on my own time.

The rest of our micro-battle is over quickly; Haynes and the squad make short work of the untrained group attacking us. Back in the mud once more, having fallen when I threw my spear, I crawl over to Jesse to see how bad off he is.

I find him lying on his back with a gash about eight inches long by an inch wide across the steel of his chest armor. As I reach him, he drags in a deep, ragged breath.

“Bloody hell!” he cries and coughs violently, spitting rainwater from his mouth. I inspect his chest and see the skin is barely broken. Looks like he only got the wind knocked out of him.

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