Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

The trail twists and detours around natural contours of the land, making it tough to steer my ride in the gloom. Once or twice, my mount slips and stumbles on the uneven ground, and I try hard not to imagine what it would be like to be thrown from the saddle. If I were lucky, I'd break my neck upon impact. If not, I'd still be alive when the undead reptiles caught up to me. Either way—water dragon chow. Cold sweat runs down my back as I duck under another low branch and steer right around a lichen-covered boulder in the path.

We veer around a small ramshackle wooden structure off on the right. It is more of a lean-to, but the important thing is, I glimpse about two and a half pallets of MREs stacked inside. I snort out a quick laugh, happy that I'll never have to eat one of those again.

The elf corpse, still an anchor tearing through the underbrush behind us, tangles at the base of the wood structure. The saddle almost rips from the horse's back, and me with it. I think I scream as I try to hold on; the horse definitely screams as we abruptly come to a stop. I dig my heels in and snap the reins viciously, yelling, “GO, GO, GO!” as if the horse wasn't really trying and it needed me to urge it to run.

The body breaks free as loose stones spray up from all around it, the horse gaining traction once more and making it a few strides before the first dragon has almost caught up to us. The body bounces along our back-trail like a ragdoll on a string.

And at that moment, I catch a glimpse of our closest pursuer.

This creature is roughly the size of a small Chevy. Launching itself into the air, it lands with its full weight right onto the elf's body, like a cat pouncing on a red laser dot. Again, the horse jams to a halt and neighs in frustrated fear. There is nothing I can do but hold on and sympathize with him.

The body pulls free after a few feet, and the dragon clamps its massive jaws on the remaining arm. It whips its head back and forth, like a terrier worrying a rat. With a wet crack, the arm breaks free from the torso. Horse's hooves tear great clods of dirt up as we make a break for it. I watch as another four or five of these giant undead things trample one another, trying to steal a piece of the broken flesh for their own.

Their selfish greed buys us a minute or so to gain some ground. But that’s still not the end of this plan. I rein the horse in again. It would be pointless to get this far, just to lose them now. This time, I try to steer wider around the next obstacles so we don't snag on anything again. That was way too close.

Incidentally, if you've never been on a horse before, the chafing and the bruising are legit. Trust me on this one, it's gonna make it onto my ever-growing list of things to avoid in the future.

Soon enough, I hear the stomping, clawed feet of the dragons gaining on us once more. I give the horse his head and again concentrate on steering and not falling off.

Up ahead, the sky seems to lighten. I glimpse the yellow glow of a bonfire, and I know we're almost to our destination. The horse pours on the speed again, and I let him. Foam is starting to gather at the corner of the horse's mouth, and his chest is heaving to draw adequate breath. I know he can't keep this up for much longer, and I hope he won't have to.

We burst into a clearing at a full gallop, trampling a lone goblin on guard. The little creature never had a chance to raise his crossbow; we came upon him so fast. He’s crushed under the horse's hooves; the great beast doesn't even slow or seem to notice.

The noise we've made crashing along the trail rendered any sense of surprise moot. It was just bad luck on the goblin's part that he was in our path. About forty yards ahead of us stands a rough-hewn stockade wall about fifteen feet tall by about fifty feet long. The wall starts and ends where it meets the rough stone of the mountain base on each side. Each log is lashed to the next and sharpened to a thick spike at the top. Two blazing bonfires bracket the sturdy gate, and a trio of ogres stands at the ready, blocking the entrance.

Shouts of alarm in the voices of goblins and ogres split the quiet night, their guttural languages blending together as they reach my ears. The lead ogre takes a defensive stance in the middle of the clearing. He is about ten yards in front of the gate, double-bladed ax in a two-handed grip. The two behind him set their massive boar spears in the dirt to brace them against the advancing horse.

Archers on the wall take note of our charge and send a 'warm welcome' in the form of arrows. Lots of arrows. I lean forward, raising both shields in front of the horse's chest while I duck my head behind its armored neck. I feel the impact of several bolts deflecting off the steel but none penetrate. I lean back while the archers are reloading because it’s almost time for the last part of this stupid plan.

I aim the horse at the lead ogre and shout encouragement to it, “Steady boy, steady!” We close the gap at full speed. The ogre in the lead sneers with a broken tusked smile and begins to wind up his ax.

I smile back at him as I pull the dagger from my belt. I twist around to my right and wait a few