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

for him to read any tracks that were left behind. With a frown, Jesse turns and sprints back to his horse. He has a report to make.

I roughly calculate the arc and trajectory of the fiery orb for a moment and conclude that I'd better run away, and fast! I take three leaping steps, then throw myself into a forward roll just as the flare impacts with the ground with a dull boom. Flames wash along the ground and end in almost a teardrop shape. I jump back again to avoid the wave of heat that radiates from the impact site. Of course, it just happens to now block the trailhead. Just my good luck for holding out a bit longer. The dense foliage around me will make getting around this blasted inferno and back to the trail a bit of a chore.

Then the fire starts moving, and I don't mean spreading. If anything, it seems to creep back toward its center. A vague man-shape forms and stands up in the center of the impact zone. In a dull flash, accompanied by a small popping sound, the fire reduces in size, and a robed elf stands amidst the ashes. Smoky wisps waft from the singed hem of his sleeves, his exposed skin blackened with ash. The ends of his staff smolder with a subdued orange glow.

His eyes widen as he sees me standing there, agape with surprise. The whites of his eyes stand out in sharp contrast with his blackened skin. Then they narrow as he thrusts his staff out at me, barking a word in Elvish.

I hunch down and brace for impact. Both shields raise almost without thought and catch a streaking blue globe of compressed fire. The impact sends me reeling, both arms swing about as I try to catch my balance. The heat was intense but very brief, doing little damage except to scorch my armor.

The shields are a different story. I had overlapped them in front of me, and that may have saved my face. As I flail backward, I see globs of molten metal flying off the melted edges of the steel plates. The heat begins to travel through the metal, and the leather straps start to smolder.

I twist hard and fling the right-hand shield off my arm and at the mage. I get lucky for a change, and it hits him square in the chest.

The elf screams as the molten metal connects with his thin robe and burns right through, interrupting his next spell. His wooden staff clatters across the clearing. The left shield is still tightly strapped to my arm as it also begins to burn. I wish I hadn't lost my dagger when the horse threw me. While the elf is distracted with his own smoldering clothing, I begin ripping at the straps to loosen the damn shield. My main goal is to get it off my arm before it engulfs the whole damn thing. I'm only partially successful; I get the shield off but sustain a pretty decent second-degree burn all along my forearm.

Once again, my leg goes weak, and I stagger as a wave of pain shoots down my back and exhaustion sweeps through me. The elf doesn't look much better, but he's still standing, so this fight ain't over yet. He has torn open his singed robe; a nasty charred slash is evident across his thin chest, still smoking.

He looks at me, draws himself up to his full height, and spits carbon-laced sputum to the ground between us. Locking glares with me, he says something in Elvish that is mostly lost on me.

Mostly, but not totally. I've been cursed at by a lot of people over the years in many different languages. The words aren't that important; the tone is. His tone is contemptuous, arrogant, and very nasty.

I feel the same way.

But then, I almost feel bad for him as I look over his shoulder. Lumbering across the clearing, dragging one of its rear legs, is the final surviving water dragon. The majority of its deathly pale hide consists of soot and cauterized scales. Several spears stick haphazardly from its back, swaying along with its spiny crest. Much of its skin has been torn from its face, exposing most of its three-foot-long row of jagged teeth in a death-like grimace. Its eyes glow a malevolent, baleful green as they lock onto the elf's exposed back.

I nod over his shoulder, and instead of pulling my mace, I point past him. I know this looks like an obvious attempt to distract him, and it’s clear that he's thinking the same thing. He sneers at me, a disdainful smile on his lips as he begins to cast another hex.

Hey, I tried.

Turning in place, I run as fast as I can into the thick underbrush, hoping to parallel the trail. I'm also hoping the dragon gets him before he can get that spell off. A loud detonation goes off behind me, streaks of orange fire cascading all around me, some hitting me in the back. The dragon screeches in rage and pain, and I hear its massive body crash to the ground.

Damn, I'm glad that one missed me. I grab onto a tree, panting, and look back just in time to see the dragon dragging itself back to its feet. It’s lost its left eye, as well as its horns and some teeth on that side of its face. The remaining skin seems a bit melted, but it's mobile again and even more pissed off. Shit. And it sees me.

A shower of flames and burning embers fall from the tree above me and land on my back as I turn to run again. I ignore it and concentrate on getting some distance between the undead dragon and me.

I've never been into jogging or running or anything like that. Matter of fact, I've always hated it. I find running for exercise to be tedious and boring. The last few months of training