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

“In a few minutes, we will be armed, armored, and out in an open field. I’m gonna warn you now, cause they sure as hell won’t—don’t try to run, and don’t try to attack anyone or anything. We’ve been training to fight for a while now, and you haven’t. You are no match for an ogre, and all the goblins stationed up on the walls have crossbows. They are not great shots, but there are a lot of them, and volume beats accuracy. You will not be able to outrun the arrows or the dire wolves they keep as pets. Any questions?” This is the longest speech yet from Haynes, and I take a moment to sort out the best response I can muster while none of his words sink in.

“What the hell are we doing here?” I ask once again, feeling as if the entire world has been turned upside down and shook up like a snow globe.

“Dammit, that was a rhetorical question. Okay, Boot, I’m gonna spell out the basics for you. We are prisoners. We are being forced to fight as a conscripted army against another army of prisoners. If you don’t fight, you will be tortured. If that doesn’t work, they will just kill you. Right now, you are very, very replaceable. Now, I got a problem with these bastards using us to fight their wars and killing us on a whim,” Haynes leans in close, “so we’re gonna train and fight until we find a way out of here. There is no one to rescue us because no one knows where or when we are. For now, while we are stuck in this Hellhole, you will follow my orders without question until we get out or one of the two of us dies…. Got it?” He intensely locks eyes with me and waits for an answer.

“Um, sure… you’re in charge, abandon all hope of rescue, we have to escape, and we must fight to survive…. Did I get it all? And is there any chance of my one phone call? My family is gonna get worried soon,” I say with a deadpan expression. While I’m still not sure who the crazy one is here, playing along seems the safest bet.

“Keep joking, Boot. You’ll see in a few minutes. Or you’ll just go soft in the head like Jesse over there. Now, fall in. Our equipment is down here, away from the other groups.”

Our small cadre joins a few other small groups, mostly clumps of five or six men and women. And some other… things that don't fall into either category; we'll just call them… humanoid for now. I see a few dog-like bipeds, but thinner and perhaps afflicted with mange. Then, my mind begins to rebel at the sight of what I guess to be a troll. It’s a little taller than an average human, with a pointed snout rimmed with fangs. Its back and head have long green and brown hair (maybe fur?), and its chest and arms are covered in glistening scales. The crowd shifts, and I lose sight of it.

I feel a hard smack to the back of my head.

“Stop staring, Boot!” Haynes whispers forcefully.

“Why do you keep calling me 'Boot'?” I ask in a return whisper.

“Because, right now, you’re the new guy, and you don’t know shit. Your boots are worth more to most of these people than you are. Now, stop staring and keep up!”

We make our way down a slightly tighter corridor with a little better lighting. Des and Jesse stop in front of a thick oak door banded in brass. It's solid, but splintery, and a little smaller than our cell door. The other groups around us split off to similar doors, some nodding at Haynes in greeting as they pass by. Des pulls the key for our chains out of his back pocket and uses it on the massive lock on the door. He pushes it open and calls out, “Good morning, boys! Any problems last night?”

We all file in behind him, but I stop when I hear new voices. Not voices per se, more like growls with words mixed in.

“A few curious scratches at our door…" The voice is deep, and the 'r' sounds have a longer, rolling snarl to them. "They ran when we challenged them.”

Jesse and Des walk casually past their forms, and I’m now left standing face to face with two… werewolves? …dog-men? …more hallucinations? They're around six-and-a-half feet tall, torsos hunched forward, with canine heads on muscular shoulders. Metal breastplates and shoulder armor cover their upper halves; leather and metal greaves are on their legs, modified to fit their canine physiology.

The one on my right moves forward with agile steps to get in front of me. He stands up taller, looking me in the eye. He’s got shaggy gray fur on his cheeks and a head with black fur on his muzzle and around his sharp green eyes. His ears are on the top of his head, alert and slightly forward; silver hoops pierce the pinnae, amid the scars and notches cut there. Thin black lips curl up slightly, showing the edges of slightly yellowed fangs.

A soft growl comes from the second one, and the sound of metal sliding across leather is clear. The other dog-man steps to my left and is trying to divide my attention, his nose quivering as he sniffs the air. His fur is a brindled brown and black, but shorter and smoother than his friend's. I see his muzzle is more pointed while his ears are higher and closer to his skull. I watch his low-hanging tail moving slowly side to side.

Now, a long time ago, I used to make my living working in animal shelters. Working with aggressive dogs every day helped me to learn their behavior and figure out what made them so afraid or angry. Once I understood that, I spent time training them daily until they were calm, trustworthy pets, suitable for