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

distinct smell. If you’ve ever smelled a dead and decomposing body, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven’t, good for you; it’s a smell you’ll never forget. If you really need it described for you—put a pound of chop meat in a wet cardboard box and leave it in the sun for a few days during the summer. Grab a spoon, mix up the sludge, and inhale deeply. It’s guaranteed to be an unforgettable experience. Anyway…

I turn into the breeze and notice the fourth wall of the courtyard, the one we just came through. The doors are set into a natural cliff face, which towers unevenly above the stone walls adjacent to it. At the base of the wall, I see suits of armor in a rigid line, as if they are standing at attention. Each one looks to be in various states of rust and disrepair, the suits pressed into the stone face of the cliff wall, almost like the stone itself had melted over them. The ground beneath each one is darker than the rest of the light brown dirt. It looks more like a mud puddle than dry ground, except more black and reddish in color. I step closer to the nearest suit and notice the full-faced helmet is slightly askew. The stench grows stronger, and I realize the armor isn’t just rusty but welded at each joint. No, not welded; it's as if the metal was liquified, and it flowed like rusty water but was forced to keep its rough shape. A thick, brown liquid slowly drips from the tops of the greaves and runs down the legs.

I hold my breath and peer into the eye slit of the visor. It’s dark, but inside I can see decayed, burnt meat and charred bone. A chunk of something falls from beneath the chainmail skirt and hits the ground with a wet plop. To my left, a helm tries to turn with a weak squeal of metal scraping, and I hear a faint, raspy voice say, “Help me.” I jump back a step and swallow thick bile.

“Just walk away, friend. These poor bastards have been dead for months. Those Highborn bastards just won’t let ‘em die all the way,” Des says all somber as he steers me back to our squad. “That’s just one of their fun lil' punishments for rebelling. C’mon, we got some work to do.”

I stop short and realize that this is really happening. What I am seeing cannot be faked this well. I am now in a place where it is literally ‘kill-or-be-killed,’ and I still have no idea why I'm here. I've spent much of my life working in veterinary hospitals or with EMS, doing my best to help and heal animals and humans. I've sacrificed my own health and safety on many occasions to accomplish this. Now, it seems I may have to fight for my life for reasons unclear to me. The way I see it now, my options are to fight for survival or get tortured to death or murdered if I refuse to take part. What real choice do I have?

4

Yup, this is my training day. Let me sum it up in a few words: I suck at sword fighting. I’m more of a shotgun and pistol guy, not a sword and shield guy. Over the years, I’ve owned and become a pretty damn good shot with all kinds of rifles, shotguns, semi-auto handguns, and revolvers. I've also owned a few swords, mostly wall hangers, but also a few solid blades. However, growing up in New York City, there's not a lot of opportunity to learn to fight with a sword. So, I’m basically out of my element here.

Haynes is busy organizing sparring matches when Des and I join the group. Hayne is to spar with Thirax, Jesse will spar with Nian, and Des is stuck trying to teach me some basics.

We all spread out and square off. I glance up at the top of the wall again, now that we are closer to the base. Momentarily returning my gaze is a hook-nosed, greasy, yellow-skinned goblin wearing a skull cap helmet. His notched and pointed ears stick out flatly from his head. He surveys our group and spits a brownish glob of phlegm in my general direction. Hefting his crossbow in a nonchalant manner, he ambles away with an arrogant air. What a jerk, a jerk who looks like a cross between a lizard and a rat walking on its hind legs.

Des smacks me in the shoulder with the flat of his wooden blade. “Hey, pay attention, Boot. Now get ready!”

I tear my gaze from the wall and move to put my helmet back on. That’s when I notice a large dent on the right side of my helm, about the size of my fist. I only now realize that had I not been wearing it when I walked out of the armory-like room, I’d probably be dead by this point. That’s a sobering thought. The helmet still fits okay, smell notwithstanding. There's a tender spot on my head that corresponds with the dent as I place it snugly on, but I’m grateful to wear it anyway. I lower the half-visor, and I can still see reasonably well. Tightening the straps of the shield on my left arm, I swing the sword side to side to loosen my arm. I then proceed to get my ass kicked again and again for the next few hours.

Des is clearly taking it easy on me, but after a while, I think he's getting just as frustrated as I feel.

“Are you trying to block my sword with your head? ‘Cause that’s all you seem to be doing. It’s almost like you enjoy gettin’ hit or something.”

Apparently, sword fighting and martial arts may be closely related but not close enough to help me. Almost every time I bring the shield up to block, my sword is out of position. When I