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

“One minor problem with this story… I’m not much of a warrior. I was never in the Army,” I contest with a nod to Haynes. “I’m not a cop, and I don’t fight for a living. So, why was I chosen to be here?”

“Lies!” growls Thirax loudly. “You came here stinking of others’ blood and fear, yet you play as if you are a poor sword fighter! You weaken our Pack! We know you fight, though you pretend otherwise!” He leans forward, balancing his weight on his legs and one hand; his other is splayed open, showing his claws, as he bares his teeth.

Oh, shit. I still have my shield on my left arm, but my sword is on the ground, just out of reach where I tossed it. I’ve seen how fast this thing is, and I don’t have high hopes of grabbing my sword before he gets to me.

I also recognize this for what it is. If I back down now, it’s all over. I'll be at the bottom of the pack and likely to stay there forever... if I survive this. Some things I just can’t abide, and one of them is a bully. And I guess a bully is the same all over, no matter what species it is. My stubborn streak is gonna get me killed someday. Maybe it’ll be today.

I match his stare and lean forward a little to change my center of balance. “Well, little dog, you gonna bark all day, or you gonna show me some teeth?”

His eyes widen in surprise and anger, and then they narrow just as quick. His muscles bunch in his legs, the ground tearing beneath his claws. He moves much faster than me, so I begin to shift before he does.

Angry men and angry dogs always seem to attack in the same way—face-first and fully committed. A man will lean forward while punching to give his swing as much momentum as possible, and a dog always goes for the throat. Either way, I have a good guess where his face will be in the next fraction of a moment. So, I swing my left hand straight up in front of me, pushing with my right hand under the shield as hard and as fast as I can.

I want to say that the result is more skill than luck, but either way, same result. The steel edge of the shield comes up directly under his elongated lower jaw, and his teeth slam shut with an audible clack. I drive forward with all the strength in my legs, fighting his momentum until we are both standing upright, my buckler pressing against his throat. A strangled growl escapes him, and he reaches up to grab the rim of my shield.

Angry fighters do stupid things, and his short temper makes this almost too easy. As he reaches up, he leaves his whole body open. So, I knee him in the balls. My steel-capped joint meets his leather armor, and I feel my knee stop when it hits bone. His entire body is lifted an inch or two off the ground, and he makes a strange groan. I can almost feel everyone around me wincing in sympathy.

A person might be thinking right now, “Hey, that’s fighting dirty!” (Gasp) Damn right it is. Nevertheless, I just call it ‘fighting.’ No such thing as 'fighting dirty' when you are defending yourself or someone who can't defend themselves. I’ve always believed that if someone starts a fight, they must be prepared to deal with all the consequences that accompany said choice. Anyway, back to the brawl.

Thirax lands on his feet and stumbles forward, whining. I step backward and to my right, withdrawing the shield from in front of my chest. I swing it backhanded and catch him squarely across the side of his head. The metal and wood vibrate on my arm as I continue the movement past him. I use the momentum to follow up with a punch to his left ear. The metal plates on the gauntlet absorb much of the blow, but not all of it. My hand stings sharply and goes a little numb. Quick heads up: Never punch a skull with your bare knuckles. It’s a guaranteed way to break a few fingers.

The last shot finally knocks him off his feet, and the Gnoll hits the dusty ground, face-first and dazed. Before he can get up, I jump on him and land my right knee on the back of his neck, not trying to break it, but only to pin him in place. I grab his left arm, twist it up behind his back, and rotate his wrist outward, making sure to steer clear of his sharp claws. This is one of my favorite moves. It holds a person (or a dog-person in this case) in place, and it only hurts if they struggle. The only limiting factor is their pain tolerance.

And this is the part where I learn that I’ve underestimated his pain tolerance.

Roaring, he gets to his feet with relative ease just by pushing himself and me off the ground with his free hand. I'd like to point out that I'm about two hundred and thirty pounds without the armor. Once his feet are under him, it's not a problem for him to launch me through the air with his one hand. I go weightless for a second and then hit the ground like a crash test dummy.

When I land, I land… badly. Real badly. It takes a moment for me to notice my left knee is sideways and bent in an unnatural way. Then the pain hits. I let out a scream (ahem, I mean—I really got to get better at this—a manly yell) and scoot backward on my ass, propelled by my good foot, all while trying to straighten my leg.

Bones grind together, and the pain intensifies, but the leg manages to straighten almost to where it should