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

I let the subject drop for now, but I wonder where Jesse’s idea came from, and how much of it could be true.

Eight weeks into captivity, the day begins like any other. Around midday, most of the squads are taking their usual break. The goblin wagon makes its rounds, dropping off buckets of somewhat fresh water to each group. We are passing around our bucket and ladle when we hear a loud argument starting not far from us.

I recognize a large, blonde man as the leader of a squad we sparred against the day before. He’s toe-to-toe with a greasy, rat-faced guy; both have hands on the hilts of their swords. A skinny, brunette woman with short, spiky hair stands next to Rat Face, a dagger already out and obvious in her hand. Voices rise as the argument escalates, and more people start to take an interest. The blonde guy (I think his name is Colt) finally has enough and steps back, drawing his sword, very fast. Rat Face also goes to draw, but he’s much slower. Not that it matters much. He was just the distraction.

Spike-Hair Girl twirls to her right and slashes her dagger across the face of Colt’s squad-mate, who screams in surprise. Everyone looks at him briefly, just long enough for a figure to come from behind and stab Colt in the thigh. A flash of a black cloak and a shining blade are all I see as Colt falls backward. The crowd surges, men and women getting to their feet, weapons drawn and raised. The assailant in the cloak melts into the crowd.

“Colt is down! Shit, there goes that alliance,” says Des, as we form up into a fighting square, our own weapons at the ready. Training takes over, and we all do this without a word. This is the first time someone has had a severe injury near to me. For better or for worse, my training and natural inclinations take over.

“Maybe not! Get me over there and cover me,” I bark. In my mind, I'm already assessing the wound I think he received. Colt was wearing heavy armor of plate and chain on his chest and back. Not much chance for a quick stab to get through that, but he was only armored on the front of his thighs. This left his inner thigh and hamstrings open from behind. If I’m right, we need to get there quick.

Haynes takes charge. “Shields up, double-time forward! Defense only, GO!”

We’ve been using a modified fighting square much like the Spartans—shields locked together, each man protecting the other's flank or back.

Haynes anchors the middle of the front line, flanked by Jesse on the right and Des on the left, all armed with sword and shield. The Gnolls, Nian and Thirax, are on my left and right respectively, shields and spears raised defensively with swords sheathed at their hips. I heft my spear under my right arm, leaving the mace to hang from my belt. We charge forward, parting the chaos with shouts and brute force.

Colt’s squad is still fighting Rat Face, Spike Hair, and a few others; all the while, the crowd shifts in confusion, getting in the way and making a definitive strike almost impossible for either party.

Haynes leads us right to where Colt fell. He quickly looks at me. “Make your play.” He raises his voice as he directs the others, “Des, with me; Jesse, watch our backs. Gnolls, stay with Caleb!” They push through the last few people and take up positions to bolster Colt’s squad. I stick the spear into the ground, sling the shield onto my back, and drop down to my knees in the bloody dirt next to Colt. His second-in-command, Steve, is trying hard to stop the blood from pumping out of his leader's leg.

Shit, this is exactly what I was afraid of—a deep stab to the left inner thigh, right through the femoral artery. I grab Steve’s hands, positioning them one on top the other, and put them both right onto the wound. “Push as hard as you can, and stay there!”

“You gotta help him!” Panic makes Steve’s voice higher than I remember. His hands slip a little in the blood, and he quickly repositions them and clamps down with all his strength. Colt grunts in pain but doesn't move much.

I don’t answer. Colt is already unconscious. The femoral artery is one of the largest arteries in the body. Depending on how fast your heart is beating, depends on how fast you bleed out and die. His carotid pulse is already weak and fast. His skin is waxy and pale, and I can feel his sweat on my hands. Not good signs, all of it added up means severe and often fatal blood loss. Hopefully, I'll be able to avoid the fatal part of that equation.

I pull out a short knife from my belt and cut the leather straps from his leg armor. Briefly, I think about activating his sheet to see how bad he is, but I opt against it. This is what I do for a living, and I don’t need any fancy spell or game stat to tell me what I can see with my own eyes. Besides, even the thought of doing so feels like an unnecessary invasion of his privacy.

Blood is still welling up from under Steve’s hands and pooling beneath Colt's leg. The sick, copper smell of blood and sweat fills the immediate area. I slit the fabric open and tear it away from the rest of his pants. Quickly, I fold it over a few times until I have a long strip of material about three inches wide and two feet long. I slide it under his leg, close to his groin, pull it tight and tie a quick overhand knot. Next, I take the knife handle and put it in the middle of the knot, tie another knot over it, and begin twisting. After two