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

or three twists, the blood flow from his leg begins to slow. I press my fingers to the side of his throat, where I can feel a weak pulse. Good. I twist the handle one more time and tell Steve to move his hands. He glances at me with a look of mistrust but still removes them. I let out a breath of relief when I see the flow of blood has ceased. I look up at Steve, nodding my head. “Go get Thorn, now!”

He jumps up without arguing and shoves his way through the crowd. I tie the end of the fabric to the knife handle to keep it in place. I look around and notice the fighting has stopped. My squad stands shoulder to shoulder with Colt’s squad, forming a defensive ring around us.

I glance up at the walls and see a few goblins laughing and what looks like betting as silver coins exchanges hands. Bastards. I don’t see Rat-Face or Spike-Hair Girl anywhere. Haynes squats down next to me and reads my searching face. “They ran away, but I’m pretty sure they did what they already came to do.” He nods at Colt. “How is he?”

“Not good,” I say quietly so only he can hear me. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Right now, he’s unconscious and in deep shock. Can Thorn do anything for this?”

He gives me an uneasy shrug. “I don't know, but if Colt pulls through, I think we’ve earned a few friends. Colt and Steve have been here at least as long as Des and I have, and they're real good fighters.”

I raise both of Colt’s legs into shock position to make it easier for the blood that’s left in his body to reach the heart and brain. “If Thorn can’t take it from here, he’s fucked. I don’t have any of my equipment in this primitive world, so there’s not much more I can do. This will only buy him a few hours”—I point to the tourniquet — “but he’s gonna need more than that.”

“What else do you need?”

I snort quietly. “I need a suture kit and a few pints of whatever blood type he is. He could also use a lot of antibiotics and a tetanus shot. Hell, while we're making wishes, I could use some good whiskey and a fat steak.” My voice turns sour, knowing Colt is almost as good as dead.

The crowd around us begins to thin out a bit; people suddenly seem anxious to be somewhere else. Over the heads of the defenders, I see a trio of ogres headed our way. One uglier than the next, all wearing mismatched plate armor and leather. Two have axes strapped to their backs, and the leader carries a large oak and brass studded club in his hand. This one walks with a familiar limp as he drags his wooden leg through the dirt. He gestures at Colt and says something in that guttural, grunting language of theirs.

The rest of Colt’s friends form up between us and the ogres. A skinny, bald man steps up and says angrily, “He's not dead yet; you can’t have him!”

The ogre snarls and pokes the bald guy in the breastplate with the end of his club, knocking him backward. Two squadmates catch him as Haynes and I get to our feet.

“What the hell do they want with him?” I ask, confused. “Do they not care who dies around here?”

“Nah, they don't give a crap about any of us, but they do care about fresh meat,” says Haynes, disgust clearly evident in his voice.

People and ogres are now shouting and gesturing at each other, neither side understanding what the other is saying. The shouting soon progresses to more shoving, and a few humans are knocked to the ground. One man goes to draw his sword, but Haynes quickly puts his hand on the hilt before it can clear more than a few inches from the scabbard.

“Don't!" he urges. "Remember the archers!”

The man shoves Haynes away in anger. “Screw them! I'm sick of this shit!”

He pulls the blade out with a flourish, dull sunlight winking from the sharpened edges. His mouth opens to issue a challenge when crossbow bolts suddenly flit across the field. The first one glances off his breastplate and buries itself in the dirt. The second bolt bangs home through his armor and plants itself in his gut. Haynes has the foresight to dive to the side as a third bolt gets lost in the crowd. Another person screams, and the mob scatters even further. The remainder of the arrows land strewn into the dry dirt.

I drop back down and mutter, “Sorry, pal,” as I grab the thick muscle at the top of Colt’s shoulder where it meets the neck. I pinch it hard and give it a vicious twist. Colt moans in pain and weakly tries to slap my hand away.

“Hey! He's not dead,” I yell in my loudest ‘crowd’ voice. “Look!” I twist his flesh again, and he groans louder this time. Now, it’s not in my nature to torture a wounded man, especially when I still have his blood all over my hands, but this was a special circumstance. I shout again as I notice the ogres and everyone else looking at us. “Hey, look! He's not dead!”

I twist a third time. Colt moans louder and tries again to smack my hand away.

The lead ogre pauses and peers down his snout at us. He half-turns to the other two and points his club at Colt. Then he says something that sounds like a grunt and a squeal to me, and all three of them laugh. Damn, I hate that guy. The ogres saunter away like they've already forgotten about us. I glance up at the walls. A few goblins appear to be reloading their crossbows, and a few others are laughing and exchanging more coins. I really hate this place.

About ten feet away from me, the jackass who drew the