Alpha Zero (Alpha LitRPG Book 1) Arthur Stone (hardest books to read .txt) 📖

As promised, the wagons had an easier time moving through the shallows than over a grassless beach. I held back any expressions of joy on account of being barely able to move, weak hands holding on to the wagon’s side for dear life, terrified of losing my grip and collapsing in the water. If that happened, I could only hope that someone would bother rescuing me instead of leaving the waif of a boy to the mercy of fate.

I had no knowledge of these people’s plans, only that they were my only support and only hope. Alone, I was utterly powerless. So I would have to push to my last breath to ensure I wouldn’t be left alone.

Being focused solely on keeping my balance, I began to neglect my surroundings. So it took me longer to notice when the caravan’s affairs began to sour. Someone behind me screamed as though they were being cut open—it was all I could do to keep my grip on the wagon and not fall.

“Move it!” Rycer bellowed, seemingly right into my ear.

Of course, the soldier wasn’t screaming at me, but at Krol. The impact was the same, however. His pitch and panicked expression made it clear that something bad was happening behind us. Screams of pain and rage quickly followed, interspersed with choice expletives from coachmen as they whipped their horses.

The water began to recede. It had been up to my neck in places, but here it was barely waist-deep. Ten more paces and it would be down to my ankles.

Something whistled overhead, the sound reminiscent of Camai practicing with a bow. Rycer bellowed an altogether different sound, something between a growl and a cry of pain. Hands outstretched, he stepped behind the wagon and dropped clumsily to his feet.

My blood chilled when I saw his face. A thin shaft stuck out of the mercenary’s eye. Sporting gray feathering, the arrow had hit him just above the wrist, slicing through his raised forearm and getting wedged in his eye, leaving the man half-blind, his hand pinned to his head. The sight was at once absurd and horrifying.

My scant knowledge of medicine suggested he could survive such an injury. Assuming he’d be treated back on Earth, with modern drugs and skilled surgeons. Alas, my knowledge of the local medicine was even poorer. Who cares? We’re under attack! The realization was sobering.

I was at serious risk of being shot myself by the unseen enemy.

The death would be entirely too bland for someone with such an incredible biography. Besides, I wanted to live. Crouching quickly next to a groaning Rycer, I squeezed underneath the halted wagon, pushing the back of my head against the wheel axle. From here, I had a good view of what was happening at the tail of the caravan.

The situation appeared to be in flux. The direction of the arrows still wasn’t clear, but the mercs serving as security had other problems besides. The water around them seethed, the surface breaking here and there. The flickering tails appeared to belong to fish at first glance, but I had never seen such fish before: sporting an armored back with a pair of slick black fins. Whatever these creatures were, they were besetting the caravanners stuck at the deepest section of the ford.

A mother holding her baby stumbled and fell, submerging under water in full before popping back up with a heartrending shriek. Her hands were empty, the child having remained underwater.

An old man leaped up to her and began whacking at that spot in the water with his club. Likely not to finish off the poor child, but to fight off whatever had snatched him. A second later, something dark and sleek—presumably the baby-snatcher—leaped out of the water.

Another shriek, this one coming from the old man. His arm was now a bloodied stump, the club gone from its grip.

I glanced down warily. Though the water level at this spot was inches deep, somehow sitting here didn’t feel too safe.

More yelling, this time from up ahead. The battle had apparently reached the head of the caravan, and judging by the clangor of metal against metal, I highly doubted that the fish were to blame. Brandishing axes was as out of character for river dwellers as archery, so no, the mercs were up against a different opponent.

I twisted forward to try and snatch a glimpse. The view from underneath the wagon was poor. All I could see was the lower half of a mounted man, and then the tip of his bloodied spear as it flickered near the water’s edge.

A round object rolled on the sandy beach. My eyes, unaccustomed to such spectacles, didn’t immediately recognize it for what it was: a severed human head. The head didn’t belong to our sole mounted soldier—that one wasn’t red-haired, and he never took off his helm besides.

“To the shore! Get all the wagons ashore!” I heard voices yelling from all directions.

No more arrows were whistling, and the fighting seemed to have been isolated to the tail of the caravan. The enemies there clearly weren’t human, but some kind of giant armored pike close to six or seven feet in length.

My wagon began to move, the wheel axle nearly pushing me down nose first. Twisting out of the way just in time, I hurried after the wagon—my only cover against enemy fire. I couldn’t help but feel surprised as to how well I was moving for someone who had been barely walking just a few minutes ago.

The survival instinct was the best kind of motivator.

I glanced at the corpse at the water’s edge. It was the coachman from the wagon just ahead of ours. He, too, had caught an arrow in the eye, but unlike Rycer, the angle of this arrow was perfect, piercing the brain. There