Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) Keith Ahrens (best e reader for epub txt) 📖

An offended hush falls over the next table; the pale blonde Drucilla sweeps a stray lock of hair over her delicate pointed ear and says, “Ladies, the air here grows foul with the stench of the unwashed. It has quite ruined my breakfast! Let us be on our way at once!”

Her actions match her words as she arises from her seat in a huff. Her layered dress twirls around her, her entourage all jumping to their feet, food forgotten on their plates. They all hurry from the hall, a few casting murderous glares back at Thorn.

Thorn glances over at the chaos mounting at the other end of the great hall, thinking to herself, I guess a few thousand years of boredom makes any horrid behavior acceptable.

Thorn gives up any pretense of eating and opens the satchel on her lap. She paws through her various healing foci and glass vials of herbs and powders. She makes a note to herself to visit the apothecary soon to replenish a few odds and ends.

Just then, the room darkens dramatically. Thick, black clouds begin to obscure the view from the large bay windows. Thin tendrils of blue and green electricity creep angrily through the clouds. Her skin starts to crawl with the gathering energy.

“Oh, sweet Danaan!” Thorn swears in a scared whisper before screaming and pointing at the window. “We're under attack!”

The crowded great hall is still engrossed in the spectacle at the far end of the room. No one hears her shouts over the angry mob, which has gone back to chasing the giant dog about.

She tries to force her way through the spectators, but she is too small, her voice too soft.

The storm unleashes its fury with a deafening crash of thunder. The stunned crowd begins to realize something is wrong as screams of pain drift up to the windows from the distant practice fields. The cries of anguish are drowned out with more peals of thunder and blinding lightning.

Thorn now uses her natural nimbleness to thread her way through the immobile crowd and rushes to the windows. She braces her hands on the window sash and stares out in horror at the wanton destruction of the courtyard. Even at this distance, her keen eyes can see bodies writhing in misery and many more lying unnaturally still.

Smoking craters fill up with the driving rain as the survivors, desperate for shelter, run to the cells. Tears fall unnoticed from her eyes as she hugs her bag of healing tools tightly to her chest.

“Ye cowardly bastards!” bellows the Redcap Chief at the echoing thunder. “Mangy knaves attacking during a truce!”

“Calm your theatrics, murderer; we were just planning the same thing for the morrow,” Cailleach hisses at him with scorn.

Lord Arias Dullahan hastily returns to the great hall with an incredulous look on his face. “Witches! You gave me no warning! Do your auguries fail you? My troops are burning in the open fields, and you did nothing!”

Cailleach and Nicknever turn as one and regard the Lord Seneschal with cold disdain.

“Now the time is consummate for the attack on the morrow. Yon enemies have wasted their strength on your mortal pawns!” Cailleach says in a harsh whisper.

Nicknever picks up the thought, “The time is nigh, their defenses weakened with the use of so much magic. Loose your attack amid the darkest part of the night, just before the dawn!”

Dullahan glares at the Hags for a moment, nonplussed as he ignores their urgings. “You knew! You knew, and you didn't warn me! I've lost valuable troops today because of you!”

“You hired us to ensure your attack will succeed, fool. We have guaranteed your raid's victory. The death of your fodder will mean less than nothing when you've murdered their Spellcasters and poisoned their wells and stores.” The temperature again drops as Cailleach stares at the Seneschal. “Have a care to not insult those who can lay waste to your entire home and hearth, Elf!”

Nicknever steps close to Cailleach and puts her withered arm around her sister's shoulders. “Be calm, my dear, mind your temperament. We can always destroy this castle after we are paid.” She sends a wicked smile at Dullahan, each red-stained tooth sharpened to a delicate point.

Dullahan clears his throat, arms swinging in a placating gesture. “Lady Hags, no need for anger. Your payment will be awaiting you outside the keep when you return in the morning. Know that your talents are highly valued, and I will happily re-engage your services anon.” He forces a smile at the older witches.

Mollified, the two decrepit sisters lean on each other for support as they slowly make their way from the hall.

“Good riddance to those evil bitches,” grumbles Grimarm. “I will take my leave as well to ready my clans.” He makes a sharp whistle, and Cu Sith bounds over to heel at his side, his tail still smoldering. Grimarm heads in a straight path to the door, shoving or punching any and all dumb enough to not move out of his chosen route.

Thorn stays motionless at the edge of the crowd as she begins to understand the magnitude of what has just happened. Her large blue eyes shed tears unnoticed.

Thorn had rushed straight to the apothecary from the great hall, grabbing handfuls of important plant parts and bandages, all the while, dreading the time she felt she was already wasting. Sprinting to her own rooms, she gathered up foci and semi-imbued objects to aide her own healing magics. Lastly, she remembered to throw a bit of bread in her bag, knowing the healing she'd soon be doing would drain her. It always left her weak and ravenous.

She finally makes it down to the cell blocks, the thick wood and brass bound gates to the practice yards standing closed and barred before her. The ogres guarding the gate do their best to ignore her after informing her in their natural tongue that the gate was to