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

The petite, angry elf paces in front of the secured gates to the practice yard, glaring at the loathsome ogres before her. The rain has lessened, but smoke still wafts from bodies and craters scattered about the open area. Other ogres and a few goblins make their rounds of the field, gathering corpses and body parts in one large wagon, and they seem in no hurry to complete their tasks.

“Our troops are dying while you waste my time, Muc1!” Thorn glowers up at the much taller ogre.

It snorts with derision at her then continues to ignore her presence.

“Lord Dullahan will not be pleased if more of his troops die when I could've saved them!”

The ogre looks down at her now and bares his bottom tusks at her with a growl. She stands her ground and stares back without flinching, right into the eyes of the much taller, much larger ogre.

A door opens from behind her, and light footsteps tap across the stone.

“Well met, Daughter! No fair teasing the mentally impaired help, now is it?” a bright and smooth voice says. An elf, tall and lean, dressed in tattered finery, steps in between the great and small figures. His thinning brown hair is matted down with rainwater, his ruffled waistcoat also damp.

Thorn turns to glower at the newcomer. “Osmanthus Wylde! I'm no daughter to you; your entire family crawled from that bottle in your hand!”

“Whoa, ho, ho! So much anger from one so young!” He laughs and takes a swig from the bottle of wine he is indeed holding. “It must come from being in such close proximity to all these mortals.” He then offers her the bottle. And quickly pulls it back as she takes an angry swipe at it.

“You, who has spent years among the mortals, know my anger is for them, not caused by them, you fool!”

“And I share your sorrow and pain, Little Daughter! These simple brutes will not let ye pass 'til they are compelled to. Come and join me; a brief distraction may prove fruitful in the fullness of time.” He extends his arm as befit a gentleman.

With a defeated sigh, Thorn takes it and allows him to lead her off down the hall. He discreetly passes her the bottle. With a sad smile, she accepts it without a word.

They walk in companionable silence for a time, sharing the bottle of bad wine. They soon come to Wylde's rooms. He produces an iron key in his gloved hand and swiftly unlocks it, the key disappearing back into his silk vest pocket. Pushing the door open, he bows with a flourish suited for court. “Milady! Ye brighten my doorway. Pray enter and lighten the room!”

“Foolish old man.” Thorn tries to conceal a blush as she crosses the threshold. A slight tingling dances across her skin. She stops and shudders. “You've been strengthening your wards again! They're so obvious and crude!”

“The doorway charm is meant to be felt, a warning of sorts, but perfectly harmless on its own. My welcoming of ye to these humble quarters renders the rest impotent, rest assured.”

Thorn gazes around the rooms and judges the housekeeping. Empty wine bottles lie forgotten and left where they were finished while a thin layer of dust covered most surfaces. Rumpled bed sheets and piles of dirty laundry are strewn about. She takes a few delicate steps to the one small window and throws it open. “I believe this room could use a bit of fresh air... and maybe a strong fireball.”

A damp breeze flows in, bringing with it the smell of rain and wet earth.

Wylde gasps, a hand to his heart. "Ye wound me, madam!” he replies. “A man has many more things of import to consider than the mundane task of housekeeping! Things such as sampling fine wines, creating epic poems, and—”

Thorn interrupts him with a girlish laugh. “You haven't created an epic poem in over a hundred years, you silly old Daoine Maithe2!”

“How can one create verse and prose of greatness when surrounded by evil and drudgery? There will never be a place as inspirational as the illustrious Emerald Isle! Certainly not in this barbaric realm,” he finishes, sad and wistful.

“Oh, Osmanthus, I did not mean to sadden you! I wasn't thinking—”

“Enough, child,” he cuts her off with a smile. “I did not bring ye here to relive old pains. My banishment from this realm was the greatest adventure of my long life! Which brings me to my point… alas, there is no delicate way to put this.” He holds up a hand to stop her from speaking before he could finish. “Ye cannot stay here much longer. Each day ye are held captive here, ye die a bit more. Each human ye try not to befriend, hurts ye upon their inevitable dearth—”

“I befriend no one, save drunk old Sidhe,” she says with a sly grin.

Osmanthus chuckles. “Lies, Lass, but often the truth is not as interesting. Regardless, we both know that humans, with their short, intense lives, live more fiercely than any ten immortal Fey. And it pains me as much as ye, if not more, to see them used as fodder and pawns for our games of power. Therefore, I propose a solution to your loss of House and the future loss of your human friends.”

“There are no solutions, nor answers to my troubles! I am trapped here, alone, save but for you. There is no helping the humans and Gnolls, the sprites, and pixies. They are all under the cruel thumb of Dullahan or others just like him!” Tears fall freely, yet full of anger, from her soft glowing blue eyes.

“No, Lass, ye must listen to me! In a fortnight’s time, the Veils become thin, and the two worlds align for three nights, as it does every full moon. We have time to plan a breakout, a mass exodus of the prisoners, human and Fey alike.”

“But go where? I have nothing and nowhere to go!”

“Ye have friends