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

“Nonsense, my good knight, this is simply high spirits! They are surely overwhelmed in the presence of their masters. Let us all enjoy the food prepared for this evening,” Dullahan says casually.

“Well now, sir, and I speak only for myself when I say I would rather slit my own throat than sit down and eat with you,” Haynes interrupts in an equally conversational tone.

“I'd rather slit his throat,” Olivia adds.

“I'd rather fuckin' starve—” Colt begins to say.

“ENOUGH! Insolent knaves! Ingrates! My patience is at an end! You will be ready in two weeks’ time to battle for your very lives! Remember this—you live at my whim and my mercy! Guards! Remove these ungrateful fools! I've had enough!” Dullahan almost shrieks in anger. He stands abruptly and waves his hand in front of him in a dismissive gesture before he turns on one heel and marches stiff-legged back to his carriage.

The ogres break rank then herd the snickering humans back to their cells.

The carriage doors slam shut, and the driver snaps his reins. The team of unicorns pulls on the braces, and the coach lurches forward, leaving a small cloud of dust billowing in its wake.

Thorn

The dust and commotion settles down, the elven knights leaving to follow their departed master. Osmanthus Wylde leans over the magically-crafted table and refills each goblet with a deep red wine. “My friends, it appears we are left to our own devices yet again. I guess this is as good a time as any.”

“The childish little Lordling runs off in a huff… it must be a special occasion,” replies an older elf. The rest of the table laugh, but the mood quickly sobers. “Yes, Wylde, now seems good enough.”

“Two more weeks, my friends, two more weeks. I assume we are all doing our parts?” Wylde takes a sip of his wine and glances over the rim.

“We've been working night and day to produce enough 'Simuli Uti' to furnish at least two to each squad, one of fire and the other healing. They are poor quality, but we've been rushed,” replies the same older elf, whose companion nods in agreement.

“I have been gathering some of the human's tools, a little at a time. But I do confess, I don't understand the use of many of them,” Skemend states.

“The use is very similar to our own Simuli Uti. They are simply objects that confer strong power to an otherwise normal person. The human version is just much more limited in what they do,” replies Wylde. “In any case, we need a way to distribute them to those we have selected.”

“I can help during my rounds of the wounded. I can bring in a few at a time,” offers Thorn.

“But can we trust them? The way they've treated us and abused us in the past…” asks the older elf. He puts his head in his hands, his thinning gray hair falling in front of his face. His shoulders slump under his dark red robes, as if under a great weight.

“Of course, we can, Castanea, at least in this instance. Everyone gets what they deserve, and everyone's interests are satisfied,” replies Wylde, turning. “Speaking of deserving, how fare your finances these days, Morus? I've heard tell you've managed to pay off a large amount of debt recently.”

The fifth member of the circle squirms in his chair. “Whatever do you mean, Osmanthus? Yes... I have come into a bit of a sum recently, but surely this is none of your concern.”

“A week ago, you practically begged an acquaintance of mine to extend your credit further, now you sit before us, bedecked in new finery and baubles. It may cause a few wiser minds some concern,” replies Wylde in a casual tone.

Morus fingers the large emerald pendant hanging close to his chest outside of a velvet green robe chased in silver thread. “I have nothing to hide. I sold a few heirlooms recently, yes, to pay some debts. Court life is expensive, as you would all know, if you had any ambition.”

“So, heirlooms are now synonymous with secrets, eh? I learn more with each passing day!” quips Wylde. “Skemend was good enough to purchase one of your 'heirlooms' just this afternoon! He has graciously agreed to return it to you at no cost.” He smiles sadly.

Skemend tosses a soggy leather bag onto the table in front of Morus. Morus stares at it but makes no move to pick it up. “Open it,” hisses Skemend.

Morus sits motionless and continues to stare at the bag. A thick, dark fluid seeps from the seams.

“Open it,” Skemend repeats more forcefully.

Castanea reaches over instead with slightly trembling hands and dumps the bag out. A wide, jagged-edged piece of pale meat flops out and lands wetly onto the wood surface. It takes Morus a moment to recognize a severed tongue. It's followed by the stump of an ear and a moist yellowed orb. Landing iris up, it stares at Morus.

Morus jumps to his feet, and his stool falls over. He shouts a word and points his right hand at Wylde's heart while his other hand makes furious gestures.

Nothing happens. Everyone else remains seated.

“Rowan wood, Morus. Rowan wood powder in your wine, you fool,” Castanea said softly and wearily. “A necessary precaution, I see now. I had hoped better of you, my old friend.”

“This is just a bloody collection of parts! What is this supposed to prove?” Morus spats defiantly, finding his voice once more.

“My pardon, good Sidhe, but did this appear to be a legal court of law?” Wylde looks around in mock confusion. The empty practice yards stretch beyond the circle of torchlight. “This is a group of conspirators and scoundrels, certainly not to be confused with conniving lawyers! I've never been so insulted!”

“The tongue is taken so the fade cannot tell tales in the next life. The eyes are taken so the spirit cannot see what should be hidden, and the ears so the ghost cannot hear what it should not hear!” intones Skemend. “It