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

Our spot is in the second row, near the center. Two squares over and to our right is Colt’s crew. The members of the squad between our two groups all have grass pins on their armor, so that makes me feel a little better.

A small commotion erupts behind us, and I turn to look. Grayson and his Berserkers are having a quiet discussion with another squad. By quiet discussion, I mean one of the Berserkers launches the other group’s banner across the field and replaces it with their own black and silver standard. They use their huge bodies to crowd and compel the other group into leaving. I notice that not one of the departing squad had a piece of grass anywhere visible on their visors or armor.

Haynes must have noticed as well. “Great to have you at our backs, Grayson. Glad you brought your Berserkers. Can't think of anyone else I'd rather have there!”

“Well, Sergeant, trouble seems to follow you and yours, so we couldn't figure on a better place for some real action!” laughs Grayson.

“Oh, I can. But better standing next to trouble than standing in front of it!” calls a thin, blonde woman from the squad to our left. This draws more laughter from a few groups, including our own.

“Good to see you, Olivia.” Haynes sketches a quick salute to her with a grin that she returns.

“Good to see you, too, Sergeant. Hi, Caleb.” I meet her gaze and smile also. She holds the look for a few seconds, and I feel my heart speed up a little. I quickly douse my feelings. Sadly, this is not the time nor place to pursue that… whatever that may be.

Yet, I look around, continuing to smile to myself. All the groups surrounding us are sporting a subtle piece of grass, nothing obvious, but you know who they are if you know what to look for.

A loud, deep horn sounds out over the field, loud enough to drown out any more conversation.

A double line of seven-foot-tall ogres trots out the gates and down the center of the field. Their armor is better quality than we usually see on them. It rattles and clamors enough to almost give me a headache. They stop, facing us when their line has stretched from one end of the yard to the other, studded clubs held at the ready in front of them.

A quick glance up at the walls surrounding us reveals they are lined with more crossbow-wielding goblins than I've ever seen before. There's got to be at least two hundred of the little bastards. That’s a lot of bolts aimed at the ninety or so of us.

A different set of horns now blare out a brassy fanfare as the eastern gate swings open in a ponderous arc. A group of mounted elven knights trots out on to the field in a 'V' formation, lances held with points high, armor gleaming even in the muted sunlight.

Haynes snorts in derision as he seems to recognize them.

They spread out, facing our lines until there is one knight per every two squares. The center mount, a unicorn by the obvious horn, is a pure, snow-white and covered in heavy chainmail barding. The next flanking set, normal horses by casual observation, are darker in color, but still lighter than the next set flanking them. All the way down to the final mounts that brace the line, which are coal black with midnight-hued plate armor. These have spikes on the foreleg armor, as well as shoulder and skull plates.

The knights on horseback have brought their mounts to expert, precision halts and hold them motionless. The crowd of us shifts with impatience, wondering when they are going to get to the point of all this fanfare. These guys sure like their pageantry.

The center knight slowly raises his full-face visor. Piercing blue eyes, set deep in a fine-boned, chiseled face, surveys the assembled slave warriors. He looks unimpressed. He stands up in his stirrups and begins to speak in a loud, stentorian voice, “I am Captain Darcasson of the Terram Caeruleum House Guard. It is my duty this morn to explain to you sorry lot what is expected of you come the sunrise hence. Some of you are veterans of previous 'Mortis Causa Ludicio Exercitus,' but most of you are not. Those of you who have survived in the past, pay close attention as the rules are somewhat different this year.” He pauses and scans the crowd with a poor effort to conceal his contempt.

“To begin with, you must remember that you are just pawns, game pieces to be used and discarded by your betters. The most you can hope for is to live to see another battle or to die in the service of Lord Dullahan. The newer ones among you may be thinking that you can simply refuse to fight when you are called upon. That is your choice, but know this… your entire squad will be teleported, unarmed, into the enemy ranks, where normal rules cease to apply. You will all be butchered by the enemy and left for dead. Remember this, for there will be no second warning.

"For the rest of you who are brave enough to fight for your very lives, the rules are simple: The Lords of the two houses will have three set moves, each in place before the battle begins. These predetermined moves will be put in motion by an independent arbitrator. These can be magic strikes, artillery launches, troop movements, or anything the Lords wish. After that, each Lord is afforded a single turn at a time. If the square that your squad occupies begins to glow, you will, without hesitation, attack the corresponding glowing square of the enemy. You will not attack any other square nor may any other squad from another square attack you. This would be a breach of the rules. The mages and archers from atop the walls will cut down