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

and try to roll around to extinguish the flames. Despite the muck and rain, the fires continue to burn. Confusion and panic begin to sweep across the field. Here and there at random, silver streaks rise and float about with nowhere to go.

Thorn

“Milord! We are under attack from beyond the walls!” cries a knight from the field.

“Treachery! Ogres to the gates! Brace them shut!” screams Dullahan as he begins manipulating the carved wooden board in his hands.

“Lord Dullahan, it seems someone invited the Fomorians to this little gathering. I can see them coming over the walls,” states Osmanthus calmly. “You should prepare to flee the field.”

“Run away?! Never! I am winning! Skemend, gather your mages and destroy the Fomorians, then we will finish off that Half-Ogre scapegrace!” He finally finds the right combination of sigils on the board and hits it with finality. The entire grid covering the field flashes and disappears. “Release the slaves to battle as they see fit! I, too, can break the rules!”

“Lord Dullahan, the Fomorians are resistant to our magics! We must flee to the safety of the castle proper!” Skemend exclaims. “I can teleport us to your chambers, and the rest can fight their way to your side…”

“Incompetent fools! I will have your heads for this cowardice!” rages Dullahan. With a quick spell, he amplifies his voice. “Archers on the walls, fire at the Half-Ogre and his retainers! Loyal Knights of Terram Caeruleum, make to the gate and protect your Lord and this Fiefdom!

Osmanthus pulls Thorn close to him. “Be ready, little one, our part in this play is drawing close,” he whispers.

“We have to do something now! They’ll be killed,” she replies harshly. “We cannot stand aside and watch this happen; they put their trust in us!”

“Yes, yes, I agree! But this is all a part of the plan; the play goes on as expected. We all have a part to play, but not until our cue. Trust me just a little longer…”

Thorn doesn’t reply, she just glares out over the field, staring impotently in anger and fear. Her sharp mind begins to take in the entire field from her high vantage point and commit every little detail to memory.

Huge iron hooks clatter and spark against the inside wall, trailing thick ropes. Giant misshapen heads appear at the top of the stone fortification, followed quickly by their huge, freakish arms and shoulders. They begin pulling goblins over the side or crushing them flat on the boulders with fists and giant hammers. The goblin archers try to fight back, but the driving rain and howling winds make crossbow shots nearly impossible.

The first Fomorian gains footing on the wall as the gates rattle with another blow. It stands near twelve feet tall despite its hunched back. Twisted horns sprout from the left side of its head, whereas the right side looks as if it never completely formed. The eye is smaller and higher on the face, and the one ear droops like melted wax. Its mouth can't quite close, due to the sharpened teeth all the way to the back of its jawline. It's mostly naked except for a leather harness on its chest and a kilt that blows madly in the strong wind.

Pulling a massive scythe from its harness, it begins sweeping the wall of goblins like a farmer cutting wheat. Other Fomorians of similar physical likeness gain their footing and leap from the parapets to begin wreaking havoc inside the confines of the walls.

All the Fomorians seem to wear the same colored kilt, red with green and black patterns. Each giant is deformed in some shape or another, some have extra limbs, some have too few, or they're just in the wrong place. The one thing they have in common is they are all at least twelve feet tall and fight with a wild ferocity as they carry and use their over-sized weapons with ease—mauls, axes, and swords.

Outmatched, the slave warriors try to fight back, but they are overwhelmed. The gate shakes a final time and blasts open. Thick wooden beams soar across the field and scatter among the toppled ogres. Splinters, like shrapnel, spray out in an arc, peppering the slave armies. A giant tree trunk flies through the shattered gates to crush a few prone ogres who are not fast enough to get out of the way. Then, the Fomorians begin to flood through the sundered portal, attacking in earnest.

Thorn’s concentration nearly breaks at the same time as the wooden gate. She is drawn back into the more immediate area. Skemend’s raised voice is partly to blame for her losing concentration.

“Milord, your father has charged me with your safety. I implore you one more time to listen to me as your adviser—come with me now!” Skemend begs. He knows it is useless, but he must try.

Dullahan turns his head with a glare. “Leave my side now, Troll, or I will have you flayed alive!” His eyes are wild and wide. Skemend takes a step back and raises his staff. Osmanthus Wilde quickly puts his hand on the troll's wrist.

“He leaves us no choice, friend Troll. We must play the cards we are dealt,” Osmanthus says quietly. The two share a look and a slow nod.

“We must complete this course of action and allow the next stage to come into being,” replies Skemend. “It just feels like I have failed our King.”

“Nay, good friend, it was Dullahan who failed you. Let us begin to end this.”

With a small gesture, Thorn joins Osmanthus, and they begin chanting softly together in rhythm as they take small acorns from the pockets of their robes.

“Your father sends his regards and regrets that you have been found wanting,” Skemend says. The troll raises his right hand to his left shoulder and barks out a single word. Combined with a slashing motion, a thin blade of pure force slices through Dullahan's neck. He stiffens in surprise and attempts to turn and face his attacker. His body twists,