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

It freezes for a second, unsure if it's trapped between two attackers or not. It glances down but disregards the tiny human female standing in front of him. She holds no weapon he recognizes, and he has more important threats to worry about. He draws back into a fighting stance, concentrating on the two men in black, spiked armor.

Olivia looks up, squinting into the rain, and smiles a vicious little smile. She raises the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun with one steady arm. Given their extreme height difference, it’s easy for her to step forward a few paces and aim the shotgun under the kilt. A deafening boom sounds as she pulls both triggers at the same time. Heavy lead pellets tear through delicate flesh and continue upward into the pelvic cavity.

The giant seems to hop in the air with the report of the shotgun. A look of disbelief and shock crosses its face as it drops both swords and collapses to its knees. Both hands clutch at its ruined groin while blood and tissue fall to the ground in clumps and clots.

Olivia turns, drops the empty shotgun in the mud, and walks back toward the relative safety of our hole in the wall, not looking back. Every male— human, elf, Gnoll, or whatever on the field, wince in sympathy.

Grayson and his last healthy Berserker half-carry and half-drag the amputee over to us. He is now screaming in pain and shock, blood still pumping from the wound.

I dig under my weapon's strap to get to my duty belt. I fumble around for a moment before I manage to pull out my small trauma kit. I drop that by my feet and root around again for another pouch as the Gnolls pull the Berserkers through the hole.

“Bring him over here! Quickly!” I shout over the din. I pull a tourniquet from my trauma pouch, thankful to have some real tools when I need them.

“Bastard took his arm!” Grayson shouts, frustration and anger clear in his voice.

“I know; we saw it. Hold him down for a minute!” I reply as I struggle to loop the tourniquet around the bleeding stump. The other Berserker grabs the arm at the bicep and holds it firm. I cinch the band down tight until the bleeding stops and lock it in place. The man screams in pain, but I block it out.

“Jimmy, calm down. Bite on this,” the Berserker says in a surprisingly compassionate tone as he offers a strip of leather to his companion. “I know it hurts, but you gotta let the Doc work!”

In the last fifteen years or so, I've lost count of how many times I've been called 'Doc.' I stopped correcting people years ago and just accept it as a nickname or a term of respect (I hope). I always wanted a cooler nickname, though. Maybe something a bit more tough-sounding, but this is what I got.

I draw up a few milligrams of morphine from a bottle out of the other pouch. It’s risky giving pain meds to someone who just lost a lot of blood, and of course, there could be a deadly allergy, but I don't see much choice at the moment. His screams are attracting even more attention, and there's no way we are gonna evac him while he's screaming and flailing around like this.

I jab the needle into his intact arm and push the plunger, sending the opiate deep into the muscle. “Give him a few minutes, and he should relax,” I say to his friend.

“Thank you. Jimmy's my brother. I'd hate to lose him now after all we've been through.”

“Uh, I kind of thought you guys were locals… you know, from here?” I say the last part as a question.

The big man laughs and takes his helmet off, revealing strong features with a close resemblance to Jimmy's. Now that I have a chance to get a good look at them, they both greatly resemble Grayson.

“Oh, hell no. Us and Grayson and the rest of our group, we were all part of a pro-amateur wrestling circuit. We got kidnapped altogether on the same night after a title match. Grabbed us while we were piss drunk and passed out,” he chuckles, clearly exhausted.

“Grayson is your brother also?” I ask as I check the pressure bandage on Jimmy.

“Yup. Sorry, I thought everyone knew that already.”

Well, that explains a few things. But it doesn't change our shitty situation.

Thorn

Thorn and Osmanthus make their way down the steps of the Grandstand. Skemend stays behind to 'dispose' of the body. Thorn is paler than usual, and her hands are shaking. “So much violence, so many dead!”

Osmanthus addresses her firmly, “And there is nothing to be done for it! Now is the time for escaping! Quickly now, Veil yourself so that we may cross the field of battle during the confusion!”

Thorn stops for a moment and takes a deep breath to center herself and calls up her innate elven ability to Veil. She fades from sight in a mere moment.

“Atta girl, let’s be off.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs together just as a Wall of Force blasts people off their feet. A ten-foot-wide corridor of faint blue light now traps them in the center of the field, their only option being to retreat the way they came.

Through the haze of the rain and across the distance, Osmanthus sees four figures walking at a casual pace across the field. Two are very large while the other two are of standard elf size.

Osmanthus swears under his breath when he recognizes who is coming.

“My dear Thorn, I have a bit of bad news that will soon become self-evident. I need you to not argue, but take this satchel and retreat to a safe distance. When this Wall of Force collapses, make for the breach.” He lifts a brown leather satchel from across his chest and tosses it behind himself as if deciding he no longer wants it. It lands with a dull metallic thud on the wooden