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

Haynes just looks at me, not saying anything. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, as if this is a good time for a rest.

So, I ask again… “What the fuck was that?” My voice rises to a higher pitch. Haynes opens his eyes and looks at me, steady and not blinking. Slowly putting his index finger to his lips, he waits for me to break eye contact. I refuse to.

With a resigned shrug, he simply replies with nonchalance, “Ogre. We got a history with that one. He doesn’t like us much.”

I snort a laugh through my nose.

“Uh-huh. Are there goblins out there too?” I ask, heavy on the sarcasm.

“Nope. They guard the gates and walls. Ogres guard the cells.” I wait for him to laugh or smile or something. I wait a while. I wait longer. Then I decide he's serious. Seriously unhinged. One of the first things you learn in EMS training is not to feed a crazy man’s delusions. On the flip side, it’s also somewhat dangerous to challenge their reality. I choose to let the subject drop for the moment. Why am I getting all the crazy ones lately?

A few minutes pass. I think. It’s tough to tell time down here, and I’m still feeling muzzy-headed. I’ve been staring up at the dim light for a while now, trying to figure who would put fancy lightbulbs in a prison cell. It’s about the size of a baseball but made of faceted quartz crystal, suspended in a brass wire cage. It flickers a bit, like a bad bulb, and now gives off a bluish cast around the room.

My attention turns back to my new tattoo. The skin is clean and fresh around it, which would indicate I’ve had it for a while. Anyone who has gotten a tat knows it takes weeks for them to heal right. I want to activate it again to see what else it says, but I'll wait until no one else can see it.

Without warning, a muffled clanking noise comes from the door, like a large lock turning. It swings far enough open to allow a slight figure to slip in. A hood and veil mask her face, loose blue robes clinging to her curves and leaving no doubt that this figure is a female.

She carries a brown leather bag strapped over her left shoulder, crossing her chest and swinging near her right hand. In her left hand, she carries a small, leather-wrapped canteen. Her footsteps are light in her soft, deer hide boots. She walks over to me, stopping just out of arms reach, and studies my face. Her bright blue eyes have almost an Asian cast to them as she peers intently at me over the top of the veil covering her nose and mouth. No, not at me, at the cuts and bruises, and probably, the glass still stuck in my face. She glances at Haynes and asks in a soft, accented voice, “Is he calm, or is he going to be a problem?”

Her accent sounds like an Irish brogue, yet off a little. It's close, but not quite. Maybe Scottish? I can never really tell the difference between the two.

“I think he'll be okay, but he could probably use some water first,” replies Haynes, as he sits up on his pallet.

She turns back to me, studying me some more with a critical eye.

“Thirsty?” she asks and raises her canteen toward me. She's moving slowly, like a person does with a dog when they don't know if it's gonna bite them.

I try to restrain myself, but the thought of a cool drink right now is almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. A manly tear, of course. “Yes, ma’am, I really am.” I don’t quite snatch it from her. “Thanks.”

She looks sidelong at Haynes. “At least this one has some manners,” she says, possibly smiling behind her veil. I’m too busy uncapping the canteen to reply. The bottle is cool in my hand as I fumble with the clasp; my mouth seems to be getting dryer by the second. Finally, success! I tilt my head back and greedily drink as much water as I can in one gulp.

It is refreshingly cold. I swish some around my mouth to rid myself of the last of the dried blood. I don’t spit it out; there's no place to spit except on the floor in front of her, and that would just be rude. So, I swallow my metallic mouthful quickly and continue to drink. I taste some mint now and something else. Can’t place the second flavor, but the cold water is soothing my raw throat and clearing my head a little. I drink a little more before coming up for air.

“Thank you,” I say again, and mean it.

I see a definite smile now as it reaches her eyes. “Finish it all up, lad.”

I return her smile and quickly drain the last of the canteen. Damn, that’s refreshing! And a little spicy…?

“Thanks again. What’s your name? And what are we doing here?” is what I mean to say. What comes out is just slurred gibberish. I clear my throat and try again, “Thnx egern, wazzz urnnaame?” Uh oh. This may be worse than a concussion. I look at her in a bit of a panic and try to figure out how to tell them that something is very wrong.

Suddenly, I'm having trouble focusing my eyes. What the hell? Is she laughing? Everything starts to sound slow and distorted. I try to look at Haynes, but when I turn my head, it feels loose and heavy at the same time. I fall over. My head hits the dirty straw on the wooden pallet with a dull thud. I can’t even raise my hands to catch myself. I try to speak again, but the pain of the fall is now starting to make itself known.