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

and cold, I climb from the back of the wagon. I fumble with some of my gear as I hit the ground and nearly trip over my own mace. Shoot, I could use a cup of coffee.

There's still a soft glow of dull orange radiating from the rocks Des had heated hours ago. Most of the group bedded down in a rough circle around the hot stones, sleeping in some comfort for a change. Wish I'd thought of that. I now realize how cranky and whiny I'm sounding, even to myself.

Jesse walks into view on the other side of the heated stones. He gives me a jaunty and sarcastic salute along with a small grin. I mimic the gesture as he passes out of sight beyond the wagons. I find the pile of equipment and weapons Haynes had mentioned, and look down at my own gear. Most of it is dented and blood-stained. A few parts are on the verge of falling off.

I walk directly to the pile and begin sifting through my options. There are four other breastplates, so I hold my own battered and broken one up to each. The third one is about the same size, so I inspect it a little closer. The light of the full moon is bright enough at the moment to give me light for a better look.

This plate is lighter than mine with some engraved filigree. Seems to be the same type of metal as the arrowhead. Despite the battering, all the elves had taken during our battle in flight, this bit of armor seems in great shape. Even in the moonlight, I can tell it’s shiny and well crafted. I take a minute to work out the straps and settle it over my shoulders, chest, and back.

The backplate meets the breastplate over my shoulder and around my ribs. I can feel its lightness already, and it even seems to fit better than my old stuff. The shoulder plates sit more comfortably and allow me greater range of movement. I quickly check through the rest of the armor and whatnots, but nothing else fits or would be useful to me, except a long-bladed dagger. It’s a double-edged blade almost a foot in length, held in a thick leather sheath. I see some runes etched into the blade that seem to match some of the engravings on my new breastplate. I slide my belt through the loop on the sheath and hang my mace next to it. Finally, I put my old, battered helmet and gauntlets back on.

Pressing a finger to my tat, the sheet pops into view. I scan down to Armor and Equipment and see “Breastplate of Warding +2” and Dagger +1 listed. Cool, magic items! But wait a sec, I scroll back up. Under Class, it now reads, “Fighter 12/Healer 1.” With a smile, I press the new, blue tattoo on my right wrist:

Cell# K4644

Prisoner # 5925

Magic Abilities And Spells

Spells Known: Minor Healing 1d8 +1

Spells Available: None

Maximum Number of Spells: 1 Per Day

Number of Spells Available: None

Property of Lord Dullahan of Terram Caeruleum

Holy crap, I really did it. I’m a magic user. I wonder what will happen with that when we cross back to the real world?

Still thinking about it, I climb on top of a wagon to start my watch. Between the fighting, running, and healing, I’m freakin’ exhausted. Jesse is sitting atop the next wagon, cross-legged and relaxed. He appraises me with a long look.

“Say there, Caleb. Ye still look a bit bushed. Why don't ye catch another forty winks? I sure don't mind keeping watch by my own self,” Jesse says by way of greeting.

“Nah, Jess. I'm wide awake and good to go. But if you need a nap, go ahead. I got this,” I say with a smile plastered on my face.

He regards me for a moment and then replies with the same forced smile, “Suit yourself. Gonna be a long night.”

I nod to be friendly before scanning the area with a watchful eye. He looks off in the other direction. A half-hour or so passes without incident. I've spent a fair bit of time camping, and this forest is akin to any other woodland area I've been in at night. Plenty of insect and small animal noises begin to reach my ears as the nocturnal creatures come out to forage and go about their normal routine. The only thing of note is the new horse. He seems nervous and restless, pulling at the tether that ties him to the wagon.

Jesse notices it also. For a second, he bounces a rock a couple of times in his hand. Then, without warning, he throws it, hitting the horse in the flank. He chuckles as the horse stamps its hooves and rolls its eyes, pulling harder on the leather line. Jesse bounces another stone in his palm, and the horse begins to neigh more frantically.

“Hey! What the hell is wrong with you? Knock it off!” I get up to one knee, angry.

“Oh, calm down, partner, it’s just a dumb animal,” Jesse replies with a grin.

He seems to understand I'm serious after a few moments of my silent, tense stare. “All right…” he says with a dejected sigh. He tosses the pebble over his shoulder and stands up. “I'm gonna go take a walk around the perimeter of our little camp. Be back in a few minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hops off the wagon on the opposite side and out of sight. The horses seem to settle a bit with him away from view.

I really don't like this. We shouldn't be splitting up, and now I'm not sure which direction he went. He seemed to just melt into the shadows. I look down and do a quick headcount; everyone except the Gnolls seems accounted for and sound asleep.

A few slow minutes pass until a loud cracking noise, followed by a dull thump, interrupts the usual night noises. A heavy silence blankets the area; gone are the