Although not required by law, any harm done

  to the perfidious Yor is legally sanctioned, as

  they have long ago made themselves exempt

  from Imperial protection due to their heresies

  and treacherous nature.

  -From the Book of Laws, chapter XI, subsection III

  Chapter 3

  Two years earlier

  Karis’ legs felt numb as she rode her mule, having rarely stopped for what felt like hours so as to outrace the setting sun and oncoming night, collecting quite a bit of sweat in her robes and hair, which she combed back, save for a single white lock, which she allowed to flow down her cheek. Gazing over the horizon, she saw the sky had yet to turn orange, affording her enough time to reach them. And if she was lucky enough, get them to safety.

  They had to be still there, or so Karis forced herself to think, as anything else was beyond consideration. But her memory rarely failed, so her caravan was supposed to be where it always was during the summer season.

  Two other riders trailed her, both of whom shouted out a simple “Trot,” to make their horses run faster so as to catch up with Karis. One was Y’vaine, a woman twice Karis’ age and a fellow Yor, who wore a muted gray cloak and tied her long mane of black hair into a tight knot to the back of her head, allowing only the one white lock to flow free. The other was named Trista, a Qarthan woman with hair so light blond it looked almost white, who wore a purple cloak that would make her noticeable anywhere she went, her garments made even more distinct by the gilded embroidery she had sown into it, depicting runes and magic circles, a veritable flag to any witch hunter laying about. Not that she would need to worry about such.

  Karis only prayed she would not need their help.

  But as they got closer to the campground, she became more unsure of just how unnecessary her companions were, as there were no plumes of smoke, despite the fact that dinnertime was usually prepared at that hour. And she saw as well no falcons soaring through the skies, so often employed by hunters and scouts among her people.

  But yet again, her memory could be inaccurate. She had last been amongst her caravan almost five years past, having stayed with and become more accustomed to life in the Coven of Hollowhills. She could be misremembering just when her people cooked. Perhaps they did not always let the falcons fly loose. And perhaps she had picked a wrong turn, misread the map, or gotten the dates of her caravan’s travels wrong.

  All of that seemed far more possible than the alternative, until they arrived.

  What she saw first were the remains of tents far out in the distance, the poles either knocked down or left flailing in the ground, the cloth flying like a white flag in the wind. She saw a fireplace reduced to a pile of charcoal, and a giant pot that had been knocked over. And she saw someone lying still and face-first on the ground.

  They slowed their pace, the extent of the camp’s destruction unveiling in portions. Had she not been on muleback, Karis would have stayed still. She was beyond movement. Beyond any action save for those that came automatically to her. She had half a mind to leave, but knew she had to go further, just to make sure if any were still alive.

  But as they rode into camp, the possibility grew even slimmer, as whatever had wrought destruction upon her caravan had occurred at the very least a week ago, judging by the state of decay of some corpses, both human and animal, all of them slashed up, crushed, or twisted about, then just left there to rot.

  Karis got off the mule and took slow, unsteady steps into camp. The ground was all mush, soaked in blood and rain and scarred by what looked like thousands of footsteps, some human, some animal, and some too large and strange to be either.

  “Karis, I’m sorry…we cannot stay too long,” Y’vaine said, stifling her tears. “Night is closing in, and we’ve got to return soon.”

  “Just let me…let me try to find them,” Karis said, her voice low and weak. She was unsure whether either of the two heard her, but kept on walking in silence, focusing on the tents, each one marked by a familial crest. She saw the berrybush of the Kinai’e family, whose twin daughters Karis had played with in childhood. Next to it was a tent bearing the two arrows of Hourosh, who prided themselves as warriors and hunters, all ten of whom were laid out on the ground, throats slit, heads chopped off or smashed in, and chests punctured through multiple times. The rest were either gone or obscured by dirt, but she saw one more, the tent toppled over, its crest soiled by filth, but still visible as the bow and arrow of her familial crest of Sorai.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Next to it, she saw a man’s corpse, his head crushed beyond recognition, but his clothing was all too familiar to Karis, as her father had always cherished the woolen overcoat that now lay in the ground, dirt and blood speckled, half-obscuring the geometric patterns and lunar glyphs that decorated it. He still clutched his bow, a piece of fine craftsmanship that had become tarnished by the filth it lay partially submerged in.

  Karis raised the toppled tent and saw two others. The larger corpse was her mother, her head and right arm twisted backwards, the skirt of her long tunic torn asunder to reveal a thick trail of dried blood running down both legs. Next to her, she saw Dala. Her sister had been only five when Karis had last seen her, crying like they would never meet eyes again as they parted, no matter how many times Karis had promised to return. What she saw before her was a broken thing, her face caved in, the eye sockets turned to red pits in which maggots writhed.

  She let the tent fall back down, took a few steps away, then collapsed to her knees. It was only then that she was able to cry.

  It was as if something had possessed her body, every inch of it tensing up, shaking like it was on the verge of falling apart. Words became impossible, as the only thing that passed her mouth were incoherent and hoarse cries, her throat feeling stuffed with rough stones, while both eyes were blinded by the outpouring of tears. For a moment, she came close to grabbing onto her sister’s corpse, but staved her hands in the air. Even as they all lay there before Karis, she did not want to believe. It had to be a nightmare that she was soon to awake from before finding her real and alive family. But as the smell of rot permeated her nose and the pain in her sorrow contorted face intensified, she knew that such hopes were impossible.

  As she let her tears water the ground, Karis heard something walking in the distance. Looking around, she saw Trista and Y’vaine behind her, neither one in the direction of the sound.

  She rose and said: “Alo,” as a greeting in her mother tongue, receiving no response. But the footsteps continued, getting closer by the sound of them. Both Y’vaine and Trista flanked Karis, each bearing their weapons, Trista holding throwing knives in either hand, Y’vaine brandishing her whip.

  There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of footsteps growing louder and more rapid as something tore through one of the intact tents, revealing itself: A tall, horse-like demon running on mismatched and grotesque human legs that bulged and bent in bizarre ways, its equine head bearing the lips and eyes of a man, mouth agape, allowing its long worm of a tongue to swing about.

  Y’vaine swung her whip and yelled out: “Urat,” enveloping it in flame as she struck the demon’s legs, melting through the front ones. But its advance was unabated, the creature pushing forward with its hind legs, flailing its head around while biting the air. Trista punctured both its eyes with her throwing knives, then chanted: “Mother root, I beseech thee, gorge thyself upon my offering,” after which vines sprang from the demon’s head, branches punched through its skin, and thick roots bound and crushed its body as a tree grew from within it in a matter of seconds, wilting just as fast.

  The demon stood still, half its body enveloped in a dead tree. Karis stared at it for a while, then pulled a pebble from her satchel and placed it on the demon’s head. “Urat,” she said, and both demon and tree were bathed in fire. She wished it would scream, but the demon was unmoved as the flames ate away at it and its tree prison.

  “There could be more close by,” Trista said. “And we are sure to meet many at night. Is there anything more you wish to do?”

  Karis looked around. There would be no time to bury them all, let alone leave a marking. So she went instead to her family’s tent and pried the bow from her father’s cold grip, then pilfered an amulet that hung around her mother’s twisted neck. “Help me gather their valuables,” she said. “We’ll burn the rest.”

  Both horses and Karis’ mule were loaded with whatever riches her people had, the demons having left them with all but their lives, not even eating their corpses after the senseless slaughter. She liked it none, but figured it was better than leaving a rich bounty for graverobbers.

  Y’vaine and Karis then drew a circle of Yor fire glyphs around the camp, within which Trista provided more kindling by growing a small forest of trees that died and dried up within minutes. “Urat,” the two Yor said in unison, a circle of flame blazing up around the camp, spreading to the newborn, dead forest, devouring all it touched. It was not how Yor would like to be buried, most preferring to be secured beneath the ground, a sapling left to mark their grave.

  But the fire would have to do. And as Karis watched it rise, then decrease, dim and die out while they rode away, she shed a final tear and clasped the gilded necklace that she had found around her mother’s throat.

  The three arrived at the nearest ley line site as the sun was threatening to descend beneath the horizon, the sky lit in hues of red and pink. It was a small forest clearing, inconspicuous to most, but noticeable for those of the coven, as in its center was a circle of mushrooms, large enough for all three and their mounts to stand within. The mushrooms glowed a bright blue as they all placed themselves and their mounts in the circle's center, then yellow as Trista spoke the words: “Hollowhills, great cavern.”

  For a few seconds, all Karis saw was white brightness, as a column of light burst up from the ground and enveloped them. Then, without her having taken a single step, Karis and her two companions stood within a different circle of mushrooms, their surroundings changing from the lush foliage of the deep woods to the carved cavern walls of Hollowhills, its smooth walls lit by the soft blue light of floating lanterns.

  Karis got off her mule and took a few steps before stopping. People streamed from every single surrounding corridor, some witches of the coven, recognizable by the single lock of white hair they all shared. But most were Yor wanderers, members of other caravans that had been plucked to safety. They all looked to Karis, their red eyes expressing fear and anticipation. Karis just looked down and stepped towards them, the realization hitting everyone as tears streamed from their eyes, some weeping, others walking away.

  “The demons got to them before we did,” Y’vaine said as she joined Karis by her side. “Must have happened near a week ago.” She gestured towards one of the coven brothers, a tall and spindly man of advanced age, his tired looking face half obscured by a thick bush of a beard. “Speak to the Lunaran, let them know. We must call a council in haste.”

  The whole crowd then scattered. Karis left the mule and the treasures on his back to her fellow Yor, then moved as if in a daze to her bedchambers, where she drifted off to sleep, wishing to never wake up.