"What do you mean, killed? Are the Yins already this deep into our territory?"
The man speaking was a mountain of muscle, crammed onto the front of a rickety wagon.
He wore a single, sweat-stained tank top and shorts, and a cigarette dangled from his lips.
He let out a slow, angry plume of smoke.
The three men standing before him in the dirt flinched, each one carrying the same worried look. This was Grak, a sub-leader in the Yaima group, and his patience was clearly gone.
It had been four days since the rumors of that golden, royal carriage started to spread. Four days. And every day since, he was down more men. Killed or captured, he didn't know which was worse. They had no idea who was doing it, but they knew where the trouble was coming from: that useless village to the left, the one that was supposed to be under his thumb.
"Say something, dammit!" Grak barked, his voice a low growl. "Are we being attacked from the inside?"
