Path of the Drought Demon

The stars glittered across the sky, a sight Dusty Willow hadn’t witnessed since stepping into the twenty-first century. Yet now he had no mind to appreciate the beauty, for he was about to die.

He had inexplicably found himself in a wild mountain valley that seemed ripped straight from a film, surrounded by a group of people dressed as ancient warriors, brandishing swords and knives. Before he could grasp the situation, a rain of arrows descended from above. There was no space to hide from the dense barrage; though he instinctively shielded his head, several rusty arrowheads unceremoniously lodged themselves in his thigh.

As the agony tore through his body and brought clarity to his dazed mind, he saw the valley’s withered, chaotic trees at the mouth ignite under a volley of fire arrows. In moments, a wall of flame sealed off the only exit.

“Captain? What’s going on? Weren’t we supposed to ambush the rebels?”

A few who had miraculously survived the arrows shouted in despair, their voices echoing through the fire-lit gorge. But the one they called Captain had not fared so well; struck fatally in the volley, he had already breathed his last.

The fire grew, acrid smoke filling the valley. Dusty Willow, recalling the fire safety training from his brief spell working in a restaurant, tore a coarse piece of burlap from a corpse, soaked it in blood, and pressed it over his mouth and nose as he lay flat on the ground.

The others, lacking such presence of mind, either rushed into the blazing inferno at the valley’s mouth in desperate hope or su