Though the campfires were dimming, either through deliberate dousing or a lack of fuel, the merriment among the serfs only seemed to heighten. Amidst the thickening darkness, they danced frenetically, arm-in-arm, in pulsing circles, and their singing of Aisa’s song, previously boisterous and cheerful, had become wild and unhinged.

Jagged glimpses of moonlight broke through the forest canopy. The cold blue light bounced off flashing teeth in mouths rictus-stretched and wreathed the manic dances of the serfs in flickering shadows.

There was no joy in their celebration. In its place, there was something else, something that Raksha was very familiar with. He’d seen it in the eyes of the Razor Acolytes and the Crimson Cannibals he’d slain. He’d felt it crawl across his skin and seep into his soul. A lifetime ago, before he’d forged the Conflagration, he’d been its thrall, he’d howled for blood in its name, and he’d laid thousands of skulls at the base of its throne.

It was fury, relentless and mindless, transcending murderous malice.

He reached out, took Aisa by the hand, and pulled her closer to him as they moved through the crowd. It was obvious she’d noticed something was wrong too. She tried a smile, but it was weak and uncertain.

“Stay close,” he told her.

“Raksha?” Aisa whispered. “What’s happening?”

“Something bad. Let’s find your father, quickly. Where did you say he would be again?”

“Golsi and his sons put their stuff down somewhere near here. Let’s see…” She swept her gaze this way and that, before pointing at a small group of men standing around an opened barrel. They held earthen mugs, from which they took hearty swigs between snatches of animated conversation. “There they are. Golsi is our village’s ale-brewer. Apparently, he’s very good at what he does.”

They walked towards Golsi. Along the way, Raksha had to push aside several frenzied revelers who tried to grab Aisa and pull her into their dance circles. They were a few paces away from the brewer and his sons when he halted in his tracks.

Blood had been freshly spilled. Its coppery tang hung in the air, sharp and bright to his aegis-heightened senses. He raised his left arm, barring Aisa from reaching the men and their barrel.

“Raksha?”

“Stand back.” He drew Steelbreaker. The rasp of steel on leather as it left its sheath caught the attention of the brewer and his sons. They turned, and their eyes were filled with a painfully false glee that failed to hide the tics and jaw-trembles of murderous rage.

“Why hello there, my good man,” a broad-bellied man in his middle years said. Like most of the other serfs in the forest, he wore thick work overalls over a rough, long-sleeved tunic. “And dear little Aisa too. Come over and join us for a drink.”

“Hello, Golsi,” she replied. “Have you seen my dad? He said he would be drinking with you.”

“Brem? Yes, he was here just now.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Golsi continued speaking, as if Aisa hadn’t asked him another question. “We were drinking when he joined us, but there was something wrong, you know? The beer… just wasn’t tasting right. Something off about it. It was so strange. We all took turns sipping, and we racked our brains, but we just couldn’t figure out the problem.”

“Golsi?” Aisa asked, her voice cracking with obvious fear.

“It made us so angry, you know? All that work, and this batch just wasn’t good enough.” The brewer’s hand trembled as he spoke. Some ale spilled from his mug. His voice climbed in pitch, taking on more than a tinge of shrillness. “We put our hearts and souls into our work, and it just wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t good enough.”

The other men around the barrel—who had to be his sons—nodded and echoed his words. Their eyes were as wide and as manic as his.

“So when Brem came to us, we asked him to taste our brew. We figured, maybe a different tongue would turn up different thoughts.” Golsi took a swig from his mug before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “But all he could say was that the beer was fine. Delicious, as always. Big smile on his face.”

“Where did he go, Golsi? Please, tell me.”

“Useless. I was so mad, I hit him in the face.” The brewer chuckled. “Some of his blood got into the brew, and what do you know? When I tasted it next, it was so much better.”

“…what?”

Golsi dipped his mug into the barrel for a refill, disturbing its surface. Something breached the liquid.

It was a human hand, fingers outstretched to the moon.

“So my boys and I added him to the brew. One piece at a time.”

Aisa screamed.

“Now, now little one. Come over here and join us.” Golsi put down his mug and drew a small knife from his overalls. His sons did the same. “Join your father, and let’s drink.”

“No, no, no…” Aisa moaned, clutching her upper arms. “Dad…”

“Crying. I hate crying.” Golsi’s face twisted in mindless rage. “This is a happy night! It must be a happy night! Stop crying!”

The brewer and his sons swarmed forward, knives raised. Raksha struck Golsi in the face with the flat of his blade, knocking him down, and turned to face the brewer’s sons. Steelbreaker flashed out, its back and flat impacting against nerve clusters and bone. They fell, unconscious or groaning in pain.

He turned back to Aisa. The girl was sobbing and shaking.

“We’re leaving. Now,” he said.

“But… my dad…”

“He would want you to be safe.” Raksha put an arm around her shoulders and began leading her away from the brewers. She followed limply, her tear-streaked face slack with shock and grief.

A line of serfs barred their way, their eyes filled with gleeful rage and their mouths hanging open, giving voice to Aisa’s song. Raksha raised Steelbreaker.

“Get out of my way,” he demanded.

The serfs pulled weapons from their clothes, knives, hand-scythes, hammers. A few of them brandished pitchforks. They advanced, singing.

Raksha struck them down, trying to break as few bones as possible, but it was a cumbersome, tiring endeavor, especially with Aisa held close. A serf actually managed to ram a pitchfork into his ribs. The implement buckled and bent harmlessly against his aegis. Growling in frustration, Raksha clubbed the serf as gently as he could in the upper neck nerve cluster. The man fell into a limp, boneless pile.

Gasping, the last serf crumpled beneath a blow to the solar plexus. Raksha stepped over his body, Aisa in tow, but they now found themselves facing a sea of maddened eyes, singing mouths, and fists filled with makeshift weapons.

Raksha growled. He could cut his way through, but the thought of killing serfs repulsed him, even now, caught in a shrinking circle of madness and moonlit blades.

“Stand back,” he snarled. “Or die. Last chance, goddamn it.”

His words were lost in their song. The serfs crowded in, raising their weapons.

“Close your eyes, Aisa.” Raksha scooped the girl up with one arm, holding her against his body. Sobbing, Aisa nodded and buried her face in his shoulder. He reversed his grip on Steelbreaker, bringing its edge to bear. His next strike wouldn’t be with its flat or back.

The last campfire had gone out sometime ago, leaving the forest alight with cold, blue columns of canopy filtered moonlight. Raksha raised his blade and advanced on the serfs.

A portly woman, a farmer by attire, swung at him with threshing flail. Raksha cut the weapon apart and kicked her in the chest, cannoning her into a cluster of serfs and bowling all of them down. He charged the sudden breach in their ranks, blade flashing. A hand wielding a flensing knife traced a bloody spiral into the air, no longer attached to its owner. Another farmer fell, breastbone cleaved open. A laborer lost his head.

Aisa screamed as blood, hot and reeking, splashed across them. Raksha swept Steelbreaker in a wide arc, cutting a quartet of jabbing pitchforks asunder, before advancing and doing the same to their wielders. Frenzied hands seized Aisa and tried to tear her from his grasp. Raksha sliced them off of her. He waded further into the mob, every stroke of his blade adding corpses to the pile at his feet. The serfs didn’t scream as they died. All they did was sing that maddening song.

Amidst the carnage, an amber glow arose in the corner of his eye. He turned toward it. It was firelight, fresh and blazing, surrounding the massive tree stump where Aisa had sung several hours ago. Father Ignatius stood atop it, his silhouette visible above the circle of dancing flames. He had his weapons drawn and held high.

“Into fire and damnation I cast you! Burn in this world and the next for all eternity!” Father Ignatius screamed at the serfs, his shrill voice ringing over the singing. “God hates you! God hates you!”