Raksha sheathed Steelbreaker and held Aisa tight in his arms. Blades, hammers, and sickles broke against his aegis as the serfs pressed in and struck out. Placing a protective hand over Aisa’s head, Raksha amplified his aegis to its fullest and began charging through the mob, trampling and barging aside the serfs who stood in his way.

Bones broke and organs pulped beneath his tread, but every step drew him closer to the firelight. A few paces away, serfs began hurling themselves at him in an attempt to drag him down with the sheer mass of their numbers. His aegis pulped many of them into starbursts of blood and bone dust, but several managed to latch onto the trailing ends of his traveling robe and his belt. He dragged them in his wake and hurled himself through the flames, extending his aegis momentarily over Aisa to shield her from the heat.

The serfs clinging onto him followed, ablaze but still singing. Father Ignatius hopped from his perch and put his sword through a disintegrating mouth. Then, he lashed his flail into a burning skull. Raksha ground a serf’s throat into paste beneath his heel as the priest beheaded the last one who had made it through the flames.

“Behold, my son.” Ignatius snarled as he swept his sword over the horde of singing slaves who had surrounded the circle of fire. “The depravity of the weak-minded, the foulness of the unclean and the impure!”

“What is going on, Father?” Raksha asked, wiping blood from his eyes. “Why is this happening?”

“The song,” Aisa said, raising her head. Her eyes were wild and red from tears. “They’re singing the forest’s song, the song that’s been in my head for weeks.”

“As I suspected.” Ignatius glared at the girl. “The foulness of the Old Gods is at play here.”

“Old Gods? What the hell are they?” Raksha led Aisa to the tree stump and leaned her against its knotted side, before drawing his sword and turning to the flames. The serfs had made no attempt to breach the fiery circle they surrounded. Instead, they swayed on their feet, singing endlessly.

“In ancient times, before God revealed Himself to mankind and claimed His rightful ownership over us, humanity was ruled by hosts of demons and vile spirits,” Ignatius snapped, dropping his weapons and picking up what appeared to be a cask of oil. The priest poured it into a shallow, recently dug trench. The flames blazed anew.

“God broke these fiends and scattered them into the winds of eternity, but to this day, weak, evil men still yearn to worship them, to give their souls, over which only God has true and rightful claim, to these foul, unclean creatures. Thus among heretics have they been called the Old Gods,” the priest went on. He jabbed at accusatory finger at Raksha. “I expected better of you, my son. Have you not been paying attention at Mass?”

Raksha had not. In fact, he’d not attended Mass in more than a decade. He gulped guiltily and scratched the back of his head. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. But perhaps now is not the best time for confession.”

“True.” Retrieving his weapons, Ignatius turned back to Aisa. She shrank back from his regard. “One of the Old Gods has reached out to her and used her as a tool with which to corrupt her fellows.”

“That makes no sense.” Raksha pointed at the serfs singing beyond the flames. “Aisa isn’t behaving like them. How can whatever is affecting them come from her?”

“I have hunted heretics for decades. I know how the Old Gods extend their vile touch. They prefer to work through humans, but their chosen instruments often bear little sign of outward corruption, so that they might better spread their influence to where it hasn’t yet taken root.” The priest advanced on Aisa, his sword raised. “If you cut her open, you will find the foulest stigmata of mutation.”

“No!” Raksha placed himself between the priest and the girl. “That’s not going to happen, Father.”

Ignatius snorted. “We will discuss this again, later. Now, listen to me. We might prevail this night, yet.”

“Speak.”

“There was a peddler here, with a cart full of oil casks. So engrossed was he in his vile merriment that he left his wares unattended. I have spent the last few hours placing the casks around the forest, at places where fire is most likely to take hold and spread,” the priest explained. “The unnatural foulness that has befallen us is obviously tied to this forest. Burn it down, and all will be cleansed.”

“Yeah, I noticed your little trick with the trench and how the flames don’t seem to spread inward to us.” Raksha nodded. “You’re really good with fire.”

A crooked smile crept across Ignatius’s face. Raksha suspected that it was a rare sight. “Anybody would pick up a few tricks from a lifetime of burning heretics. I was going to start the fires, but I got cut off and surrounded before I could.”

“You wouldn’t survive more than a few moments if you headed out into that mob,” Raksha pointed out. “But I can. More people will die if we burn this forest down, but maybe those that survive will have some sense scared back into them.”

“Maybe,” Ignatius said. “Look for oil casks piled against trees. Now, go enact the will of God, my son.”

Raksha sighed and turned to Aisa. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m scared, Raksha,” she said, clutching his sleeve. “And I’m sad. My dad… he…”

“Everything will be alright.” He stroked her cheek. “I promise.”

“But…”

“Trust me. I’m your Chevalier, remember?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, and at the end of the day, you’ll take me in your arms, and together, we’ll ride off into the sunset.”

“Well, I don’t have a horse, but we’ll figure something out.” He pulled away from her, nodded at the priest, and strode into the flames.