The caravan driver had clearly practiced his escape route, which spoke volumes about the criminal enterprise Reyn and the others had just dismantled. The wagon rattled down the road toward Falun at speeds that made physics blush. Through the bars of the cage mounted on the wagon bed, Venn's white-knuckled grip and wide eyes told Reyn everything about how much the healer was enjoying her ride.

  Reyn ran.

  Bormecian endurance was one thing. Bormecian endurance while carrying a greatsword, a Rabbid, and the lingering effects of a small release of Rage during a mill basement fight was something else entirely. Her legs burned with joy. Her lungs let her know that they had something to say about this plan. Good Deeds seemed heavier with each stride, which was physically impossible but emotionally accurate.

  When a Bormecian Barbarian ran, they ran. All Turnip could do was dig his tiny sharp claws so deep into Reyn’s shoulder pad that it pierced her skin. She didn’t notice, nor care to notice.

  Behind her, Saren moved like every heroic statue she'd ever seen, except the statues had the good sense to stand still. The Dragoon's armor caught moonlight as he ran, lance held low, determination radiating from him like heat from a forge. He wasn't faster than her, but he wasn't slower either, which was annoying given the weight of his equipment.

  Randulph brought up the rear, huffing and puffing far behind. His robes had seen better days, possibly better decades, just like his knees. Grain dust and dried blood gave him the appearance of someone who'd lost an argument with a bakery during a murder. Every few steps he'd mutter something about "undignified," "too old," and "should have stayed in Valemark."

  The wagon's wake left destruction in its path. Townspeople who'd been walking home from the endless festival scattered like startled chickens. One moment they'd been humming those three damned notes, the next they were diving into doorways as the caravan thundered past.

  Then came the screech.

  The sound started low, building like a throat clearing before a speech, then exploded into something that made Turnip flatten against Reyn's neck, which was worrying by itself. The Deagle burst from a side street, all mismatched nightmares stitched together by someone who'd fundamentally misunderstood the concept of dogs. And eagles. And generally nature and species at all. Brown feathers covered a muscular mastiff's body. Talons scraped cobblestones instead of paws. The head was pure heresy: an eagle's beak grafted onto a canine skull, screaming with a voice that didn’t sound like either species it resembled.

  "What in the seven hells?" Randulph's wheeze reached new octaves.

  "Deagle," Saren said without breaking stride.

  "Nasty thing," Reyn finished, watching the creature angle toward the caravan horses.

  The Deagle hit the horses like a feathered boulder. The animals screamed, which was reasonable, and bolted sideways, which was counterproductive. The driver hauled on reins while shouting to various gods about preferred destinations. The wagon tilted dangerously on two wheels, hung there for a moment that defied several laws of physics, then crashed back down with enough force to make the prisoners inside cry out.

  Through the bars, Venn shouted something. The festival music and chaos ate her words, but the general sentiment of "help" came through clearly enough.

  Reyn closed the distance, Bormecian Rage and fury making her legs remember they could, in fact, move faster. Good Deeds sang through air, catching torchlight as it carved through the Deagle's flank. Black blood hissed on cobblestones like oil on a hot pan. The creature wheeled, eagle eyes fixing on her with malevolent intelligence that didn't belong in something so vile-looking.

  Then the village of Falun noticed them.

  The festival had been cheerful before. Background music, dancing locals, the kind of celebration that happened whether you participated or not. Now every head turned toward them at once. The music didn't stop, but it changed. The melody stayed the same, but underneath something grew. The dancing continued, partners spinning, feet stomping, but now every step brought them closer.

  "That's not good," Randulph panted, finally catching up. His face had achieved shades of red that didn't exist in nature.

  Reyn shook the Deagles’ black blood off of Good Deeds. "You freed the prisoners?"

  "Most of them. The ones who could run, ran. The ones who couldn't..." He gestured helplessly at the townspeople flooding into the street. "This escapade seems to have triggered something in the Suggested. Your Suggestion-drunk friends from the mill who aren't dead are also heading this way. It's like kicking an anthill, except... the ants sing, I guess."

  The first villager to reach them was the woman with the ponytails. Yesterday she'd invited Reyn to dance with the enthusiasm of someone who truly loved festivals. Today she smiled with that same enthusiasm while swinging a rolling pin at Reyn's head.

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  Reyn ducked, caught the woman's wrist, tried to disarm her gently. The woman kept smiling and tried to bite her hand.

  Reyn pulled on more Rage, letting the seething primal instinct fill her muscles. She took a deep breath, avoiding pulling more than she could handle.

  "They're innocent!" Randulph shouted, throwing a sleep suggestion that hit two villagers. They crumpled like puppets with cut strings. Six more stepped over their sleeping neighbors, still humming those three notes, still advancing with their uncanny smiles.

  The caravan raced ahead. Venn's face pressed between the bars, hands gripping them until her knuckles went white. She was shouting something that got lost in the festival's cheerful roar of upcoming violence.

  The juggler appeared, bandaged arm and all, now juggling knives instead of balls. He was still dropping them, but now with what might charitably be called intended akm. A blade whistled past Saren's helmet, embedding itself in a door frame.

  "Enough." Saren's lance swept in a wide arc to clear space. Villagers went sprawling across cobblestones. They got up immediately, smiling through split lips and scraped knees, advancing like the fall had been part of the dance.

  Another Deagle appeared, apparently feeling left out of the attention, and charged. Talons extended, that horrific shriek building in its malformed throat. It went straight for the caravan horses again, because why kill heroes when you could cause maximum chaos?

  The horses screamed and bolted. The driver gave up on divine intervention and focused on not dying, which was wise but ineffective. The caravan slewed sideways, hit a market stall with the sound of expensive merchandise becoming expensive kindling, and began the slow inevitable tip toward catastrophe.

  Reyn sprinted forward. The Deagle saw her coming and pivoted with surprising grace for its shape. Talons raked across her back, shredding leather and finding flesh. Pain was information. Information said: this thing was fast.

  Reyn gritted her teeth and let the Rage take care of her wounds.

  Good Deeds came around in a brutal arc that took the creature's beak off mid-shriek. The scream became a wet gurgle. Black blood fountained, which was probably going to smell terrible tomorrow. The Deagle collapsed, twitching, its mismatched parts finally agreeing on something: dying.

  "Reyn!" Venn's voice cut through the chaos, clear and terrified.

  The cage had split on impact. Some prisoners were crawling out: the old woman with a bleeding head, two others helping each other stand. Venn was trapped, one leg pinned under twisted metal bars. A Crimson Hand soldier who'd survived the crash was advancing on the freed prisoners with a cudgel, which just seemed rather stupid at this point.

  Reyn didn't remember crossing the distance. One moment she was by the dying Deagle, the next Good Deeds was introducing itself to the soldier's cudgel. The weapon became significantly shorter. The soldier discovered that Bormecian blades don't negotiate.

  "Hold still." Reyn grabbed the bent bars.

  Venn shook her head. "My leg—"

  "Can you walk?"

  "Maybe. Reyn, the townspeople, they're not—"

  "I know."

  The festival pressed in around them. Smiling faces. Dead eyes. Reaching hands. The music played on, pipes and strings and drums keeping time with madness. Randulph's suggestions were failing, exhaustion making his magic whisper-weak. His hands shook as he threw another spell that barely made one villager stumble.

  ?This would be a good moment for a Fireball or something like that,? Reyn shouted to Randulph.

  His eyes widened. ?Oh, right!?

  Randulph raised his hands and held them like a cup, moving them over each other as if he was gathering air inside them. A glimpse of light appeared, and grew as he pulled more in, until it became a ball of fire the size of an eyeball. He pushed his hands forward, sending the ball straight into an approaching villager, who didn’t seem to care that his tunic was catching a small fire.

  Reyn stopped for a moment. ?Really? I expected a bit more.?

  ?I am a wizard of Suggestion,? Randulph said. ?How do you think magic works?!?

  Saren stood over the crashed caravan like a monument to carnage, lance red in the torchlight. He looked at the approaching crowd, at the tilting wagon, at Reyn trying to bend metal bars with her bare hands and the wizard with clear restrictions on his abilities.

  Then he crouched.

  What happened next made Reyn question several fundamental truths about how bodies moved through space. Saren jumped. Not a normal jump. Not even an impressive jump. He went up like gravity had personally offended his ancestors.

  The villagers stopped to stare. Even the ones humming those three notes went silent. The juggler dropped all his knives at once, which was probably the first successful landing he'd managed all evening.

  Saren hung in the air longer than should be possible, lance pointing down, silhouetted against the moon like a very angry weather vane. Turnip chittered something that sounded almost like awe.

  Then Saren fell like judgment itself.

  The driver never saw him coming. One moment he was whipping the panicked horses, trying to restart their escape. The next, Saren landed on the carriage roof with enough force to crack the wooden frame and several neighboring certainties about what was possible. The horses screamed louder, which Reyn hadn't thought possible. The carriage slewed sideways, hit another market stall, and flipped with the kind of theatrical flair usually reserved for stage performances.

  Wood splintered. The cage shattered completely. Prisoners scattered like dice from a cup, some rolling better than others. Venn's leg came free, but the healer went down hard, crying out as her injured leg refused to support weight.

  "Any ideas?" Randulph asked, voice thin with exhaustion and possibly terror.

  "Run?" Venn suggested, testing her leg and immediately regretting it.

  "Fighting retreat," Reyn decided, throwing Venn over her shoulder like a sack of flour while holding Good Deeds one-handed. Turnip chittered agreement from her shoulder, tiny teeth bared at the advancing crowd.

  The villagers closed in. Smiling. Humming. Dancing forward with steps that matched the music's tempo. Behind them, freed prisoners stumbled into the night, their confusion about the festival finally making terrible sense.

  Saren pulled his lance from the destroyed carriage roof and fell in beside them. "We can take them out, you and I."

  Reyn shook her head. "They are too many."

  ?Not for us.?

  Reyn subdued a small amount of Rage, feeling it thumping from somewhere deep inside. ?I won’t kill them unless I have to.?

  Saren grumbled. ?That complicates it.?

  ?Retreat, survive.? Reyn shifted the weight of Venn. ?Then we regroup and discuss a plan.?

  The battle through Falun's streets would be remembered differently by everyone who survived it. Saren would remember the frustration of fighting people that just kept coming. Randulph would remember his joints, which had forgotten their youth. Venn would remember the music, playing on and on and on.

  But they all agreed on one detail: the music never stopped. Not once.

  It followed them through the streets, past smiling faces and reaching hands, past the juggler who'd finally learned to catch knives properly, past the ponytailed woman who'd just wanted everyone to dance.

  The festival played on, cheerful and relentless and absolutely, utterly mad.