My position would be on the second floor. It offered a clear vantage point of the town from a high position. From there, I saw several more of these ‘birdpeople’, some with what resembled weapons or tools on their shoulders. Alongside them were what seemed to be large, ox-like creatures with red cycloid scales and wagons fastened to their bodies.

“High Talon, Aanlaith!”

Another birdman spurred forward. His leather armour was dyed a lighter shade of blue. He flapped his wings once, and so did the High Talon, who still held the innkeeper’s hand.

“Are they ready for liberation?” asked Ainlaith, clearly eager.

“Yes, High Talon.”

“Very well.”

Handing the innkeeper over, the High Talon’s subordinate took him by the hand. About to depart, he’s stopped by a click of his superior’s tongue, the sound birds usually make.

“Talon Eastah. How many villagers have you collected?”

“Twenty-one. The usual number.”

“Talon Eastah. While I do not wish to undermine your capabilities, I nevertheless have to probe you again. Are you sure that twenty-one is the number?”

“Yes.”

“And still—Ms. Fidah’s body is yet to be found?”

“Yes.”

“Most curious,” Aanlaith spoke with a mix of resignation and pity. He began to walk in evident pensiveness and flapped his wings twice. “Talon Eastah. While I have no semblance of logic or rhetoric to prove it thus, I would ask you to remain on high alert.”

“Instinct?”

“Yes. Instinct.”

“Shall I tell the others of this?”

“In passing.”

“Understood.”

Finally, Talon Eastah took his leave and guided the innkeeper towards the village centre. His departure, in turn, gave me some time to reflect. Ms. Fidah must be the name of this body. More than that, Mr. Aanlaith knew—or at least had high reason to suspect she died.

And yet, if I recall correctly, the innkeeper said that my death would be painless ‘the first time around.’ Was this body blessed with some gift of regeneration, then? Like the innkeeper himself?

More importantly—was this body destined to become a monster? And had I, with my untimely reincarnation, stopped that very transformation? This was all purely conjecture, of course. But something about it felt true, at the very least.

Waiting for Aanlaith to depart, I descended to the ground floor and left the inn. The birdpeople had moved out of earshot, and it was becoming harder to keep them within view. Darting between one building and the other, I eventually had them all in sight. They gathered in some ritualistic circle of sorts and had amassed the rest of the villagers in the centre. As expected, they had become monsters, taking on similar forms to the innkeeper's.

“High Talon Aanlaith,” one dressed in red asked, with a mohawk of azure feathers. “Permission to commence liberation rites?”

“Yes.”

The one in red plucked a feather from the strip atop his head. Then, tossing it in the air, broke into song. It was a winding, high-pitched chirp, somewhere between a piece of classical music and actual birdsong. And it reminded me of Antonio Vivaldi’s Winter, which, in turn, prompted me to play an imaginary violin in the air.

For a brief moment, I considered jumping in. Dancing while demonstrating my superlative mastery of ‘air violin,’ opera, and convincing them I was mentally ill. If needed, I could even kill myself on the spot to leave them utterly befuddled as to what happened and possibly traumatise them for a lifetime.

When a few seconds passed, however, I found my penchant for sadism be overwritten by curiosity. Above the circle, blue feathers manifested to form a large shape. It had the blurry, sketchy aesthetic of a watercolour painting and looked like a rendition of the sky given avian shape.

Descending upon the innkeeper—or Gazmen, the giant hawk-like bird clutched with its talons and dug into the monster’s deformed shoulders. After a moment, it began to pull, flapping its wings while soaring towards the darkened sky.

The innkeeper wailed in agony. An outline of his body, dotted with a blue glow, was being pulled out. He wailed and wailed and wailed. His cries were a strenuous falsetto, teetering on every uttered syllable.

“Enough.”

High Talon Aanlaith flapped his wings, and his comrade’s song came to an end. When two seconds passed, the blue bird and the innkeeper’s projection vanished, disappearing into tiny glowing feathers. Silence now permeated the space, accompanied by a low-pitched growl and a subtle stomp of Aanlaith’s two feet.

“Permission to grant second rites?” the one in red asked.

“Yes,” replied his superior, evident irritation in his voice. “We may begin.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Several soldiers set out at once. They hurried to their loaded wagons. From there, they retrieved rope and stakes, brought them to the transformed villagers, and set about fastening the monsters to them.

Maybe they were going to make a little campfire and sing kumbaya. Roast some marshmallows and stuff them between crackers as the Americans would.

Aanlaith clicked his tongue. “Stand back,” he gave an order and his subordinates followed. They left ample distance between them and the pyres, one measured in ten metres.

Once more, the designated bird broke into song, followed by a toss of a white feather and the gradual lift of the singer in question, who flapped his wings and lifted himself above the ground. Nearby, leaves began to rustle; wooden planks creaked, and a faint murmur of wind seemed to swish, howl, and whisper.

It was the sound of white birds. Hundreds of little creatures that flew and formed a funnel shape atop the villagers. Bigger and bigger it grew, and more and more there was. Now with thousands in their flock, they formed a tornado that towered ten metres tall. Before long, several soldiers took this as their prompt, approached, and levelled firearms that glowed with an orange-red.

“Fire.”

Red-hot flames spewed from their weapons. It lashed out in a cone and set the tornado ablaze, which looked now like a spiral of flaming hot death. Screams emerged soon after. The cries of a dozen villagers, embroiled in the height of pain. If hell had a choir, then surely it’d sound like this.

In the meantime, I listened with breathless anticipation. My heart throbbed to the point of pain and felt as if it were about to leap from my chest. Ah, what a wonderful sight! Jeanne d’Arc wished she got a send-off as beautiful as this! Should every burning be as majestic as the one before me, then it stands to reason that it would still continue to the modern era!

Over the course of the next five seconds, the whirl of fire died down. Where there had been a dozen villagers, now was ten.

“High Talon…” a subordinate mumbled, ending the silence.

“A successful liberation,” he replied in a firm tone. “Eleven more to go.”

A villager stepped forth as if on cue with his words. Their body was charcoal black and, where once had been contours and outlines, was now the indistinct shape of two mounds fused together, connected by loose strands of tissue.

My eyes focused on that thin filament of flesh. In the cover of night, I could make out little hands that formed, struggled, then limped. Realising this, I began to smile, feeling an almost euphoric joy at the sight.

“I-it’s over,” the villager uttered.

“Yes. No longer will your soul be bound by such a disgraceful form.”

Aanlaith extended his hand. The villager stood still, their expression all but unreadable. Piece by piece, their body began to break down and, by the count of two, became little more than a pile of clumps.

“That’d be ten,” Aanlaith mumbled, his voice choked with a tinge of relief.

There followed a long pause. A moment composed of the unnatural stillness of their bodies and the heavy aura of silence. Then—a fall. The one with a mohawk of feathers dropped to the ground, their breaths coming out in wheezes. It seemed he was tired. No doubt, having strained himself to cast that little tornado of his.

“Skypex!” His superior rushed forth at once. “Get him medical attention!” With an authoritative voice, Aanlaith called the soldiers to retrieve the downed mage.

“...Apologies High Talon. I wanted to see the mission through.”

“And you will do that without overexerting yourself. Short-term advancement for the price of one’s health is never worth it, Skypex.”

As he said that, one of his soldiers came and saluted on standby.

“High Talon.”

“Permission granted.”

“It has occurred to me and a few others that the bodies took longer to disintegrate this time.”

“How long?”

“Four seconds more.”

“You mean to say they’re getting tougher, then.”

“Yes.”

Rising to his curved, claw feet, Aanlaith spoke under his breath, and the soldiers departed at once. They seemed to have settled into some impromptu break of sorts. Back against walls, equipment set on the ground, and beaks on the cusp of speech.

I was a bit saddened by the sudden cessation of ritualistic burning but soon came to terms with it. There was value elsewhere, after all. Listening to them speak of their families, their mission and their innocuous everyday banter had its worth. Yes. Pleasure was pleasure. No matter which form it came in, one cannot be called a hedonist if they do not indulge in all forms of it.

“Talon?”

When thirty minutes passed, there came a slight commotion among the birdfolk. It started with a few turned heads, some random mumblings, and finally… action. Something among the villagers had drawn their attention. Something that, from what I could tell, was the indistinct shuffle of movement.

One soldier rose at this commotion and took it upon himself to check it out. He approached with a weapon drawn. When the soldier took five steps, he came to a halt and levied his flamethrower at the villager before him, still bound and all.

This proved the correct decision. At once, the villager tore themself from their bindings and launched forward. Taut with tension, the soldier shot a spew of flames and took a few quick steps back.

Seeing this, the rest of his soldiers followed. It was a coordinated effort. Line after line of readied infantry, weapons trained, and fingers on triggers. Staggering forward, the villager walked face-first into a burst of flames, sustaining their red-hot heat for a dozen seconds. Then, it stopped. As if on command, the monster froze statue-still, looked downwards, and then fell to the ground.

“Someone call for the High Talon!”

On command, one soldier left the scene, fleeing out of view. The others held their position, still with their weapons pointed.

"I..."

A strange voice poured from the villager. It had a certain clarity to it. Free from the crooked inflexions of what I’d heard before.

"I..." the villager let out. "I offered you all a chance... Five nights prior, I told you lot to leave and never return. And yet, here you come, scurrying back like the degenerates you are. Intruding on my jurisdiction—my right to expression!"

I felt vibrations—faint pulsations in the ground like a heart beating. Then, I felt it everywhere. It was in the air, in the buildings, and even me, caving inward like a cave on the verge of collapsing.

"Talon Eastah." Aanlaith came from his place of hiding. "Report on the situation!"

"A villager broke free from their bindings and started to yell things, sir!"

His superior whistled. All the soldiers retreated to his position and re-adjusted their formation. In front, the villagers broke free from their binds and came together, joining into one large, cancerous mass. They were like wet clay and, by the decree of some unknown force, moulded into a long, slender figure. At their centre was a mouth, a gaping hole, and at their sides, dozens of conjoined arms and legs.

"Awari'Kaz!" the High Talon yelled in an authoritative tone. "All we ask is that you release these souls from their suffering! Do that, and my men shall depart at once!"

There was no reply. The monster rushed forth at once; arm extended to crush.