Teige stared down at a little black triangle that had fallen onto the leaves near his hand. There were dots of blood on one edge of it, and on the leaves, and running down the blunted edge of his ear, and dripping onto the curve of his horn.

He stared, frozen. The night around the little triangle, the geometric shapes of the leaves, blurred and started to darken.

The little yellow lights that had been idly drifting above the ground went up then in a livid orange swarm as the night erupted. Hawk bellowed, and brought the keg smashing down on the head of someone that was no more than a shape cut out of the darkness, while someone else went swinging at him with a bright knife--and then a foot kicked Teige hard in the side, and he went rolling over into the leaves, coming to a stop silent and wide-eyed and uncomprehending, as figures thrashed in the dark among the swarm of lights and the leaves.