“How did you get to be the head witch-hunter?” asked Frank.

“Only one stupid enough to say ‘yes,’” replied Master Bringle.

The two men walked briskly cross the cobbles stone streets, dodging angry horse-cab drivers and men pushing heavy carts. Under the misty light of day, Culvert looked benign, if a touch worn down. If switched the horse-drawn carriages for cars, the oil lanterns for street lamps, and dressed the people in jeans, it could be mistaken for an old, out of the way city in eastern Europe. Even the gargoyles that Frank had found threatening last night stopped being scary when he saw the copious amounts of white bird-droppings that covered them.

This last detail was provided by the obscene number of birds that swarmed the city. They were black, as large as house-cats, and seemed the bane of every food cart they passed.

Franks feet started to ache. The thin sandals Brother Through had given him did little to protect them against the cold and wet, or the rough ground. Master Bringle was a tall man, and as thin as a scarecrow. He sped forward, one hand jamming his felt three-cornered hat onto his head and his black coat beating in the wind he created. The man had no fear of the horse-cabs as they crowded the road; he’d nimbly dash before one, and then step aside while the driver swore at him.

“Where are we going?” asked Frank, huffing a little. He struggled to keep track of where they were in relation to the cathedral – the city was a maze – and the witch-hunter barreled on, never even glancing back to see if Frank could catch up.

“Fish up another one of my illustrious peers and then round up the volunteers for today. What, did you think we were going to take on a cult with two men? Actually, don’t answer that. You’re big enough that you don’t need to be smart.”

“Volunteers?”

“Conscripted for the good of the city and the realm!”

So much for his hope that he’d be joining a group of crack professionals. Frank was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of accepting Master Bringle’s offer when they entered a building with red paper lanterns hung above the doorway. Thick, citrus scented smoke filled the dark interior. Men and women laid sprawled on pillows in the corner, their faces slack, heads lolling, and pupils so dilated you couldn’t tell the color of their eyes.

Beside them sat tall, water-filled hookahs that they dreamily smoked from. Whatever they smoked, it was obviously potent.

At the center of this establishment sat a fat man. No, not a fat man, a massive man. The amount of flesh on him made Frank’s eyes widen for there was no way the man could fit through any of the doors. Standing up might even be beyond him. His vast swaths of fat were wrapped in layers of embroidered silk, and each sausage-link finger sported one or more heavy rings. A bevy of attractive girls attended him, wearing so little Frank wasn’t sure why they bothered to dress.

“Mumford,” Master Bringle said.

“Toward the back!” The large man waved his hand towards the eastern corner in irritation.

Off Bringle shot again, Frank trailing behind him in confusion. They passed through another doorway and down a cramped hallway where the smoke was so thick Frank’s eyes watered. Master Bringle used his cane to draw aside beaded curtains and peer inside. Frank caught a glimpse of rhythmically moving flesh and then looked away.

At the sixth beaded curtain, Master Bringle stepped inside the small room. Within a small fellow was sprawled naked, his curly head resting on the lap of a voluptuous older woman. This must be Mumford. He looked young – mid-twenties at the oldest – and was in good shape save for being pasty enough to glow.

Bringle rapped the young man sharply on the thigh with his cane, prompting a grunt and flail.

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“Waasssit?” the man spit out, mouth full of cotton. In reply, Bringle struck him again.

“I didn’t do it!” he shouted, arms flailing now as his brain tried to crawl from its drug-induced stupor.

“Pick him up,” ordered Master Bringle to Frank. Frank had simply been standing, arms crossed, watching the spectacle. “Hurry now.”

Frank shrugged, got his hands under the too sweaty armpits, and hauled the man to his feet. He rocked, unsteady. Bringle snatched up the pile of clothing on the floor, a pair of boots, a belt pouch, and a sheathed sword. Frank looked at the last one with interest. Guards carried pole-arms, cab drivers horse whips, and he’d seen dozens of people on the streets with wooden cudgels, but only the lady knight from last night had sported a sword.

Master Bringle exited. It was left to Frank to drag along the uncoordinated human sack of potatoes. “Nooo…” the young man groaned as he was pulled out of the establishment and back into the street.

Frank understood why when Bringle stopped beside a large watering trough for horses.

“Nooooo…” Mumford protested, still unable to stand or keep his head up. “I’m up.”

Frank tossed him in and stepped back as water ran over the sides. The young man thrashed, splashing water everywhere. Eventually, Frank grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him up a bit so he wouldn’t drown himself.

Mumford spit out water and shook his head like a wet dog, blinking rapidly. He looked far more alert.

“Cock-sucking son-of-a-whore,” Mumford said to Bringle. Then he noticed Frank for the first time. “Sons-of-whores!”

Frank let him go and rinsed the sweat from his hands as the young man struggled to sit upright on his own. Eventually, he scrambled out of the trough, pale skin shivering in the cold air.

“Give me my howlin clothes, Craw,” he sputtered to Bringle. He stuffed himself into the crumpled clothes – breaches, shirt, vest, and overcoat – and then put on his boots, belt, and sword. Throughout this, he maintained a string of curses. Most were aimed at Bringle, but a few lobbed at Frank when he remembered the big man was there.

Lastly, he squeezed water from his hair and tied the rattail back with a black ribbon.

“Now, what’s this? What’s this, now?” he asked at the end.

“Got a job,” Master Bringle explained. “We pick up a few volunteers and break into a cult safehouse.”

“That’s it? Wake me up at dawn for that?” Mumford said, incredulously.

“Dawn was a couple of hours ago,” Frank pointed out.

“Think you’re clever, aye?!” Now awake, the man seemed a bundle of energy. Mumfort was starting to remind Frank of one of those small, yappie dogs his mother loved.

“Less talking, more moving.” Master Bringle spun on his feet and set off in another direction. The two trailed after him. Mumford sometimes shooting Frank looks that he ignored in favor of not falling behind.

This time Bringle brought them northward and to a large, rough building with dozens of tiny, interspaced windows.

“Tell me that’s not a jail,” said Frank.

“It’s the palace, then,” said Mumford. “We’re going to have tea and crumpets with Lady Ravenwood. Too bad I didn’t bring my dressing gown.”

Frank turned to Bringle. “How do you put up with him?”

“You’ll see.” Master Bringle offered a tight smile.

Inside, the prison guard recognized Bringle, and brought them to a holding cell with several dozen men and women chained to the floor by the ankle. The faces that looked up at Frank were tired and dirty. They’d likely been sitting in the cramped cell all night. Bringle walked through, inspecting the prisoners like one would fish at a market, and jabbing his cane at those that fit his tastes. These the goaler unchained and brought out to the courtyard.

They were a rough, mean looking crew, a few sported tattoos or brands. They stood blinking in the sunlight.

“Hey Master,” said one, “Got a bite to eat? Could go for a pie right now.”

“Food after the work is done. Good work and I might throw some coin your way. Most of you know Mumford already, this is Frank,” Bringle indicated him with a nod of his head. “Red cultists grabbed him and his family, and he agreed to join us. Frank, these fine, upstanding citizens have recently run afoul of the law – some debt and probably theft. In exchange for a reduced sentence, they’ve kindly agreed to serve the community!”

There was unenthusiastic laugher and grunts from the prisoners.

Two of the guards returned with a stack of wooden cudgels and distributed them. Frank took one, wondering what in the hell he’d gotten himself into.

“What if we run into something more serious than a bunch of men in bathrobes?” asked Frank.

“Not to worry. Vampires sleep during the day, and any undead or demons these cultists might have summoned are likely no more than animalistic brutes.”

This failed to reassure Frank in the slightest. He wondered if there was some way for him to back out of this now. Probably not. He looked to be the biggest man here, though Bringle was a few inches taller. No wonder the witch-hunter had been eager to drag him along.

“No more questions, then?” said Bringle, “Excellent. I’m sure fortune favors us today. Come along, men. And try to keep a few alive this time.”

With that he shot off again. Frank sighed as he lopped after him with the group.