The group of armed men made their way to the foul-smelling docks. A whaling ship was coming it; it was a squat metal vessel painted dark blue with white trim, and had two tall stacks that continuously belched black smoke. In heavy netting above the helm lay eight whales, each about thirty to thirty-five feet long, their dark blood dripping through the nets onto the deck.

Frank recalled the abundance of oil lanterns he’d seen the other night. He had unconsciously assumed that oil was pulled from the earth as it was back home, but of course that would not be the case. Frank wondered how many whales it took to light Culvert for a single night.

So fascinated was he by the sight, that he almost missed Master Bringle and the group stopping. They were by rows of warehouses. The men gripped their heavy cudgels and Mumford drew his word with a hiss; they prickled as one, like a pack of wolves catching the scent of prey.

A man who’d been introduced as ‘Lucky’ lumbered forward to the door of one of the warehouses. He possessed only seven fingers, and some beast had chewed part of his face, leaving him without a nose. Once, twice he rapped against the wood with his cudgel and then lowered his head as though listening.

A small slot at eye level slide open and a man’s voice called from the other side, “What’s th—"

Lucky gave the door a solid kick, breaking it open and hitting the other man. There was a shout of confusion and he sprang forward. The rest of the group rushed after him. Lucky pounded away at the head of a man crouched down, his hands up trying to ward off the blows. Three other men turned to look at the group in surprise.

The brawl that followed was short, rough, and bloody. Frank punched one man in the face. As he fell, a tooth went scattering across the floor. There was a cut on his knuckle and it smarted; he hissed between his teeth.

“Are we sure these are cult members?” Frank asked. One of the men had curled up in a fetal position while two prisoners kicked and stomped him.

Mumford gave an exaggerated shrug. The held his heavy broadsword in one hand, still unused. “Master Bringle is right more often than not.”

He set off, exploring the warehouse, and Frank followed. He was more than happy to let the better armed man go first. Tall stacks of crates formed a maze around them. Frank noticed the wood was dried and dusty, as though they’d been sitting unused for some time.

There was a shout to their left. A man leapt from the shadows, jagged dagger held high as he rushed forward. Mumford neatly sliced his belly while stepping to the side. The man stumbled forward a few more steps before falling to his knees, loops of pale intestine tumbling onto the dirt floor.

“Yes,” noted Mumford, as he pulled out a crumpled silk handkerchief to wipe clean his blade “probably cult members.”

They continued searching until they came upon a red door set flat in the wall. If they others hadn’t treated it as real, Frank would have thought it was painted on.

Master Bringle scratched at his black and grey stubble as he examined the runes drawn along the corners. “Crawl space. Big one too. Want to unlock this for us?”

This question he posed to one of the men they’d dragged from the front of the warehouse. They’d beaten him hard enough that he had trouble standing. Blood covered his nose and face, and splattered on his shirt.

He spit on Bringle’s jacket in response. “Your pathetic whore-gods won’t save you. Turn back now – run to Barsom or the capital – hide. Culvert will be ours soon.”

“I cannot begin to tell you,” murmured Bringle, “how many times I have heard that. Yet the city still stands under the grace of the angels and our Prince. Now do yourself a favor and say whatever password or perform whatever ritual to disarm the trap on this crawl space.”

“Fuck your mother!”

That earned him a slap from Lucky, causing the blood to trickle from his lip anew. Bringle faces the door and raised his silver headed cane. He tapped an intricate pattern on the wall while chanting in a tongue unknown to Frank.

The door slid open with the sound of stone scraping against stone. Fetid air rushed out, carry the scent of mildew and a rotten sweetness.

“Last chance,” offered Bringle.

The man remained quiet and sullen, glaring at Bringle despite one eye being almost swollen shut.

“Fair enough. Frank, toss him in there.” Bringle waved in the direction of the hole in the wall.

Frank started. He had been watching with growing unease, and hadn’t expected to be the one to do… well, whatever needed to be done. He assumed it was horrible. The prisoners and the witch-hunters watched him expectantly. Frank understood: testing the new guy, seeing if he could handle the work.

These weren’t trained professionals like soldiers or police officers back home. They were common thugs; people brave or desperate enough to risk their lives fighting madmen and monsters. Maybe Lady Ravenwood and her Order of knights were better armed and disciplined, but they weren’t going to bother busting up a cult in the middle of the docks.

Frank grabbed the back of the cultist’s shirt and pushed him forward. “You sure you want to do this, mate?” he asked, “We’ll figure out how to get in one way or another. Make it easy on yourself and unlock whatever trap you fellows made.”

As he stumbled toward the door, the man’s eyes were wide enough that Frank could see the whites. He trembled, but softly enough that only Frank and he knew it. This was a man walking towards his death and trying his best to hide his fear.

“W-whore-gods! The time is at hand. The Red God is coming; I will sit by his side while those who oppose him will know nothing but torment.”

Frank shoved him forward. As he fell through the opening, dark tendrils shot out from all around and pierce him in a hundred different places. He shrieked then, as blood streamed from his wounds, the tentacles raised him up until he shook violently a foot above the ground.

This was more than Frank could stomach. He walked away, covering his ears to the screams of the dying man. What the hell was he walking into? And these were the people who wanted his daughter?

His stomach rolled at the image burned into his mind, but he kept his breakfast down.

“Ready boys?” Bringle called.

“Fuck you!” answered the one female prisoner. The rest responded with various unenthusiastic grunts.

Frank turned to look at the impaled and hanging form of the cultist. He was still now but fluid continue to spill from his body onto the floor.

“That’s it?” he asked, “the trap only works once?”

“Never underestimate the power of fear,” Bringle replied. He looked not a bit afraid or worried as he wiped off the man’s spit with a cloth. “Also, the trap works as an alarm. They’ll be ready for us down there.”