Frank had broken out in a sweat as the poison ran through his veins. His insides burned while his skin turned cold and clammy. That mint-smelling concoction Bringle had poured on the wound helped but whatever the demon had in its saliva was scorching its way through his body. His right wrist had stopped bleeding, but the hand still hung limp. Flexing his fingers caused pain to stab up his arm, so he simply held that arm bent close to his side and hoped he wouldn’t need it.

In the center of the cavern sat a pool of black, shiny liquid. After tending to the injured and making sure all the dead were dead, Bringle approached it cautiously. He dipped a crystal vial in the viscous substance and drew out a small portion of it. Only two lanterns, their flames gone thin, lit the interior. Bringle held up the vial to the light, examining the blackness within.

“What is it?” asked Frank.

“I’m not sure,” Bringle replied, and then sniffed at it with his long, hooked nose. “Smells like rendered pig.”

“Maybe it’s a delicious bacon demon,” Frank said, flashing a smile.

The look Bringle gave him was cool and disdainful. “I think not.” He moved to the two bound cultists, his black and silver cane snapping on the ground as he walked before them. They were both in kneeling positions, their hands bound behind their back.

“Now gentlemen,” he said. “I find you guilty of heresy, malignant use of the dark arts, conspiracy against the well-being of the city, and treason against the Prince and Realm. Any of these is worthy of a hangman’s noose. I may, however, be lenient in my punishment if you prove cooperative.”

He used the tip of his gain to raise one man’s head and force him to look Bringle in the eye. “I want to know what was going on here and for how long. I will find out one way or another, but you can save me time and you pain, by telling me now.”

The two looked at one another.

“We are pathfinders,” said one. “The heralds approach Culvert and we make way for them.” He swallowed hard, eye flicking from side to side. Like the man upstairs, his eyes were wild and Frank could tell he believes everything he said wholeheartedly.

“Pathfinders?” Master Bringle repeated. “You are hired thugs. I sense no magic between you. A sorcerer summoned those demons you had changed and ordered you to guard this warehouse. Why?”

“We are the pathfinders! The six heralds approach Culvert and we shall open the way for them! Soon the city will burn, and we will be rewarded by the Red God.” Saliva dribbled from the man’s lips as he shouted, and he began to rock back and forth.

Bringle simply shook his head; the witch-hunter almost seemed sad. “What of the ‘eternal bride?’”

“Yes,” the man said with a crazed grin. “The Eternal Bride comes! The last and greatest of the heralds, who will open the gate for the Red God himself. All shall tremble in her wake!”

Frank watched the man in bewilderment. How the hell had anyone mistaken his daughter for some evil demon bride? They’d picked up the necklace from the woman who’d left the apartment; she could be the eternal bride and this was some madman’s misunderstanding.

“What are the other heralds?” Bringle asked, his tone coaxing as he went along with the man’s madness. “What has your Red God prepared and how is this pool connected to it?”

“It’s too late,” the cultist snapped. “Are you blind, man? It’s too late. We’ve already won.”

“Stop talking, Enigo,” the second cultist said, abruptly. “You’ve said enough already.”

Enigo shook his head. “I’m not afraid. Do you hear me witch-hunters? I have already tasted the paradise beyond. You may have come before we expected you, but this has been years in the making. You are too late!”

Mumford gave a swift, booted kick to man’s kidney area. The cultist yelped and twisted, falling to his side.

“I say we bash their heads in and leave,” the young man said. “We have the book and neither of these two are warlocks.”

“Please Alexander, we’re not barbarians. We take them to the magistrate for a proper trial and execution. With the Blood Moon on the horizon, it will do the people’s spirit good to see heretics hang.” Master Bringle waved to one of the prisoners. “Grab them and we’ll depart.”

Frank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wait a moment, that’s it? Are we forgetting the big pool of black, ominous bacon?”

“What would you have me do?” asked Bringle. “It’s obvious unnatural but other than that, I have no idea what it is. I’m hesitant to even touch the substance. The condition of the warehouse suggests they’ve been here for some time, so I believe him when he says it’s part of a larger plan. As Mumford has said, the grimoire is more valuable than underlings.”

Frank clenched his good hand. There was little arguing with that logic, but a bunch of people had died for… what? Some crazy rambling and a book? After all this, he’d hoped for more.

“We can’t just leave it here…” Frank said, ineffectually.

“Nor can we put it in our pocket and take it. The witch-hunters hunt those who deal in the dark arts, as well as the occasional monster. While I have taught myself some of the esoteric arts, true masters of the arcane are rare. My gut tells me that such a master will be needed to deal with this… pool. And I always trust my gut when it comes to danger,” Bringle concluded.

The man had a point. These witch-hunters were in a sorry state, and he couldn’t blame Bringle for knowing his limits. Frank was sure that if he could have dragged along a ‘master of the arcane arts’ the witch-hunter would have done so. Instead, he’d rounded up a posse.

With a sigh, Frank grabbed the saner of the two cultists under the arm and hauled him up. Lucky grabbed Enigo.

“Do you hear it?” the madman asked, “Do you hear the whispers gathering?”

“I hear an idiot babbling worse than my three-year-old,” snapped Lucky as he shoved him towards the exit. The cultist stumbled and then rocked backwards, slamming into Lucky with his shoulder. Frank tightened his grip on the man he led, pushing him down to a kneeling position in case he got any ideas.

The other prisoners rushed the cultist, grabbing at him. There was the sound of ripping cloth and the man sprung free, shirtless and sprinted toward the black pool. Too late, Frank reacted, tossing himself bodily as he tried to tackle the man. He knew without doubt that he did not want him anywhere near he pool.

Frank wasn’t fast enough. He missed as the man sped by, crashing onto the ground and causing a new surge of pain to run up his arm.

“I’m coming master!” screamed the cultist as he jumped, “Take this offer--!” He splashed into the oily substance, his voice cut off as plunged under the surface, spraying the black liquid through the air. Soon he rose again, body writhing and coated in inky oil. Steam rose from his form and Frank heard the sound of horrid laughter fill the air.

The liquid itself surged forward, coiling in thick loops around the cultist. His body swelled obscenely as the poured into him, merging with his flesh.

Frank felt hands on his shoulder. “Get up, man,” said Mumford, “We need to get out of here.”

What staggered from the pool bore little resemblance to the man who’d entered it – or any human, for that matter. It appeared to be made of clotted black oil and fluid continuously leaked from it. It was easily ten feet in height, but massively deformed and so lopsided one arm was nothing more than a large club. It crashed into one of the lanterns and fire raced over its skin.

The witch-hunters and prisoners bolted for the exit. Behind them lumbered a shrieking, fiery giant.