Sir Emeric, Shlomo, and Fulk were still a day's ride from their destination when the storm rolled in faster than a cavalry charge, dumping rain on them as if it were falling out of buckets. Flashes lit up the sky, and thunder rumbled, warning them that the storm would only grow more furious with time.

"We need to find shelter!" Sir Emeric shouted over the tempest.

"You think?" Shlomo yelled back.

"Where?" Fulk shouted back. "There's not a town for miles!"

Sir Emeric looked up, over the nearby treetops, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand. After scanning the horizon, he spotted smoke rising in a single column. "There! I think that's coming from someone's chimney!"

"Or a campfire," Fulk bellowed back. "Could be headless men for all we know."

"Then we slay them and take their camp," said Sir Emeric, leading his horse to trot into the woods.

Shlomo shrugged and followed Sir Emeric. Fulk too, rather than remain in the storm by himself, followed after the Templar.

The canopy of trees hid them from some of the rain at first, but they soon found that waterfalls cascaded down from the branches, drenching them in ice-cold water when they least expected it. The shock from the sudden splash of water over Sir Emeric's head caused the muscles in his chest to tense painfully. He shivered in his armor, wishing that the metal were better at keeping him warm. He'd left in such a hurry that he'd forgotten to pack a cloak.

The forest trails beneath their horse's hooves ran with streams of muddy water, carrying away driftwood. The three of them had to be mindful of where they steered their horses to be sure the poor animals wouldn't sink into the mud, or step into water far deeper than it appeared.

Lightning struck a tree nearby, and all three men had just enough time to raise their hands to cover their ears before the resounding boom rattled their bones.

Sir Emeric kept his eyes on the trees ahead, looking for the first signs of whatever shelter the smoke was rising from.

Finally, he spotted a cabin made from logs hastily nailed together. The windows had wooden slats closed over them, but he could see hints of light from within. When he and the others drew near, they saw smoke rising from the chimney. "Someone's home."

"You think they'll take us in?" asked Shlomo.

"Only one way to find out," said Sir Emeric.

The trio drew near the cabin and dismounted from their horses, tying the reins to the nearest branches. Sir Emeric hated the idea of leaving his horse out in such a downpour, but it seemed he had no choice under the circumstances.

Sir Emeric approached the front door first, his long, red hair sticking to the sides of his face in soaking strands. He was sure he was quite a pathetic sight, drenched as he was. Maybe this would get some sympathy from whomever lived in this cabin.

Immediately after he knocked on the door, Sir Emeric noticed that the door was far bigger than was normal for a peasant's house. The questions in his mind about just how big the person who lived here was were answered immediately when the host answered the door.

The host was taller than any man Sir Emeric had yet met, and his shoulders were broader than those of the strongest ox. He wore a linen tunic and sack-cloth pants. His arms were strong from constant work.

But most interesting of all was his face. Or, rather his head, which was that of a wolfhound, his shaggy fur obscuring his eyes. The host's mouth hung open and his tongue lay out as he panted.

"What in the Hell..." Fulk muttered.

Sir Emeric forced a smile, hoping that the mere fact that this dog-headed man lived on his own meant he was not as barbaric as his kin. "Good sirrah," Sir Emeric said gesturing for Shlomo and Fulk to approach. Shlomo obeyed and Sir Emeric wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We are poor travelers who found ourselves ambushed by this terrible storm. We would like to share your hearth, if you would be so kind."

"Come in!" said the dog-headed man. "Shake yourselves off."

Fulk shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a dream. "Did that thing just speak?"

"Yes, he did," said Sir Emeric with a grin. "And quite eloquently, I must say." Sir Emeric ushered Shlomo inside and beckoned for Fulk to do the same. Fulk glanced out at his surroundings, clearly pondering whether or not he wanted any part of this strange encounter, but finally entered the dog-headed man's house.

The home was a humble one, with a table pushed up against one wall, a stool at that table, a bed of straw in the corner, and a fire in the fireplace. Sitting just in front of the hearth was a pot full of foul-smelling stew, which bubbled through a yellow cream. Sir Emeric fought to suppress a gag.

"I'm Caleb," said the dog-headed man.

Shlomo chuckled. "That's a fitting name. I'm Shlomo.

"Sir Emeric."

Fulk remained silent.

Shlomo patted Fulk on the shoulder. "This is Dungpie. He's mute."

"Piss off!" Fulk grunted, shoving Shlomo's hand away.

Sir Emeric stretched out his arms. "We'll catch our death if we stay in these wet clothes. Mind if we undress?"

Caleb reached into a sack beside the fireplace and produced a soup bone. "Doesn't bother me." He proceeded to start gnawing on the bone.

Fulk muttered curses under his breath.

Sir Emeric slipped out of his armor, exposing his heavily-scarred torso and shaking out his wet hair. "I knew a family of dog-folk in Bethlehem," he said. "What did the scholars call it again? Cyno... cynocephaly, that's it. Were you born with cynocephaly, or did you get cursed this way?"

"Born with it," said Caleb.

Shlomo slipped off his mask and coat, his clothes underneath having remained dry, despite the downpour. Waxed leather had its perks. "And you live alone out here?"

"Ever since my Pa died, yep," said Caleb.

"You hear that, Fulk?" Shlomo said, peering up at the murderer, who still stood with his back against the door. "He lost his Pa." The Jew's lips curled in a smirk.

Caleb tilted his houndish head to one side with curiosity.

"Well, thank you for letting us in," said Sir Emeric. "We wouldn't have survived out there."