Come Endless Darkness

Chapter 4

"We are now moored In Safetons deep harbor, pious brother."

The bent old cleric looked up with weak, rheumy eyes from the prayerbook he was reading. "Thank you, shipmaster, but please call me simply Brother Donnur. 'Pious' is too worthy an honorific for a mendicant pilgrim," the ancient fellow added gravely.

"Of course," the captain of the little trading vessel said quickly. Then he turned and hurried above. Despite the priest's gentle demeanor and kindly ways, there was something about him that Shipmaster Rench found disquieting. "Ah, balls." the sailor muttered to himself. "Likely nothin' more than the fact I'm a lost and wicked heathen, it is." Nonetheless, Rench would be glad to see the back of the old cleric's dirty brown robe as the man went down the gangplank of his ship.

Safeton, northernmost of the ports that dotted the long Wild Coast, was a thriving town of some five thousand souls that Shipmaster Rench and his vessel, the Sea Turtle, called upon regularly. When the ship was tied fast to the long mole in Safeton Harbor, the town officials only barely checked papers, manifest, and passengers. Instead they greeted the captain as a long-lost comrade, took the usual bribe, and were soon off to the nearest tavern to share a few bumpers of ale with Rench and his officers.

Nobody even noticed Brother Donnur's departure from the ship, Rench included. The bent priest hobbled away and was lost in the throng that teemed around the cargoes and market stalls of the waterfront district. When he was safely away, where none of the crew of the Sea Turtle could see him, the man exchanged his brown robes for a dark overcoat hanging outside someone's door, straightened his spine, and strode on, looking nothing at all like the withered cleric that had been on the ship.

The very day that Sea Turtle raised anchor and headed south for other ports of call, a patched-up ship passed her, heading for its own place along the long quay. That vessel was none other than Silver Seeker, stopping at Safeton to take on water and provisions before sailing northward. She was bound for passage up the Selintan River to Greyhawk, and Barrel, her new captain, wanted to find and hire a pilot to make certain that the journey didn't bring craft and crew to grief. Deep-water sailing was something the burly man knew well, but he was veteran enough to realize also that navigating upriver was another matter altogether.

"Ahoy, mates! I expect we're goin' to be here no more than three days — two, if I find the man I'm lookin' for sooner," Barrel announced after the ship was moored. "Debauch yerselves to your black hearts' content, boys, but be back aboard before sunup Star-day — else I'll sail without ye!"

With Dohojar at his side, the burly captain began a careful canvassing of the dives along the town's waterfront horseshoe, seeking the services of a freshwater pilot. A drink here, a copper coin there, and soon enough Barrel had the names of a half-dozen navigators who did their sailing up and down the Selintan. That was no surprise, for the City of Grey-hawk was a thriving center of commerce. By then, however, both the Changa and Barrel were sufficiently drunk to know it was time to retire back aboard their ship.

"C'mon, my fine brown friend," Barrel said with a happy smile as he clapped his arm around the little Changa's narrow shoulders and steered him toward the door of the saloon. "We'll sleep now, an' tomorrow find our navigator."

"Oh, yes, Barrel, yes," Dohojar agreed, likewise grinning in happy inebriation. "Gord Zehaab himself would understand the correctness of such wisdom." The two lurched out the exit and were soon snoring in their cabins in Silver Seeker.

After Gord's sudden departure, the storm had veered enough to enable them to survive the tempest. After repairs and more Jury-rigging, they had headed for Telmstrand on the east portion of Ulek's coast for proper refitting. Before sailing on, the two had held a moot with the rest of the crew to decide what course they should chart. When Dohojar had suggested that the best place to find Gord was the city of Greyhawk, the issue was settled. Now, after sailing around the Pomarj peninsula and along the Wild Coast up Woolly Bay, they were almost there.

Next evening, Barrel discovered that having the names of navigators was one thing and finding the men attached to them was quite another. He had all but run out of possibilities when he found someone who said he could help. "This here's the busy time, matey," a squint-eyed barkeep explained. "Most o' the men ye're lookin' fer've hauled anchor already, but fer the right fee I can find ye a likely pilot." With that, he held out his hand and waited.

Barrel made a ferocious face — an easy enough thing to do with a visage as homely and scarred as his — but the barkeep did not flinch. So the captain reached into his purse and began counting out the thick copper discs that the fellow was waiting for. At ten the squint-eyed man leered and closed his hand. "That'll do — I ain't no greedy-gut!" he said. Til have one o' me boys fetch 'im, an' he'll be here inside an hour. Have a drink on th' house whilst ver awaitln'." Dohojar looked uncertain, but his comrade shrugged and ordered each of them small beer.

Just about an hour later, though, true to his word, the squint-eyed proprietor nodded toward the door. "There, sirs! Didn't I tell ye? There's yer navigatin' man now!"

The man he indicated was a very tall, skinny one standing straight as a mast just inside the door. Barrel's first impression was not a good one — the man simply didn't look like a sailor. "You better have steered me true, gleed-eye, else I'll be fixin' it so's you sing soprano hereafter." the captain growled as he eyed the supposed pilot.

"Arrr." the barkeep rumbled with a smirking grin. "Yer mos' welcome ta try anything ye like, cap'n. I be no easy mark. Yet that 'un is what I tol' ye he was, by Skunarl Ifn he ain't. I'll do the cuttin' o' me barnacles m'self!"

Mollified. Barrel motioned to Dohojar, and the two elbowed their way over to where the tall man stood waiting. The burly seaman stood back as Dohojar stepped up and asked. "Are you the pilot-man I have asked for?"

The fellow looked down at the little Changa without moving his head. Then he looked up and straight at Barrel. "I don't know your game," he said, addressing the burly sailor, "but I don't think I like it."

As the thin man started to leave. Barrel caught htm politely by his coat sleeve. "Avast, navigator! A man can't be too careful now, can he? Especially in these waters!"

That's right." the tall fellow said in clipped fash-Ion. "Take me, for instance. I'm having nothing to do with you."

"Would a golden orb change your mind?"

The tall, thin body suddenly froze in its progress out of the tavern. Then the man turned, expressionless, looking hard at Barrel. "No," he said finally, his face immobile and his lips barely moving. "My life is worth more than that."

Dohojar nudged his comrade, and the burly sailor grudgingly said. "All right then, mate, make it a pair of orbs… if you can navigate my ship up the Sellntan safely to Greyhawk."

The tall pilot didn't reply. Instead he went over to an empty table nearby, sat down, and looked at Dohojar and Barrel. The two Joined him. Dohojar signaling to the barkeep for service. "I may take that offer, captain," he said as a bumper of wine was placed on the stained board before him.

"Barrel. Cap'n Barrel."

"But I'll see the color of your coins first."

The Changa held the purse, and at his friends nod slipped two gold coins out and displayed them so that only the three of them sitting at the table could see their gleaming yellow. "A fortune for such work, I think." Dohojar commented.

"Shows how little you know about navigation upriver," the tall, hard-faced pilot said as he reached over casually and took the coins. He hefted them, tested one with his teeth, and then smiled a smile as thin as himself. "Call me Graves. Riot Graves. Your ship is the Silver Seeker?"

"Aye," Barrel admitted with surprise. He didn't remember saying his ship's name to the barkeep, so how could this man have known? Well, he supposed, word about such things does have a way of getting around the docks…. "And I'll take back those orbs 'til you be coming aboard her!" he added.

Stone-faced, the thin man placed the pair of gold coins back into the Changa's hand. "Naturally. One I'll take upon boarding, one when I've seen you safely docked along Greyhawk's quay. We sail with the morning tide, Captain Barrel. The Selintan is low this time of year, and likely to get lower before the autumn rains start. Your ship has a deep keel, and I don't guarantee anything if you want to tarry here."

"That you needn't fear, pilot," the burly seaman growled. "Be aboard afore sunup, and we'll set sail with the morning wind." Graves stood up and stalked off, still stiff and straight as a spar, not saying another word. "He's an odd sodder," Barrel remarked to the Changa as the lanky form disappeared into the darkness outside.

"Very much so. I am thinking," Dohojar concurred without his usual toothy smile. "Perhaps we should be seeking another one to navigate, Barrel Captain."

"Bloody small chance of that." Barrel said, although he more or less agreed with Dohojar. The man made him uneasy, too, but there was nothing to be done for it. "A month earlier and we'd have had our pick o' pilots for such work," he explained, "and if we could stay in port here for another month until rainy season, we'd have a shot at another school of the blasters looking for a berth. But right now, mate, we've no choice. It's the tall beggar or no pilot at all."

There was little wind, so the journey to the mouth of the Selintan took a full two days and nights to accomplish. The sea's color changed where the rush of fresh water spilled from the broad mouth of the river. When the sun rose on the third day, the tall pilot called Graves took command of Silver Seeker, for the next two hundred fifty miles of the journey would be along the turns and twists of the river. Sweeps more than sails would be required to get the vessel upstream. The crewmen grumbled about this but were ready enough for the work, because they were anxious to drop anchor at Greyhawk and regain their leader, Gord. Their enthusiasm was dampened by the pilot's presence; none of the men liked the stiff navigator. At the same time, this lent a measure of additional effort to their task; these seamen also wanted to finish the long, cramped trek up the Selintan in order to get the pilot off their ship.

If Graves was aware of the dislike he engendered in the ship's master, officers, and crew, he ignored it. The tall, narrow form was seemingly fixed to the poopdeck of Silver Seeker as permanently as her mizzenmast. The helmsman at the tiller had to look smart and obey instantly whenever the pilot spoke. Graves was an unrelenting taskmaster and would brook not the slightest infraction, while slowness or sloth was punished by a sharp word and his unwavering stare. Oddly, the sailors feared his gaze, so Graves got his obedience.

Sand bars and snags were thus avoided, for the navigator seemed to know the Selintan as if it had been personally dug by him. Both moons were near full, so after the first night the ship sailed on after sunset instead of anchoring. The seamen manning the sweeps were allowed to sleep in shifts, but the pilot seemed to need only a few hours rest. When Luna set. Graves retired to his tiny cabin for the short time left before dawn. Even as the sky turned red heralding the approaching sun, the gaunt navigator would appear again on deck, ready for another stint.

"He's a weather-witch," one of the mates mumbled to Barrel.

The shipmaster grinned. "If that be the case, he is a fine one indeed, lad! Not a hint of foul weather since we left Safeton, and a south wind's air to gently blow us along against the current of this narrow stream. We should always have such a one as he aboard." Unconvinced, the mate made a sign to ward off ill fortune and stumped away.

"Perhaps the man is right, Barrel Captain," Dohojar said softly, still apprehensive. "Not even you can bear to be near that fellow for long."

The burly captain turned and stared at Graves for a moment as the man stood pillarlike, his eyes fixed on the river ahead. There was a mixture of admiration and near-loathing in the captain's gaze. "He's a fine sailor, Dohojar. Even if he only navigates waters such as these, that one could be a wonder at sea, I'm thinking — only no crew would serve under him!"

"Perhaps," the Changa said softly in reply, "that is why he is a pilot instead of a captain."

"Must be," Barrel growled, and with a shrug he turned and went forward to attend to something there. With Graves piloting the ship, there was little left for Barrel to do, and he felt disinherited. He would be happy enough to have Gord as the captain of the vessel once again. The sooner the better, in fact. But he had been and would remain sailing master, with the work attendant in maintaining Silver Seeker resting squarely upon his broad shoulders. For now, whether the man was a good pilot or not, he would be comfortable again only when Graves left his ship.

"Here, you bun-blasting lubber! Just because we've left the clean salt water to sail into this muddy ditch is no reason to be slovenly!" Barrel shouted to one of the crew. The sailor blenched, for he had been caught loafing and knew what was coming. "Coil that rope and then go below for tar. You'll be handling a lot of rope soon, and when I come back I'd better see you doing so smart and lively!" At that the hand hurried below, as Barrel shouted for the bosun to bring to the deck all the Gordage in need of tarring.

Three days later, as they came near the city, luck turned against them, Graves' supposed powers notwithstanding. The morning was dull and dark. Layers of clouds obscured the sunrise, and visibility was restricted to a bowshot. "Sweeps only, captain, and put a man in the bow chains with a lead line. I'll have to know the depth of the channel if we're to move at all," the tall man commanded with, as usual, no expression in his voice.

Barrel tried to respond just as emotionlessly, but his scarred visage and his voice both showed a hint of strain, perhaps from the weather conditions, possibly from the attitude of the navigator. "You keep the ship moving," he said, "and don't worry about my role. I'll see the crew is standing by to jump to as needed."

Graves looked over his shoulder at the burly seaman, and his thin lips shifted into a faint smile. "Yes, of that I'm sure, captain." he called back over the distance between them. His voice was hollow-sounding in the still air.

Late in the forenoon the sky grew darker still, the wind rose suddenly, and scattered rain began to patter down. "Haul away on those sweeps!" Graves actually shouted from his station near the tiller. "Greyhawk's just there." the tall man cried, his long, scrawny arm sticking out ahead like a scarecrow's. "Bend your backs, and we'll make a safe anchorage before the worst of this storm comes!"

Barrel likewise shouted the order from where he stood amidships, for the wind and rain were gaining intensity by the second, and he thought the pilot's command might have been lost to the men toward the bow. But the effort was unnecessary; the navigator's voice seemed to cut through the weather as a knife, and all the sailors assigned to the long oars were already redoubling their efforts. None wanted to be caught where they were if a heavy storm broke.

Between the sheets of rain Dohojar caught glances of a dark shape ahead and to starboard. He pointed, and Barrel nodded.

"Right he was, Changa." the captain shouted to be heard over the howl of the ever-strengthening rainstorm. "That must be the walls o' the city! Not more 'n a mile to go!"

Lightning flashed to the west. It was evident that they would be lucky to make half the distance needed before they were in the thick of it. "Set the jibsails! And raise the mainsail abaft!" Barrel bellowed. "We either make anchorage or get driven aground soon." he cried to his friend before hurrying aft to see to the raising of the lateen sail there. It was going to be a tricky business.

Dohojar watched as the crew hurried to raise the sails, the oarsmen strained to haul the ship ahead with their long and heavy sweeps, and another pair of sailors struggled with the tiller in obedience to the pilot's commands. "By the gods," the Changa muttered as the vessel seemed to come alive and leap ahead. "I thought storms at sea were the only danger, but this river seems a nasty place to be now!"

The occasion for that observation was the rushing passage of a massive tree being carried downriver by the rising current. Had it struck Silver Seeker, the trunk would have stove in her planking. As it was, the tree nearly struck one of the larboard sweeps. The impact would probably have injured or killed one or more of the men working it. Nothing untoward happened, though.

The neargale made the sails as hard as iron, driving the ship up against the rush of the Selintan's waters like a spawning salmon cleaving the current. They moved a half-mile past the first portion of the walls of the city before Dohojar saw the helmsmen shove the tiller hard and the sails suddenly drop, thundering as they flapped before being caught up. He barely heard the orders being shouted, but there was no doubt about it. They had made the harbor and would soon be in Greyhawk.

"Let go the anchors!" Graves shouted. Barrel sped to see that the pilot was heard and obeyed. In a minute they were secured bow and stern. "No chance to moor at the quay," Graves said in a shout as the captain of the ship came back. "We must remain in Hook Harbor until the storm passes." He nodded then and stalked off to go below. Despite the fierce blasts of wind, the tall man moved with an unbent spine and unbowed head, as if he was immune to the fury of mere natural phenomena.

"When will this filthy weather pass?" Dohojar asked as he watched the tall form of the pilot disappear belowdecks, his gaze momentarily distracted by a brilliant flash of lightning.

Thunder boomed and rolled overhead, forcing Barrel to pause before he could answer. "This ain't like a hurricane, lad," he said with his head bent down to bring his words close to the shorter Changa's ear. "I'll wager she'll blow herself out in less than an hour."

The thunder and lightning did soon move on toward the southeast, and the rain slackened shortly thereafter.

"You are right, friend," Dohojar said, giving Barrel his best grin. "It passes. Let us get our navigator back on deck so we can dock."

"Not so fast, Dohojar," the captain told him. "I don't like the feel of the air."

Barrel peered intently westward and let his gaze sweep on around to the north. He saw blackness and flickering light. There's another one headin' toward us now, and it looks worse than the last. Go forward and see that the lads there are alert. Seeker might drag her anchor, and I don't want to see her busted up after coming all this way!"

The foul weather continued through the afternoon, and around twilight it was obvious that they would have to await the morrow to leave ship. "Slumgrub!" Barrel called to the cook. "Try to give the crew something good to eat for a change, so's they'll be satisfied to stay aboard one more night afore headin' for a brothel." The ship's cook grinned and promised his best. That made Barrel guffaw, for none of the man's dishes ever tasted good. "Issue an extra tot o' brandy too," he cried to Slumgrub, "and that'll help to kill the taste o' your swill!"

The wind died down before midnight. The heavens were now dark and quiet, with nary a flicker of lightning nor a rumble of thunder. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, though, and spattering showers fell irregularly and without warning. Standing watch was an uncomfortable job in weather like this. Thrommel, a junior lieutenant, had charge of that duty, with Hornfoot and Blinky currently on guard forward and aft. Every few minutes Thrommel would walk up one rail and check the bow, then head back along the other to see If Blinky, who was at the stern, was alert. Those two would have a four-hour stint, and then they'd be relieved.

"Damn their sleepy eyes," Thrommel muttered softly. "They'll be able to turn in a couple of hours from now, and I'll still be marching around topside in this shitty stuff," he complained, dashing rain from his brow with an irritated sweep of his hand. Just then he heard a sound from Hornfoots duty station.

The lieutenant considered calling out, then decided to move up quietly to see for himself. River pirates were common enough, and perhaps even this close to a major city some of those scum might think Silver Seeker an easy morsel.

Thrommel had his cutlass in hand even as that thought ran through his mind. He'd split many a skull with its heavy blade, and he had no fear of any attackers. One shout from him, and a dozen doughty salts would be on deck and ready to fight. Dohojar too, with his spell-binding, would be there to handle things of that nature. This was no vessel to be boarded by river rats, no indeed.

Creeping carefully in the darkness, Thrommel arrived at a place where he could see Hornfoot's sentry station. The sailor was on his feet, leaning against the foremast, his back to the lieutenant. No one else was around, and there was no sound to indicate any trouble.

Thrommel stepped up beside the seaman, his bare feet making only a whisper of sound in the night. "Everything okay, matey?" he hissed to Hornfoot. When the sailor didn't reply, Thrommel grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to turn him around. He was angry, for the fellow could only be snoozing as he stood.

Hornfoot barely budged, so the lieutenant stepped around and confronted the sailor. Then he saw that Hornfoot was held fast to the mast by a thick-hafted javelin driven through his chest. Both of the man's eyes were gouged out too, and Thrommel's surprise and shock at the sight prevented the lieutenant from shouting an alarm for a couple of seconds as he caught his breath. It was the last breath he would ever take.

Something very dark and huge seemed to emerge from the shadows alongside the lieutenant as if it had been a part of the murkiness. The thing came upright suddenly, towering above him by more than a head. Thrommel didn't have a chance to be shocked by the appearance of this fiend, because the only glimpse he got of it was just the barest of ones, out of the corner of his eye. Before he could do more than turn his head slightly in the direction of the movement, massive arms shot out and horny hands clamped themselves upon the seaman. One covered his face, while the long fingers of the other tightened around Thrommel's throat. The arms moved, the hands twisted, and a dry, snapping sound came from his neck. The man's body jerked and twitched, but that was mere nervous reaction, for it was already dead.

The netherfiend that had killed Thrommel stopped for a moment to enjoy the work it had just done, quickly devoured the man's eyes, and then turned to ward the stern of the ship. "Blinky!" it shouted in a voice that was identical to the lieutenant's. "Get forward here and help me with Hornfoot. The stupid fool's managed to drink himself dead drunk!"

The sailor heard that and came forward on the run. There might be some of the liquor left, and he didn't want to miss out. In his haste, he mistook Hornfoot's body for the waiting lieutenant and stumbled over Thrommel's corpse, but the fiend was already lunging and caught him before. Blinky could hit the deck. "Hello, my fine little human." the monstrous thing piped in an obscenely high-pitched voice. Then it proceeded to kill him slowly, not caring that Blinky's screams were rousing the rest of the men. The netherfiend had already grown bored of doing in humans one at a time. It had been fun surprising these three, but the killings had only whetted its appetite.

As most of the crewmen rushed onto the deck from below to confront whatever attacker had come, an altogether different scene was unfolding in the stem cabins of Silver Seeker. There, Graves stood in the main room, in the quarters that had been Gord's but were temporarily being used by Barrel. The pilot's arrival had roused Barrel from sleep just a few seconds before Blinky's death screams had sounded.

"Give me the sword, dungball, and I might let you live," the towering stick of a man said softly. The navigator was now garbed in robes of sorcerous fashion, instead of the plain garments of a seafarer, and his eyes burned with an inhuman, malign fire.

Without replying. Barrel sprang to his feet, his own sword drawn and ready, for he kept it always beside him on the cot. "Stuff this in your skinny bilge. Graves!" the seaman snarled under his breath, taking a vicious swing at his enemy as he spoke.

The image did not move as he cut through it, and Barrel knew right away that his blade had whistled through empty air. The tall man was not really standing where he seemed to be. He chuckled evilly at the miss. "Know me now by my full name of Gravestone — which also foretells your future, you stupid turd!" the man cackled. "Just drop your silly weapon now and show me where the sword is. Then I'll kill you swiftly and painlessly."

Again Barrel cut at the man, only this time he scythed his cutlass so that it swept in a much wider arc. Barrel was an old campaigner and knew not a little about dweomers and the like. The so-called pilot, who had now revealed himself to be some sort of spell-binder, was certainly protected by a magical displacement, a trick that bent the light and made the eyes see something in a place other than where it was. He shouted as he swung, putting all his might into the blow. Again it sliced only empty air.

At that instant Blinky began screaming from abovedecks; either that noise or Barrel's shout, or perhaps both, roused Dohojar from his slumber in the next cabin. "Devils take you!" Barrel panted as he saw that his second attack was as useless as the first had been.

"More likely I to take them," the phantom figure said mockingly. "For that last stroke I will see you die more slowly, fool; but yield what I ask, and I might have some mercy when you beg." Actually, Grave stone had no desire for an easy surrender now. His bloodlust was rising, and he relished the coming sport. He bided his time, for he could hear Dohojar rustling about, and he knew that the captain's comrade would soon join him in the aft cabin.

As if on cue Barrel called out, "Dohojar, to me! We are attacked!" The shout went unheard by most of the men on board, for they were already rushing forward to help Blinky. But the Changa heard it well enough and immediately came to his friend's aid on the run.

For Dohojar, one look at the scene before him was sufficient. "Very bad!" he cried aloud, even as he began to conjure the most potent spell he had at his command.

"That's not the half of it, lad!" Barrel answered as he desperately sought some way to bring harm to the insubstantial figure. "The blaster just isn't there!" he added by way of advising his shipmate what they were up against.

Just then Habber, first lieutenant to the sailing master, burst into the cabin with a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. In his rush he bumped into Dohojar and caromed off the Changa's back, nearly knocking both of them down in the process. "Uff! Shit!" he cried, catching himself and trying to stand on guard against whatever attacker was at hand.

The spell he had been trying to work was spoiled in the collision, so Dohojar changed tactics instantaneously, forgetting the loss because there was no help for it. "Quick, Habber-Lieutenant," he said as he pointed toward the far corner of the ill-lighted cabin. "Throw your axe where the shadows are thick there!" The confused sailor complied even though it was an order that seemed to make no sense. Habber cocked his arm and sent the weapon spinning across the short space in one quick motion.

A sharp gasp of pain came from the place, and then a shout of rage. The figure of the false pilot disappeared from the center of the cabin, and the man was suddenly visible crouching in the corner of the place. One of Gravestone's long arms could be seen through a tear in his baggy-sleeved robe, the place where Habber's axe had sliced cloth and cut flesh in its flight. The gaunt face of Gravestone was awful to behold as he stood hunched and shaking with rage in the low-ceilinged space. "I'll play with you no longer!" he screeched.

Barrel tried to get an attack in then, moving toward Gravestone with his cutlass held before him. Again Habber brought trouble by being too precipitous. He rushed the enemy at the same time, a movement that caused him and the burly sailing master to collide briefly. That was all the advantage Gravestone needed. He brought a sound from down deep in his narrow chest and allowed its abomination to clamber up his throat and gush from his mouth. The terrible sound was wrapped in the vilest of evil and had fell power. As the word was spewed forth, the air thickened, and dark streaks of energy leaped and coalesced. Habber toppled soundlessly, stone dead, while both Barrel and Dohojar were thrown back as if struck by a great hand.

"Now, maggots, you are mine!" Gravestone stepped deliberately toward the two stunned men with gleeful triumph plainly evident on his ancient face. The visage he showed now was his actual one — very old and totally evil. It was filled with demoniacal emotion, the joy of anticipating what was to come. Suddenly his expression changed to surprise.

"Not so easy, old pole of wickedness!" Dohojar exclaimed as he saw the darts of energy he had summoned up strike home, burning the leathery skin of the evil mage's face where they touched. With greater fury than before, Gravestone spun and reached for the Changa, his fingers like talons. Extremities that looked like tentacles shot from those clawed hands and wrapped in a deadly embrace around Dohojar's neck. His agonized writhing was proof enough of their effect, even without the hissing of his flesh where the tentacles' acidic secretion ate away the skin and seared deeper still.

"Godsdamn you!" screamed his friend as he witnessed the horror of whatever magic Gravestone was employing to slay the Changa. "This will stop you!" Barrel struck a blow with his cutlass that did not miss, catching Gravestone full across one of his upper arms. Yet something prevented it from having real effect. While the tall man seemed to be shaken by the attack, and he loosed his terrible tentacles from Dohojar, the weapon's sharp edge had somehow failed to sever the man's arm from his body as it should have.

Gravestone moved back quickly, still crouching, and now shaking his right arm as he glared balefully at his foes, but he bore no apparent wound from the cutlass. "You can't be unhurt…." the burly seaman said in consternation.

"Oh, but I can be," Gravestone said as he locked his feral eyes full upon those of Barrel. The thick, ropy growth that had sprung from his fingers had disappeared when the cutlass struck his arm, but now Gravestone's long digits were themselves writhing like adders. "Drop that sword." Gravestone commanded icily.

Barrel's face relaxed, and as that happened, his grip on the heavy cutlass began to loosen. Then, with an ear splitting war cry, the burly seaman had the weapon firmly again and held straight forth as he lunged to bury its point in the tall man's heart. "I'll drop you!"

The move failed to catch Gravestone by surprise, however. Instead, his narrow body seemed to twist aside as would a serpent's, and as Barrel extended himself in completion of the useless thrust, the man's fingers thrust out and into Barrel's body. No longer snaky in the least. Gravestone's digits were now as stiff as steel bars and tipped with razor-sharp nails that had sprouted long, tearing barbs.

The finger-knives sunk home, the hands following, until they clasped what they sought. Then Gravestone reversed his motion and heaved backward. Barrel, his side torn and gushing blood, fell to the gory deck, lifeless. The useless cutlass clattered down beside him, and the tall man laughed a rolling paean of evil triumph.

That was too quick, too easy." Gravestone said then, turning to where Dohojar lay semi-conscious, one hand feebly trying to wipe away the fiery pain where tentacles and acid had made a ruin of his neck and lower jaw. "Does it hurt?" he asked solicitously as he bent closer to the Changa in order to watch the effects of the pain from a better vantage point. Dohojar tried to say something, but Gravestone reached forth and with a single finger welded the dark lips together, leaving what looked like a frightful red scar where Dohojar's mouth had been.

"No, no, little maggot," Gravestone crooned softly. "I'll have no more puny spells from you to pain me. Instead, we will play a game, you and I. If you hold up well, then you win! And as your reward, I'll finish you myself rather than giving you to Krung. Come now, let's begin!"

Later, when he came upon the deck, he found the netherfiend, the beast he had called Krung, happily crouched in the center of a pile of corpses, plucking delicacies from first one, then another of the bodies. When the thing saw Gravestone, it clutched one of the corpses and then stood, holding the form as if it were a doll. "I have eaten well, master. Thank you for such sport."

"That's nice, Krung. I too have had amusement and am quite satisfied." As he spoke, the evil man held a long, thin bundle in his left arm, almost as if he were mimicking the fiend with the dead body it held as a prize.

Gravestone gestured, and the netherfiend hurried toward the tall spell-binder. "Shall I make fire to burn the ship?" it asked.

Gravestone shook his head. "No, let's leave a mystery for them, Krung. Dispose of the corpses here however you like. Just don't leave them to be found. I am going now. You may return to your own plane when you've done your work." With that, Gravestone the priest-wizard turned and went to a place where he could lower one of the ship's little boats, then make his way to shore.

It amused him to depart this way. Although he could magically transport himself away if he desired, he had decided to row downstream, dock at the quay, and enter Greyhawk like any other honest traveler. Such mundane acts helped to make life more interesting, he thought to himself. The use of great magicks was best reserved for moments like the ones he had just experienced… savored! He would miss performing these occasional acts of drudgery when he became a lord of the lower spheres, but that was the way of things.

Musing thus, Gravestone tossed his parcel into the dinghy, picked up the oars, and began to row away from the now-quiet Silver Seeker. The rapid current of the Selintan carried the boat quickly once he brought it out of the shelter of the harbor, and in minutes it was lost from the sight of the eyes that glared after it. The netherfiend was angry at having its feast interrupted and cut short, and now it vented its wrath in Gravestone's direction.

"Big-headed shit!" Krung spat as it began to grab up the bodies sprawled on the deck and heave them into the air. At the apogee of its trajectory, each one suddenly vanished. When the netherfiend had mangled and tossed the last one, it got down on the deck and used its broad and leathery tongue to lap up all traces of blood. The tongue made a rasping sound as it passed over the planks, and when it was finished the thing spat out splinters and cursed again. "One day, you skinny human, one day you too may fall into my clutches…."

Krung snarled and looked around. The area was clean. There might be other bodies below, but that was not its concern. Gravestone had specified that the bodies "here" be disposed of, so the fiend was satisfied that it had fulfilled the letter of the command. It was not about to clean up after any mess that Gravestone might have made below.

"I have done enough," the thing growled. "Let the human worry about the rest, if he cares so much about his mystery."

Making a shrill humming noise through its broad, flat nose, the netherfiend started to perform the ritual that would return it to its home in the pits. When the first pale rays of the dawn's light began to wash the eastern horizon a few minutes later, Krung was no longer to be seen.