by Gary Gygax
Master Entropy was at work. Creation and life — vitality even of demoniacal or negative sort — slipped away into nothingness. Nothingness grew and was strengthened, and was content.
"We are lost," the Demiurge said lamentably when he, Rexfelis, and Gord reconvened a few hours later — hours during which weeks of time had passed on Oerth. "Now truly are we placed between the void and the bottomless pit!" Rexfelis nodded and looked grim. What Basiliv said was too true, and there seemed to be no escape. Entropy was perhaps better, if nonexistence of anything but nothingness could be accepted by those who were sentient. "Never should we have accepted Master Entropy, not in an eternity of days!"
"Lost or not. I have much to do," Gord said energetically. "Time will decide if that one is to triumph or not, but if I am to believe what I have been told, it is up to me to face and defeat Tharizdun." He spat as he said that name. "What can you tell me of the power of the sword Master Entropy spoke of?"
"I am as unaware of that as you, Gord," Rexfelis replied. "Basiliv?"
"Would I could be of assistance," the Demiurge said. "Perhaps if I could see the weapon and spend a little time examining its aura...."
There will be a bit of time for that, my old friend," Rexfelis said. "Gord will soon be presented to all of my subjects, including the peers who are his kinsfolk. There will be a short ceremony, longer speeches, and much growling of useless sort. I will name him first of all our sort after me before he sets forth on the mission we have for him."
"I will certainly stay for two reasons, then," Basiliv said, mustering up a weak smile. "Let us see the dark blade now, for soon we will be too busy for anything except such work as we need accomplished." Basiliv and the Catlord turned expectantly to Gord, both casting their gazes toward the scabbard at his waist. Gord's face was blank.
"Well? Bring forth the blade!" the Demiurge said.
"This is not it," Gord said, touching the sheath. "The sword that Master Entropy spoke of is hidden aboard Silver Seeker, and where that ship is I can't tell you," he said sadly.
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 straig
ht 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 holl
ow-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!"
