The dun-walled metroplis loomed along the east bank of the river. Even this broad watercourse showed but a faint glimmering of reflected light, so dark was the night. Sputtering cressets limning the massive lines and curves of the city wall seemed oppressed by the near-palpable gloom.

The crackling torches, oil lamps, and candle lanterns that burned along the city’s thoroughfares cast scarcely a glow against the underside of the vaporous strata suspended above the oppressive place, a glow that was absorbed by the thick, dark atmosphere before it could spread any higher. The night sky of the Free City of Greyhawk usually a warm, golden red, was now a pallid rust color. On this, the Night of Valpurgis, the city’s many, massive gates were shut fast. Huts and hovels scattered around the outside of the walls were dark although they were, presumably, occupied. Shutters were locked, doors bolted fast.

Sentries paced in pairs along the broad battlements, nervously alert. All others were safe within their own places, charms and amulets prominently displayed, probably muttering prayers and pleadings to ward off evil. Not even thieves, and most assassins, dared to roam about on this night, while those who served demons or devils sought to commune with such malign beings, busily chanting and gesturing in the unhallowed interiors of vile temples and cursed shrines.

Fog rolled and slid in chilled masses that crept from above the dark river and its marshy verges. The slight breeze that swept up the Selintan was all that kept the fog from completely wrapping the city and its environs in a blinding shroud. In this murky mist, a small boat upon the surface of the river was all but invisible. The thick, vapor-laden air muffled the sounds of its creaking oars, so that from just a short distance away the noise was as soft as the passage of a mouse through tall grass.

“Hard on your right oar, boatman!” The command, uttered in a voice just above a whisper, came from a dark-cloaked man standing in the bow of the skiff. The riverman grunted and strained against the rapidly flowing river that seemed determined to sweep them past the destination they sought.

“So soon…” Although they were softly said, the Woman’s words came clearly to the man who directed the progress of the little vessel.

“I hope it is soon enough,” he replied. The bundle that lay in the stern stirred slightly, but nothing further was said. The standing man gave additional directions to the rower, then spoke again to his companion. “Have courage, wife. Our fate must not be tied with his!”

The mighty stones of the city wall thrust into the Selintan as if they were the prow of a titanic ship of granite. The towering blocks formed The Citadel, the strongest and most heavily fortified portion of Grey-hawk City. The Citadel was the heart of authority in the city, its fortress and palace, administrative center and garrison. Few people, citizens or travelers, sought out this place, yet the little boat was headed precisely there. With no small amount of effort, the riverman managed to steer the skiff into the shadow-black finger of water that curled around the southern face of the bastion.

Again the standing man gave orders. “Quietly now,” he hissed. “Keep straight on.” The rower softened his stroke and sent the boat ahead slowly. Then… “Cease rowing,” the black-cloaked passenger commanded.

The boatman made an imperceptible gesture, a sign to ward off evil, as his skiff thumped against granite. Although the fog didn’t allow the oar-handler to see more than a few feet away, the man he carried had known about… seen… the stones jutting out of the water around the hidden landing. “Demon-sight,” the boatman muttered under his breath.

“Call it cat’s eyes,” the cloaked man countered. The rower started, for he had barely whispered his thought. After surreptitiously making the sign against evil again, the fellow reached out and grabbed a rusted iron ring and pulled the skiff against the stones. The boat came to rest, held in place by the rower, against a small stone ledge into which was cut a narrow flight of steps leading upward to an iron-bound door-a postern gate of sorts that was evidently the destination of the passengers.

As if the contents of the bundle had become aware of the group’s arrival at this place, a tiny wail issued from inside the swaddling clothes still resting on the floor in the stern of the boat. The woman crooned in a soft, soothing tone as she bent and carefully cradled her arms to pick up the tightly wrapped, squirming bundle.

“Help her stand, boatman,” the other passenger said, taking a rope and stepping from his place in the bow onto the landing to hold the boat in place. The riverman hastened to comply, fearful of provoking the wrath of a man who had demon powers, In a minute both woman and infant were standing beside the dark-garbed man, and the skiff was being propelled from sight by the frightened rower.

“Now we cannot turn back,” the woman whispered.

“We never could,” the man said tonelessly, taking her arm and helping her up the narrow steps with her precious burden.

The small door groaned inward, rust-bound hinges making an eerie sound, before either man or woman touched the portal. Neither of them spoke, and the infant was again quiet and still. No light showed where the old oaken portal gave into the stonework; only a deeper darkness was revealed. Still guiding the woman but now walking slightly ahead of her, the man stepped boldly into the blackness. Perhaps he did have demon-sight, or cat’s eyes. As the two of them moved fully into the low passage, the hinges groaned again and the thick door closed fast, moved by no human hand. Man, woman, and child were swallowed up by the granite fortress.

“You were wise to come to me.” As he spoke, the tall mage kept the gaze of his deep-set, colorless eyes riveted upon the dark-clad man he addressed.

The man had flung back his cloak. Beneath the voluminous garment he wore rich attire-velvet and silk of the same midnight hue, but showing signs of wear and stains of travel. The face could seem young at first glance, but close inspection would make apparent lines and creases in the visage, and a pair of eyes that revealed the worry and fatigue that lay behind them.

“Your aid is most appreciated,” the man said in reply after a few seconds. His voice was still toneless.

There was a silence as the frail spell-worker sent his gaze from man to woman, and then to the tiny bundle she clutched closely to her breast. The mage made several odd gestures, magical passes, while his deeply sunken eyes seemed to become lightless pools gazing into some nether world. “You seem unscathed,” the man intoned at last. “No sending touches you, nothing ill lingers near the babe…”

“I am not just anyone, Wanno,” the other man remarked dryly. “Do you suggest I would come to you bearing signs for the enemy?”

“Of course not. Still… those who have aligned themselves ’gainst you and your lady are far from average, shall we say?”

“It is him-our son! They resent such a rare occurrence and have made alliances unnatural,” the woman interjected. Her voice, although still low in volume, bore a steely tone of anger and determination. Her once-beautiful face was as hard as her voice now, a sharp relief depicting resolve and something akin to hatred. The softening of expression when she looked down at her child, then at her husband, and finally stared at the mage, showed that her feelings of hate were only for those who threatened. “Can you realty give him safety, Wanno?” she asked the mage, hope and doubt plainly written upon her countenance as the two emotions struggled with each other inside her.