Chieftain of Andor

by Andrew J Offutt

  There was at least no question about her feelings; she was positively glowing.

  When she gave Cleve a hug of gratitude for his part in bringing all this about, he saw, over her shoulder, the anxious look the prince gave them. Yes, Reven appears to be in love! If she hugs me a moment longer, I’ll be challenged! Cleve disengaged her.

  There were other footsteps as crewmen boarded; Cleve had heard the sounds of loading most of the afternoon. Reven and Sovane left with Barke, to be shown to their quarters.

  And Cleve looked up at the cloaked woman in the cabin doorway. He snapped to his feet with a glad cry: “Lahri!”

  She came quickly to him, hard against him, and for a moment they held each other in grateful silence.

  “Are you coming?” he asked at last.

  The answer was in her eyes as she looked up into his. She shook her head slightly, sadly. “No. I cannot leave Sharne. Things will be very bad here, soon, and I am one of the few Her Majesty respects. I must stay, Cleve. Will — will you be back?”

  He gazed down at her, and his mouth twisted into a helpless little smile. “Will I? I can’t say, Lahri. No, that isn’t fair. Probably not. I … doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”

  “You and your honesty! Couldn’t you lie?” Abruptly her wide mouth stretched into a smile. “But we will, my love! I have it on the very best authority!” And when he said nothing, questioning her with eyes and brows, she added, “The Starpowers. My friends, among the ‘lesser’ sorceresses of Sharne who hate the queen and ally with me — without any notion that I have no power at all other than to catch thoughts, now and then. They see you in Sharne’s future, and in mine. It was strange, almost amusing, my love, except that my heart was leaping. Two witches arrived almost simultaneously today, to tell me the same thing — and they had been at their spells independently!”

  He squeezed her against him. And Queen Kelas had said she’d lose her children through him — and already Reven was aboard! “All right, then, I believe it, Lahri. Perhaps I will be back. Perhaps tomorrow, as a prisoner or a corpse! Surely we can’t leave here without half the navy being after us within minutes, or at the most, hours.”

  She laughed the laugh he loved; a crystal-clear mountain stream, rippling happily over the rocks it washed smooth. “Oh? Well, that will depend on Her Majesty’s Starpower, not her regal authority. Is she more powerful than three witches working in unison in my home — right now? We shall see! Even now it gathers, my darling — the thickest fog to envelop the docks of Sharne in years!”

  “Fog? Can sorcery control the elements?” And as soon as he’d asked, he knew the answer: Yes, within limits, for on Andor sorcery was elemental. Doralan Andrah’s memories told him that, very positively. He began to smile, seeing the hope he had pretended to see before, and again he squeezed her lithe form tightly. “Lahri — I want you to make me a promise.”

  She looked up at him, and a little frown creased her brow. “You are very serious. I’d promise you anything, you know that. But — ”

  “The hurt it causes will pass, and it is best.”

  “I was warned,” she said softly, “that you will ever place reason above emotion, even with me. You want me to go now.”

  “Mind-reading again, Lahri? No, I don’t want you to leave. But … I know you must. Go home, take care not to be seen, and stay there. Whatever happens, you can’t help. If you won’t come along, you can only lose by staying. If I’m indeed to escape and return to Sharne — I want to find you very alive, Lahri, and not in a dungeon.”

  She seized his head and drew it down to kiss him fiercely. Then she stepped back to gaze at him a moment, studying his face, his powerful body. Then she whipped her long cloak about her and left, walking rapidly, the cloak rustling susurrantly, like muffled sobbing.

  Cleve stood looking at the empty doorway when she’d gone, wondering about love, and logic.

  24 - The Fight in the Fog

  Cleve went to look out the port; perhaps he could see Lahri.

  He could see nothing!

  The harbor of Sharne was already well-shrouded with fog, and it was whirling, thickening, even as he looked. The lights ashore were hazy, yellowish nebulae. A questing tendril of the chill, pearly stuff reached in to finger him. He slammed the port’s wooden cover.

  He knew the crewmen of Bluerover were being as silent as possible, but to him, belowdecks, every step, every thump, every creak of wood and lines and tackle seemed loud enough to carry to Orisana.

  Then there were loud voices, one a girl’s, and as he strode across the cabin he was glad that they were not on deck.

  “But, my darling, we talked about leaving,” Barke was saying, in a helpless, almost wheedling voice. “Half your clothes are aboard, and surely over half your jewels, and — ”

  “But tonight! Like thieves!” The girl who stood in the passage with her back to Cleve stamped her foot “This is awful! You’re kidnaping me!”

  “Be reasonable, Sulky. We — ”

  “Don’t call me that!” Her voice rose to new shrillness.

  “I’m sorry, darling — you’ve always loved it. Anyhow, we’ve got to go tonight. We — ”

  “Why? Why tonight, Barke? Why not as we planned?”

  Cleve moved up behind her; he’d no idea what she looked like, face or form, so muffled was she in the thick cloak with its flung-back hood, glistening with droplets of the heavy fog outside.

  “Who is this loud-mouthed wench, Captain?” he asked, in a loud voice, and he got in a wink at Barke’s surprised face before the girl spun around. She was very young, very pretty, with red-brown hair drawn back into what would have been a ponytail on Earth, save that one seldom saw them bound with a gem-encrusted band of gold. Her eyes flashed at him.

  “How dare you, you lout! Get out of here!”

  “There’s a great fog, Captain, and I think we’re all aboard. Shall I take care of this?” Cleve jerked his head at the young woman.

  “Uh — Andrah — ”

  “This! Barke, I want this man — ”

  “Yes,” Barke said hurriedly, squeezing past them and hurrying up the companionway. “Take care of her! I’m needed on deck!”

  Cleve smiled at her. “If I were he, I’d turn you up and spank you until you promised to act properly respectful,” he said. “We must leave tonight, because Barke said so. He’s captain — isn’t he also captain of you heart?”

  She was busy looking extremely shocked; her eyes staring, her pretty little mouth working helplessly. Then she frowned: “What?”

  The phrase didn’t exist on Andor, he realized; he’d mixed Earthly slang into his Andorite speech. “You’re lovers, aren’t you? You’ve chosen him as lord and master? And here he is in deadly danger, trying to slip out of port on a foggy night like this — and you yowling! If we’re caught, you’ll be taken back and scolded by your irate parents, no doubt. And what do you think will happen to Barke? Well? Can’t you talk, girl?”

  He watched as a tear raced down her soft cheek to her chin. It quivered there, lengthening, before dropping off onto the front of her cloak. Her lip quivered; she looked stricken.

  “Yes … you’re right … but you’ve no right … I’ve never been talked to like this before … ”

  “It’s past time, isn’t it?” he asked, but now his voice was less stern, and he spoke more softly.

  She nodded without speaking. Then: “Who are you?”

  “My name is Doralan Andrah, of Elgain. Who are you?”

  She’d looked as if she were about to make a sudden movement, her eyes wide and bright. Now she frowned again.

  “Don’t you know?”

  He shrugged. “I know you’re Barke’s one and only love,” he said, using words guaranteed to soothe the savage female breast.

  She shook her head in wonder; then she made the sudden movement, thrusting herself against him. Her arms went around him. “But I have wanted to meet you. You are Barke’s hero — and mine, and I thank you, oh, I t
hank you for saving his life, Doralan! I am his “Sulky,” Shaman Selka.”

  “Shaman Sel — Princess Selka?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you know? Now you do, though, don’t you? You see why we had to creep away like this. And do you know what I wore for him tonight, just for him? Look.” She stepped back, pulling open her cloak, and it was Cleve’s turn to stare.

  Beneath the cloak the Princess of Sharne wore the suit sewn from Orimor pelts; the suit made for Cleve by Jaire and the women of Oridorna. It was too tight in the chest; she had that from her bosomy mother. And suddenly he knew, and even more than before he wanted to see this girl spanked; wanted to do it himself.

  Barke had waited two days for Lahri’s answer, he’d said. Yes, while Lahri consulted another witch, who consulted her smoke and perhaps divined that no graem was needed; Princess Selka was already in love with the freedman named Barke. Then, she must have consulted the girl herself. A romantic idiot, unthinking of the terrible danger, this pretty girl of eighteen with her tear-streaked face had thought how nice it would be for Barke to prove his love by bringing her back an Orimor pelt …

  “Get into that cabin,” Cleve snapped, “and stay there. I mean, stay there, and be still! If you come out or squeak or even poke your head out, it’ll be me pounding your backside, not Barke, and by Daron I’ll use a length of salt-crusted rope from on deck!”

  And he whirled and strode away without looking back to see if she obeyed; he heard the rustle of her cloak. He reached for the ladder — and staggered as the deck tilted beneath his feet. The ship was moving!

  Cleve hurried up on deck.

  He coughed, wishing he had a cloak, even Selka’s. The ship, the docks, the ships around them, all were blanketed with fog. It glistened wetly on the deck beneath his buskined feet, it made invisible the lights of the city they were leaving. A mast but ten feet away was only a shadow in the writhing gray. It swirled, tendrils like fingers spinning and locking together to form an ever-thicker shroud of shining wet. He stepped back as someone hurried past, shouting:

  “We’re discovered! Captain — we’re discovered! They’re boarding!”

  Cleve slapped his hip; he’d taken off both sword and sidsorn pouch long ago, in midafternoon, and had not bothered to buckle them on again. He hurried after the man who was already vanishing into the fog.

  “I’m Andrah, Barke’s friend,” he said, and had snatched the man’s scimitar from its sheath and was rushing back before the fellow could turn to squint at him.

  Cleve moved at a long-legged, rapid walk along the deck, shining wet. The fog caressed his cheek with wet fingers, seemed to clutch at him; closed in behind him. Ahead of him a light bobbed, and he heard the ring of steel, and a cry. He ran, fog curling in white tendrils about his leg.

  He saw them, dark shapes at the bow; Barke of course was astern, striving to get his ship out of her berth and into the open sea. These shapes were helmeted, and he recognized the spikes atop the helmets: the Queen’s Own. He did not stop to count; there were several. But Barke had said he was short of men, and surely the sailors of Bluerover were busy. He was even shorter of men now; the Sharnese soldier with the lantern was bending over a dark form on the deck, holding his light close as he shoved his sword into it more than once.

  Cleve swung, rather than thrust, and felt the jolt to his arm even as he heard the solid chunking sound. His blade bit, and bit deep and hard. The man howled. His lantern went flying as his sword rattled on the deck. Cleve raced after the lantern as the man dropped.

  It had struck the deck and lay there, threatening to spill over onto the planking at any moment. True, the fog was just short of being a light rain, and the deck was very wet. But the burning oil of the lamp would not notice that; it would flow, and continue burning. Cleve started to reach for it.

  His peripheral vision caught the movement, the glint of steel; the man had been four or five feet away, and Cleve had not seen him! Hurling himself sidewise, he grunted as he hit the deck. He heard the sword bite into the planking where he’d been; then he was scrambling up and aiming a mighty kick at the burning oil lantern.

  It sloshed onto his buskin, burning there harmlessly.

  But Cleve had no time to worry about a singed boot. He jerked his eyes from the flying lantern to the faceless man in the swirling brume before him. The fellow had gotten his blade out of the deck with little difficulty and was rushing, his scimitar extended. Even as he reflexively used his own scimitar to beat at the approaching blade, Cleve heard the lantern reach the end of its flight — with a splash. He’d saved the ship from fire; now there was the matter of the Queen’s Own.

  Without the sorcerous fog he’d have had little chance. Aided by its opalescent veil, he’d be a demon who struck fear into them before he struck blood from their bodies. Only the spiked helmets identified them; he could see them in the cold gray wreaths. First beating aside his attacker’s blade, Cleve tripped the man as he rushed by. And chopped down into his body as he crashed to the deck. Cleve paused long enough to take his helmet and pull it on. If he could see only shapes with spiked helmets, so could the Sharnese soldiers, now their lantern was gone. But only he knew that every spike was an enemy.

  He moved into the writhing gray wetness, feeling its chill kiss on his face and limbs; already his clothing, the tunic he’d found and donned in Barke’s cabin, was sodden. But he was not chilled; his exertions saw to that. He waded through it, seeking heads with spikes.

  One came. “Layth? Is that you? What happened to the lant — ” The man’s question became a scream as Cleve thrust hard at his bulking shape. Yanking back his sword, he thrust again. The guardsman fell, and the man just behind him could not be taken by surprise.

  His scimitar arced up and down and Cleve met it desperately with his own curved blade. There was a terrific clang of steel on steel, and he felt the blow, and the give — and then his hand was snapping up, with nothing to strain against: He held only a sword hilt connected to two or three inches of sheared-off steel. He heard the other sword strike the deck along with most of his own blade, and he moved fast.

  The Sharnese soldier had not yet jerked his sword up into position as Cleve’s arms went around his waist. His knee jerked savagely up. The scream ripped at his ear and rang there for minutes. But the Queen’s Own corpsman was dropping, and Cleve bent to knock off his helmet and slam the hilt of his broken sword down on the back of the man’s head. Then he felt along his arm until he found the dropped sword, ribboned with low-swirling fog.

  As he grasped it and paused, panting as he knelt, striving to pierce with his stinging eyes the heavy brumous blanket all about him, be heard another yell. Another — and a splash, and a second, and a third.

  The ship was moving out; the gangplank or whatever the guardsmen had thrown across to form a bridge — it had grown suddenly too short as the ship moved from beneath it. It had dropped into the water, taking with it at least two of the Queen’s Own. Cleve grinned in the darkness, wolfishly; an ugly expression, a savage grimace. But there was none to see. He rose to his feet and started forward.

  Another cry; a ring of steel on steel; a gagging sound. Ahead of him a voice called, “That’s one less of them, Barke — uh! I’ve just stumbled over one! He’s all blood!”

  The lantern man, Cleve thought, and started in that direction. Then a voice spoke from just behind him: “Surrender, Queen’s Own scum, or I’ll spit you like a rib roast!”

  Cleve spun to see the sword backed up by a shadowy hulk in the fog — a hulk without a spike atop it.

  “It’s Cleve,” he said. “Doralan Andrah! I’ve got this helmet on so they can’t — look out!”

  And he lunged to the man’s left, barely escaping his point, to parry the chopping attack of a guardsman. Strange; the deck was wet and rolling, but die fog seemed to be dissipating. It crept away in ragged gray ribbons. Again he caught a rapidly descending blade on his own, but this time he let his arm go down with it, lessening the force of the blo
w. Then he exerted the muscles of the powerful body of Doralan Andrah, jerking up arm and sword, hurling aside the guardsman’s scimitar, chopping into his neck. The camail gave; then flesh, and the man’s scream became bubbling noises as he fell. Somewhere nearby, another was falling before another sword.

  And Cleve could see. He could see the body at his feet, its twisted face, and he jerked his eyes from it. He could see the grinning seaman a few feet away; the man who’d challenged him. And other sailors, and other bodies.

  No standing man wore a spiked helmet.

  They were out of the fog, and the boarders were stopped. Not until considerably later did Cleve stop and count, to be amazed: He had waded through that dripping, clutching fog like a hungry tiger on a moonless night, and he had slain five faceless men.

  Astern there was only the fog enshrouding the harbor to frustrate any thought of pursuit. Ahead was the open sea, glistening brightly beneath three moons, lapping at Bluerovef s sides as her prow sliced through the fogless night.

  Cleve shivered without being cold; even when sorcery was on one’s side, it was a shuddery, fearsome thing.

  “North,” Barke bellowed. “Head her north, to Elgain!”

  “Where?”

  “Elgain, Elgain, Elgain!” And Barke laughed.

  Cleve laughed, too, standing on the wet-glistening deck in a torn tunic and buskins — one charred — holding a dripping sword in his big fist. He was a fugitive, on a ship commanded by a fugitive, and below were a fleeing prince and a stolen princess. Ahead was the open sea, to be challenged by a ship with one great sail and a tiny one, little more than a bowsprit, extending out over the waters. He was leaving behind a woman who vowed he’d be back; perhaps he’d see her again; perhaps he would not. Up there, somewhere in the alien sky, was Sol, and Earth, and he doubted that he’d ever see either again.

  Earth was Robert Cleve’s home, and he was not Robert Cleve, but Doralan Andrah, and Doralan Andrah’s home was in Mor of Elgain. He was going home, and he echoed Barke, laughing into the clear night.