Bertrice Small - Lara

“The Outlanders accepted you readily?” he asked her.

“They did. And the clan lord of the Fiacre made me his wife,” she told Wilmot.

“Where did you learn to fight as you did today?” he inquired.

“I was taught by the Shadow Princes. They say I have a destiny,” Lara answered.

He nodded. “I think they must be right.” Then pausing a brief moment he said to her, “What will happen to me now, Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword?”

“We have allowed a survivor from each village we took,” Lara explained. “You are to drive the carts of bodies back to the City. This is our message to the High Council. They must abide by the ancient treaties. We will not allow our lands to be invaded by Hetar. If they understand this, the peace between us will be restored. You must tell the High Council that the Outlanders are not barbarians. They simply wish to be left alone in peace as it has always been.”

“The High Council? How could I gain their ear? I am a mercenary, and not even one of rank,” he said.

“Two of the provinces voted against breaking the peace,” Lara told him. “Seek out the Coastal Kings or the Shadow Princes,” she advised.

He looked surprised. “How can you know this?”

Lara smiled wickedly. “We have friends,” she replied. “Tell whoever you speak with that Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword and wife of Vartan, Lord of the Fiacre, sent you. They will hear you out. Gaius Prospero cannot be allowed to use the council to his own advantage ever again.”

“Shall I attempt to speak with your father?” Wilmot asked her.

“Tell him I am well, and happy,” Lara responded. Would he care, she wondered? “And tell your mother I send her my regards. I hope she is well.”

“She misses your family,” he admitted. “You and your brother in particular. She will be happy to learn that all has turned out well for you.”

Vartan joined them. “It is time,” he said to Wilmot. “Some of us will escort you to the border separating the Outlands and Hetar. You must reach the City, and there may be those who for their own purposes seek to stop you, or even take your life, Wilmot. For the sake of your people the truth must be known, and spread throughout Hetar.”

“My lord, I am frankly fearful for my life now,” Wilmot said. “Gaius Prospero is a powerful man. If he would engineer a war with the Outlands, then it is likely there will be war. There was a rumor in the City before we left, softly spoken, but heard by many ears, that Gaius Prospero would be called upon by the High Council to become emperor of Hetar. For the first time in memory life has grown difficult for Hetar. When times are difficult, the people clamor for change in hopes that change will bring prosperity once again.”

“If what you say is so,” Lara noted, “then you will be safe, for Gaius Prospero will use the seven wagons of dead to his own advantage.”

“Yet we have no choice but to send them,” Vartan replied.

“I know,” Lara responded.

The five survivors from the other villages were now led forth, and boosted up on their wagon seats, Wilmot climbing into the first wagon. They moved off, horsemen of the Aghy riding on either side of the wagons. The Winter War was over. Once Imre and Petruso were settled in their fiefdoms again; once the other clan families had donated supplies to get them on through the winter, life could again return to what it had been before Hetar had been foolish enough to invade the Piaras and the Tormod. Yet why, Lara thought silently to herself, did she sense that this was but the beginning?

GAIUS PROSPERO, a perfumed handkerchief pressed to his nose, stared unbelieving at the seven reeking carts piled high with their dead. The stench was unbelievable, and he wondered that the drivers of these horrific wagons could stand it. But they sat stoic and unmoving upon the benches of their transports, hollow-eyed and gaunt and staring at him as if he were responsible.

“Why have you brought your burdens to me?” he demanded aloud.

“Because we were told to bring them to you, my lord,” the man on the first wagon spoke up. “Actually, we thought to drive them up to the door of your fine home, but the guards would not allow us inside. They sent for you instead.”

“How could this have happened?” Gaius Prospero said as if to himself. “They are uncivilized barbarians. They are not even united under one government, but live a tribal life. They are savages! Bandits!”

Wilmot held his tongue as he listened to the Master of the Merchants’ ruminations. He was good at holding his tongue. It aided in his survival all these years. But he had been in the Outlands long enough to learn that while the society there was different from that of Hetar, it was not the uncivilized place the government wanted them to believe it was. He wondered if the Outlands were not perhaps more civilized than Hetar in a way.

“How did this happen?” Gaius Prospero demanded to know.

“The armies of the Outlands overcame us, and obviously knowing they were coming the villagers rose up against us,” Wilmot said succinctly. The other men nodded in their agreement. What else was there to say?

“And why did you six survive?” was Gaius Prospero’s next query.

“It was decided beforehand to spare one man from each village to drive the wagons,” Wilmot answered.

“There were seven villages, and there are seven carts,” the Master of the Merchants noted sharply. “Why are there but six of you?”

“The mercenaries from Quartum joined those at Fulksburg to make a stand. One man from the other villages had escaped the Outlanders, and had come to warn us,” Wilmot reported. “They were too many for us. They fight well. All were slain but me.”

“Because you were the best of the mercenary fighters?” Gaius Prospero said sarcastically, rolling his eyes in disbelief.

“I have fought in the ranks of the mercenaries for over thirty years, my lord, but I was spared because the last warrior I fought in combat that day was someone known to me. That is why I survived at Fulksburg,” Wilmot said in hard tones.

“Who could you possibly have known among the Outlander warriors?” Gaius Prospero demanded in a suspicious voice. “How could an ordinary mercenary know someone with that kind of authority? Give me his name!”

“It was the wife of the army’s general who spared me, my lord,” Wilmot replied. He was frankly enjoying having this man who would be emperor squeeze the information from him bit by bit. His conversation with Lara had opened his eyes to things he had been avoiding for several years now.

“You fought with a woman? And lost?” Gaius Prospero’s tone was derisive.

“The wife of Lord Vartan is a great warrior, my lord. There were enough woman warriors among the Outlanders to be noticed. They are fiercer than their men, who are the best fighters I have ever encountered,” Wilmot said.

“And how came you to know the wife of this lord?” the Master of the Merchants asked. “Was she one of those used as a Pleasure Woman by our forces?”

“Nay, my lord.” Wilmot forced his face to remain impassive.

“Then who was she?” Gaius Prospero almost shouted.

“She is Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword, my lord,” Wilmot said. “Her family lived next to mine when she was growing up. Recognizing me, she spared me for my mother’s sake. My mother and her grandmother were good friends, and my mother was always kind to the family.” He was curious to see what Gaius Prospero would say now. He waited.

“What?” The look on Gaius Prospero’s face was a study in amazement. “You are mistaken. You must be! My cousin the Taubyl Trader sold her to the Head Forester for a Pleasure Woman. Though they do not as a rule cohabit with those not of their blood, he was so taken with her beauty he could not resist, my cousin said. The Forester paid a fortune for her.”

“She escaped the Forest Lords,” Wilmot said, “with the aid of a Forest giant. They fled to the Desert, and from there Lara went to the Outlands where Lord Vartan saw her, and wed her. She is greatly respected among the Outlanders.”

“And she is a great warrior? How did such an exquisite creature meant only for pleasure and passion become a warrior?” Gaius Prospero wondered aloud.

“The Shadow Princes gave her the skills, along with a sword that sings as she fights,” Wilmot told him. “She is a power now to be reckoned with, my lord.”

The Master of the Merchants considered a moment, and then he said, “The High Council must be convened at once to decide upon the disposal of these bodies. Take your carts to the edge of the City, and wait for our instructions.” Then turning away from Wilmot and his companions, Gaius Prospero hurried back into the safety of the Golden District. A waiting cart took him back to his home. Entering it, he called for his secretary, Jonah, and told him of the conversation he had just had.

“You must not allow this fellow to speak with the High Council, my lord,” Jonah said. “There are those among them who did not approve this little expedition into the Outlands. These carts of dead will become a platform for them to use against you. You must take the advantage while you can.”

“But how?” Gaius Prospero said.

“By publicly disseminating the fact that our good men are dead. Slaughtered by a barbarian force who grow stronger each day, and may soon be bold enough to attack Hetar itself, threatening the very foundations of our world. We will shout down anyone who attempts to declare it is our fault for invading the Outlands in the first place. Soon the real truth will be forgotten, and with time and repetition the tale we choose will become the real truth. We will rouse the people against the Outlands, and those who have stood against us in the High Council will be silenced. They will have to join us in our fight, or be declared traitors to Hetar.” Jonah smiled a cold smile.