Lara reached out, and placed a hand against her husband’s forehead. “You will not fear for me, Vartan. You will know I am protected and worry only about yourself,” she told him quietly.
To his complete surprise Vartan suddenly felt the weight that had sat upon him rise up and disappear. His mouth dropped open with amazement.
Lara laughed softly. “It is time, my lord,” she said.
“What did you do?” he demanded of her.
“I banished your fears, my lord, did I not?” she replied.
“Aye, most thoroughly,” he admitted.
“Can you do the same for me, lady?” Roan of the Aghy asked her with a grin.
“I do not have to for you are fearless, my lord,” Lara returned with a small smile. “Like me, you love no one- except perhaps yourself,” she amended.
He laughed aloud, and then the battle horns began to sound from the enemy side.
“Lead the second charge,” Vartan ordered Roan, who nodded.
And then the battle for the Outlands began in earnest as the armies from both sides charged each other. The thunder of horses’ hooves arose into the morning air. The clash of weapons quickly mingled with the cries of the wounded and dying. The Outlanders were ruthless in their pursuit of the Hetarians. Soon the battlefield ran red with blood, and it was difficult not to slip or fall. Steam from both animal and human ascended from sweating bodies. Noss and several of the other archers remained on the rise, their deadly arrows singing in the morning air as they sought and found the invaders, easily slaying them.
As the Hetarians began to fall in greater numbers it became easier to fight on foot. Lara slipped from Dasras, and with him at her back she fought off the mercenaries who, seeing she was a female, thought her easy prey. And with each soldier who engaged Lara, Andraste began to sing louder and louder, sending terror into the hearts of those who would die that day.
“I am Andraste,” the sword sang in its rich voice, “and I drink the blood of the unjust, the blood of the invader, the blood of the wicked!”
Lara felt strangely exhilarated as she fought. How odd, the thought twisted through her consciousness, that a girl meant for passion and pleasure should become a warrior. But then suddenly a man engaged her in battle, and to her shock she recognized him, although he did not at first recognize her. With deliberate fierceness she forced him to his knees. He struggled to arise, but could not, and she saw the terror in his eyes as he realized he was but a hair’s breadth away from death.
“Yield to me, Wilmot, son of Mistress Mildred,” Lara cried. “Yield to me, and live! Continue to fight, and despite my love for your mother I will slay you.”
The man’s sword blade fell away from Andraste. “Who are you that you know my name?” he asked her, confused.
“I am Lara, daughter of John Swiftsword,” she answered him.
Surprise lit his face. His sword dropped from his hand. He didn’t know if he believed her, but he could fight no more. “I yield,” he said wearily as around him the last of the Hetarians met their just fate, and the battlefield grew silent.
She took a strip of leather from her saddle, and bound his hands before him. Then mounting Dasras, she led him through the battlefield and up the small rise that the Outlanders had held at the beginning of the engagement. The survivors were even now gathering there.
“Well at least one of us thought to save a Hetarian to drive the last wagon,” Roan chortled. He was covered with dirt, and sweat and blood, and had a rather nasty gash on his thigh that had cut through his leather trousers.
“Who is he?” Vartan said.
“No one of importance, I’ll wager,” Rendor of the Felan remarked scornfully.
“His name is Wilmot, and he is the son of the woman whose hovel was next to my father’s. Mistress Mildred was my grandmother’s friend, and she was always good to me. When I recognized him I spared his life for her sake, for she has no one else. They would give his hovel to another leaving her homeless,” Lara explained. “In Hetar if you have no family and no means, there is no provision made for you. The elderly are considered to have outlived their usefulness which is why they must rely upon their family to survive,” Lara replied. “If you cannot contribute to society you are deemed worthless. It is their way, Vartan.”
“It is a poor reward for those who have given what they could,” her husband said, looking to Wilmot. “When you return to the City, mercenary, tell your mother of my wife’s kindness. And tell her should you die and leave her destitute, Mistress Mildred will be welcomed by the Fiacre clan, and in Vartan’s house. There is always a place by the fire for the old ones among us.” He turned away from the prisoner. “How many of our own have we lost?” he asked his fellow chieftains.
“Surprisingly few,” Roan answered. “Seven from among my people, five each from the Felan and the Gitta. The Blathma are either incredibly fortunate, or better fighters than I had thought, for they have lost only two, and Floren has not a mark on him although I am told he broke two swords in his enthusiasm.”
“Blood is an excellent fertilizer,” Floren said calmly.
“Four of the Fiacre are lost, and Noss sustained a small wound when her bow string broke,” Vartan said. “Accius?”
“Only one of our people,” Accius replied. “We may be poets, but our swordsmen are the finest in the Outlands. Blades and verse are our twin passions,” he chuckled.
“Imre and Petruso? They have survived?” Vartan asked, looking about.
“We have,” Imre replied. “We are anxious to go into Fulksburg, and tell the people that we have prevailed. And Quartum must be notified as well.”
“You two go ahead,” Vartan suggested. “We must load at least two more wagons, and they must begin their journey today back to the City. The sooner the High Council receives our message, the better it will be for us all.”
Imre and Petruso rode toward the village, and the clansmen began to fill first one cart, and then another with the dead bodies. All weapons, leather breastplates and helmets, however, were removed from the bodies. They would be divided among the victors. Wilmot sat stunned as he watched the activity going on around him. He was still very frightened, and couldn’t believe he would really escape these Outlanders unharmed. He began to weep softly in his fear and relief.
Seeing it, Lara dismounted Dasras, and came to sit next to him. “You need have no fear, Wilmot. You are safe now. Are you thirsty or hungry?”
“Nay.” Wilmot was silent for a short moment, and then he burst out, “How came you to be among these barbarians, Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword? Were you not meant for a great Pleasure House in the City? That was the rumor.”
“Rumors are not always truth,” Lara said to him. “The Head Mistress of the Guild of Pleasure Women told Gaius Prospero that I was too beautiful, and she would not permit me to be sold into any of the City’s Pleasure Houses. That I was already causing much dissension by the very possibility I might soon be a Pleasure Woman. So I was sent from the City with the Taubyl Trader, Rolf Fairplay,” Lara began. And then she continued on, explaining her stay with the Forest Lords, how she had escaped them, her sojourn with the Shadow Princes and her arrival in the Outlands. She did not, however, mention her faerie mother or the relationship they now had. “And I discovered that these people are nothing like it is said in the City,” Lara told Wilmot. “They simply prefer a less complicated way of life. They are orderly, and live by their own laws.”
“But how do they live?” he asked. “We were always told they were bandits and thieves who preyed on travelers.”
Lara laughed. “The Fiacre, the largest of the clan families, raise cattle. The Aghy, horses. The Felan, sheep. The Blathma and the Gitta are farmers. The Devyn are poets and bards. The two clan families whose lands you invaded are miners of ore and gems. They trade back and forth amongst each other, taking only what they need from the land, and restoring the land where it is necessary. Did you not see the beauty of the countryside before your greedy masters began destroying it? Do you not know why the Piaras and the Tormod were invaded? Gaius
