Lara: Book One of the World of Hetar

by Bertrice Small

  Her husband chuckled. “That was well done, and you are now completely established as a magical creature,” Vartan told her.

  “It may be of help to us one day that they are convinced of my powers, and perhaps even a little afraid, husband,” Lara told him.

  Liam rode up, coming between them. “Noss did not tell me you can shape-shift,” he said admiringly. “You have frightened many of those who ride with us, especially Adon.” He chortled wickedly.

  “I suspect that is a good thing,” Lara told Liam. “If I should ever have to act for Vartan I do not want to waste my time arguing with him. He is, I fear, a man who has but to open his mouth, and I find I am annoyed.”

  Liam laughed. “I know,” he agreed. “We are blood kin, and I do not know another of our family like him.”

  “He is greedy for his brother’s place,” Lara said astutely.

  “He shall never have it,” Liam said. “The elders would not approve it.”

  “What did you learn?” Vartan asked his wife, not enjoying the conversation between Lara and Liam.

  “There are no sentry posts in the mountains, or even around the villages,” Lara said. “It seems rather feckless to me, but they are obviously convinced they are secure in their conquest. Considering that Imre and Petruso escaped with several of their men I would think they would be watching, but they are not.” She turned to Imre who had now ridden up to listen, and said, “Was your land always so bleak, lord Imre? There are great open gashes in the landscape, and filth pouring into your streams and lakes. Many trees have been felled and left lying.”

  “No,” Imre of the Tormod answered Lara. “We have always cherished the land, and each time we close a mine we restore the land by planting trees and seeding new growth. Floren can tell you for we have purchased many trees and flowering plants from him. We love our land, and are grateful for the bounty it provides us, but these Hetarians only desire its wealth. They do not care that they are poisoning our water—water which flows into the hills and plains of our land.”

  “The stream in one of my villages had contaminated water,” Vartan said. “The headman brought it to my attention when we visited recently.”

  “There! You see?” Imre replied. “They will destroy us all if we do not stop them now. And before we managed to flee they had begun cutting the trees on the mountain for its lumber. There is a great need for lumber to build in the City, I have heard it said. But they do not replace the trees, and the mountains need trees to keep them from collapsing. If a mountain fell it could tumble into our streams, or destroy our villages. It has been our custom that whenever we cut a tree we replant a tree.”

  “Hetar has done much damage. Perhaps you might take your complaint to the High Court of Hetar, and demand reparations for the damage,” Lara suggested.

  “It would be a waste of time,” Vartan told his wife. “Hetarians consider us savages. We would be at a great disadvantage in your court. Better we simply drive them from the Tormod and Piaras so we may begin the business of repairing the land before the damage spreads any further into the Outlands.”

  They stopped to rest until moonrise. Then they continued on their way. The mountains were drawing closer with every step their mounts traveled. The following midday they were close enough so that they stopped in a small grove of trees, hiding themselves cautiously. Lara shape-shifted once again, flying ahead to see if anything had changed, but it had not. There was no one to see their approach. At moonrise they moved forward once more, finally entering the mountains. They rode single-file along narrow trails amid thick Forest heading toward the Crystalline Falls, which they hoped to reach by midmorning.

  As they rode along Lara felt a prickle slide down her back. They were being watched, but not by human eyes. There were faeries in these woods. She felt something light upon her shoulder, and turned her head to see a tiny girl smiling at her, iridescent wings fluttering.

  “Hail, Lara, daughter of Queen Ilona!” the faerie said. “I have been sent by my queen to ask if we may help you. Speak to me as you would to Ethne, within your mind. Those riding with you can neither see or hear me. My words and presence are for you.”

  You are a different tribe from that of my mother, Lara noted.

  “Forest Faeries come in all sizes,” the tiny creature chuckled. “My name is Esme.”

  I have taken a bird’s form to fly above these mountains and learn of any threats, Lara said. Have my eyes missed any danger, Esme? Lara asked.

  “They are very arrogant people,” Esme replied. “They expect no resistance from the Outlands.”

  But several escaped, Lara said. Were they not concerned by that?

  “Those sent to capture them could not, and lied to their masters that they had killed Imre and his band, and thrown their bodies into the river at the Crystalline Falls. They were believed.”

  How might you best help us? Lara asked.

  “We have been friends with the Tormod and the Piaras forever,” Esme replied. “We know the Devyn will enter the villages first. We shall be there to aid them. These poor people are frightened, especially having been told that their leaders deserted them and were then killed. The truth will revive their courage. They will be ready when your armies come. We will also warn the Devyn of the traitors among the Tormod and the Piaras, for we know who they are.” Her smile twinkled at Lara. “If you need me, just ask Ethne, and she will call me,” Esme said.

  “Thank you so much!” Lara replied, and the tiny faerie was as quickly gone as she had come.

  “Did you see that tiny bird with the iridescent wings at your shoulder?” Vartan asked Lara. “You must have, for you turned and stared at it for the longest time.”

  “What you saw as a bird was actually one of the Forest Faeries who live here. My mother sent her. She has confirmed what I believed true—the Hetarians are secure in their conquest of these lands,” Lara explained.

  “Will the faeries help us?” he inquired.

  “Esme, for that is her name, says her kind have been friends with the Tormod and the Piaras forever. They will go into the villages with the Devyn bards and spread word that we are coming to release them from their bondage. She says those pursuing Imre, Petruso and their men returned to their masters and claimed they had killed them. The people were beaten down by such terrible news. The knowledge that their leaders are alive will hearten them greatly.”

  “When we reach the Falls I will tell Imre and Petruso,” Vartan said. Then he reached out to caress her cheek. “You are a blessing to the Outlands, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword,” he told her.

  She smiled. “So you have previously said, husband. But I am not necessarily a blessing, Vartan. It is just that I hate injustice, and what has happened here is unjust.”

  They arrived at the Crystalline Falls in late afternoon. Lara had never seen their like. It was beautiful. The waters fell in a silvery sheet from the heights above. The torrent dropped into a round rock pool, made its way over a much lower bed of rocks into a river that flowed down and through the mountains. The clear liquid in the pool had so far remained untouched by the impurities the Hetarians were creating. The banks about the pool were soft with moss. The trees soared, most now bare of their leaves. They were the first to arrive, and made their camp without a fire. Lara went to greet the spirit of the falls, requesting sanctuary for the Outlander armies. By moonrise, however, all the other clan armies had reached the Crystalline Falls.

  In a tent lit by a single lamp, the clan chieftains and their lieutenants gathered to discuss their next move. Their relief when Vartan told them of the faeries who would aid them was almost palpable. These were not men and women for whom fighting came easily. Vartan also told them that the Devyn bards had already been dispatched into the villages, and that tomorrow the quest to free their fellow Outlanders would begin.

  Imre explained that they were less than a day’s march from most of the villages. He laid out a parchment map on the tent’s single table, showing them where they now w
ere, and how each clan family could reach their assigned villages. “After you have liberated your village,” Imre said, “you will go here.” He pointed. “These are the Singing Caves. We will all meet there, and continue on to the final two villages we must take. Each of you will be given a copy of this map to guide you. Your individual paths are marked in your clan color.”

  “Remember,” Vartan said to them. “All the mercenaries but one are to be killed. You can show no mercy, for Hetar has showed no mercy. If we are to make them honor the treaties signed between us centuries ago, we must impress them with our determination so that this never happens again. Are we agreed?” He looked about the tent at the nodding heads. “Our cause is just,” Vartan said. “The Celestial Actuary will be with us.”

  “May the Celestial Actuary have mercy on the souls of our victims,” Lara told them. “Wars are always said to be just for one reason or another, and the Celestial Actuary’s name is always invoked with righteous piety by warriors about to go into battle.” She sighed sadly. “Pity those we must kill to make our point, my lords.”

  “Remember, lady,” Lord Roan said, “that it was Hetar and not the Outlands who began this trouble.”

  “Aye, and I am shamed by it as well as saddened,” Lara replied. “My innocence when I left the City was as much of mind as body. My loyalties, however, are with the Outlands, Roan of the Aghy. Not Hetar.”

  “I did not doubt it, lady,” the horse lord replied. “I merely meant to point out that if pity is to be extended it should first be offered to the Tormod and the Piaras.”

  Lara bowed politely. “I stand corrected, my lord,” she said graciously.

  He smiled wryly at her and returned the bow, not having expected such a courteous reply. He could see Vartan was irritated with him. But then, Vartan was hopelessly in love with his beautiful halfling wife, and apt to be a bit of a fool over her.

  Lara moved into the shadows of the tent briefly, returning with a tray of goblets. “Let us drink to our success, my friends,” she said, offering the goblets about.

  Each man and woman in the tent took up a goblet and raised it as they looked to Vartan and Lara, who murmured softly in her husband’s ear.

  “To justice,” Vartan toasted. “And to the men and women of the Outlands who believe so strongly in it!”

  “To justice, and to the Outlands!” came the enthusiastic reply.

  “We will all depart at the same hour,” Vartan told them, “that the element of surprise work against all our enemies. Make certain none escape you to warn the last two villages.”

  In the hour before the dawn the clan families were assembled and slowly moved out, the Fiacre in one direction, the Aghy in another, and so forth. Within a very short time Lara could see no one but those with whom she rode. She reached down and caught her crystal star between her thumb and first finger. Her heart beat very rapidly, and her belly was filled with cramps that rolled rhythmically through it like a melody.

  I am here, she heard Ethne’s voice say. Do not be afraid. Fight well, if need be, and you will live to see another day, my child.

  What do you mean if need be? she asked her guardian.

  You will see soon enough, Ethne replied. Now strengthen yourself body and soul, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, and look ahead to what is to come. Ethne’s flame flickered, and then died to a miniscule point of light within the crystal.

  They rode through the autumn Forest. The sky above them was beginning to lighten, but they could see that the day would be a grey one without the warmth of the sun on their backs. Petruso rode with them, for their objective was one of the three Piaras villages. Suddenly the now-silent chieftain raised his hand, calling for a stop. He turned to Vartan and pointed through the bare trees. Vartan moved his horse slowly through the thinning woodlands, and saw they were atop a small hill. Below them lay the village.

  It was silent, which the Fiacre chieftain thought odd. Though early, it still should have been bustling with the activity of a new day. His blue eyes carefully scanned the settlement, and then he saw it. In the center of the village square. A large farm cart piled high with bodies. A shudder shook his large frame. Had they been betrayed? Were the bodies those of the villagers? He backed his horse up to where Petruso, Lara and Liam awaited him.

  “There is a wagon in the square filled with dead,” he told them.

  Petruso grew pale. He pointed to himself several times vigorously.

  Vartan understood, and shook his head. “I don’t know. Have we been betrayed? And if so, by whom?”

  “Nay!” Lara said suddenly. “Ethne told me to fight well this day, but then she qualified it by saying, if need be. When I asked her what she meant she said I should see. We must go into the village at once! I think Petruso’s people, made brave by the songs of the Devyn last night, have slain their captors. They hide now, awaiting the arrival of their saviors, but still in fear of the mercenaries.”

  Vartan nodded. “She is right,” he agreed. He raised his hand to signal his troops. “Forward!” he called to them, and, his wife at his side, led the forces of the Fiacre down the hill into the village.

  Petruso was off his mount almost immediately. He ran to the cart, examined its contents, and then began to laugh, waving his sword into the air with glee.

  “People of the village,” Vartan called out, “your lord Petruso has come home to free you. This day you shall rejoice! Come forth, and welcome your lord home!”

  For the longest moment all was quiet, and then a door opened, and another, and another as the people of the village poured forth to greet their saviors. Petruso began to weep both with happiness and with sadness as they came forth. The villagers were as gaunt as wraiths, their cheeks hollow, their eyes sorrowful, but they stumbled from their dwellings crying joyfully, surrounding Petruso, touching him, kissing his hands.

  “Where is the Devyn bard?” Vartan called over the noisy greetings.

  “Here, my lord.” A tall, slender man, a harp upon his back, came forward. “I am Adrik of the Devyn,” he said, bowing politely to the lord of the Fiacre.

  “What happened here?” Vartan asked.

  “I came as I was instructed. The Hetarians were surprised to see me until I explained I was a bard, a singer of songs, a teller of tales who traveled the Outlands. As they seem to have a similar tradition, they were not suspicious of me. I suggested they allow me to perform for their workers, pretending I thought all here was as it should be. They agreed, and a great fire was made, and set ablaze in the village square. The workers crowded about the fences penning them in. The mercenaries came with the women of the village, making a great show of fondling and kissing them before their husbands and sons, who were helpless to do anything other than look away. And so I first explained to the Hetarians each song I would sing before I sang it. Then I would sing in our ancient language not the song, but the message we had agreed upon. I warned the listeners not to reveal their joy before their captors, lest the mercenaries realize I was not telling them ancient tales of the Outlands. And while I sang the faeries whispered in the ears of the leaders the names of the traitors so that they might kill them.

  “In the night the village men broke out of their enclosure quietly, killing any mercenary in their path. They entered their houses one by one and killed the intruders there. When they reached the cottage where I was housed, I explained to them that one must be left alive to drive the cart of dead bodies from each village back to the City as a warning. And so one mercenary in that last cottage was spared. They have imprisoned him in the cellar.” Adrik the Devyn bard bowed with the conclusion of his tale.

  Petruso’s eyes shone with pride at the story. He tried to speak, but only grunts and garbled sounds emerged. He wept with his frustration.

  Lara laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “I believe I know what you would say, my lord. Will you permit me to speak for you?”

  Petruso nodded eagerly and, taking Lara’s hands in his, kissed them in thanks.

 
“Be silent,” Vartan’s voice boomed. “Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, wife to Vartan, chief of the Fiacre, will speak to you in the lord Petruso’s name. Heed her voice!” His fierce glance swept the square, and all its inhabitants.

  Seated upon her stallion, Dasras, Lara look out over the crowd, and began to speak. “Lord Petruso would have you know how glad he is to be among you again. He regrets the sorrow you were caused by being told of his death. This lie was perpetrated by his pursuers who, when they could not capture him, deceived their masters rather than admit the truth. It has been to our advantage that they did, however, for in their arrogance the enemy posted no sentries.

  “He escaped with Lord Imre of the Tormod and several others, in order to reach the Gathering that they might gain the aid of their fellow clan families. And so we have come. The Fiacre, the Aghy, the Blathma, the Felan, the Gitta and the Devyn are all here to free the Piaras and the Tormod. To force Hetar to honor the treaty signed so long ago between us. We will not relent until the mercenaries are sent from our lands, never to return.” Lara looked to Petruso as Dasras moved restlessly beneath her.

  The lord of the Piaras nodded, and then he kissed Lara’s hands again.

  She smiled a radiant smile at him, and then turned to her husband. “Will you tell them of our plans, my lord?”

  “As we stand here in your village square,” Vartan’s voice boomed, “the other villages in the Tormod and Piaras are now being retaken, but for two. That is why no mercenary can be allowed to escape. Tomorrow we will strike at Fulksburg, the lord Imre’s own village, to take it back. Restore your lives as best you can. Where is your headman? He must regain his position as we need to move on to Fulksburg.”

  “The headman was killed by the mercenaries,” a voice in the crowd said.

  “Then it is your duty to choose another before the sun sets,” Vartan counseled them. “Your village cannot remain without a governor. We leave you now, for we take Fulksburg tomorrow.” He turned to Petruso. “Will you remain?”