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'I don't care about legends. Just facts. How many people in Caswallir?'

'Around eleven hundred, sir, but it does depend on the time of the year. They have their Games in the autumn and there could be as many as five thousand people attending every day for ten days. Of course, these are not all Pallides. Loda, Farlain, and even some Wingoras will attend - though the Wingoras are all but finished now. Our census shows only around one hundred and forty remain in the remote Highlands.'

'How many fighting men?'

'Just the Pallides, sir?' asked Leofric, sitting down and opening a heavy leather-bound ledger.

The Baron nodded. 'It is difficult to estimate, sir. After all, what constitutes a fighting man in a people with no army? If we are talking men and older boys capable of bearing arms, then the figure would be ..." He flicked through three pages, making swift mental calculations, then went on:'... say... eighteen hundred. But of these around a thousand would be below the age of seventeen. Hardly veterans.'

'Who leads them?'

'Well, sir, as you know there is no longer an official Hunt Lord, but our spies tell us that the people still revere Fyon Sharp-axe, and treat him as if he still held the tide.'

Lifting a quill pen, the Baron dipped the sharpened nib into a pot of ink and scrawled the name on a single sheet of paper. 'Go on.'

'What else can I tell you, sir?' asked Leofric, nonplussed.

'Who else do they revere?'

'Er ... I don't have information on that sir. Merely statistics.'

The Baron's hooded eyes focused on the younger man's face. 'Find out, Leofric. All possible leaders. Names, directions to their homes or farms.'

'Might I ask, sir, why are we gathering this information? All our agents assure us there is no hint of rebellion in the Highlands. They do not have the men, the weapons, the training or the leaders.'

'Now tell me about the other clans,' said the Baron, his quill at the ready.

*

Ballistar sat perched on the saddle of the small grey pony and stared around at the village of Cilfallen. Despite his fears, he gazed with a sense of wonder at this unfamiliar view. The pony was only ten hands high, barrel-bellied with short stubby legs - a dwarf horse for a dwarf. And yet, Ballistar estimated, he was now viewing the world from around six feet high, seeing it as Fell or Sigarni would see it.

Fat Tovi emerged from his bakery, and smiled at the dwarf. 'What nonsense is this?' he asked, transferring his gaze to the man on the black gelding who was waiting patiently beyond Ballistar.

'The sorcerer Asmidir has asked me to cook for him,' said Ballistar boldly, though even the words sent a flicker of fear through him. 'And he has given me this pony. For my own.'

'It suits you,' said Tovi. 'It looks more like a large dog.'

Grame the Smith wandered over. 'She's a fine beast,' he said, stroking his thick white beard. 'In years gone by the Lowland chariots were drawn by such as she. Tough breed.'

'She's mine!' said Ballistar, grinning.

'We must leave,' said the man on the black gelding, his voice deep. 'The master is waiting.'

Ballistar tugged on the reins and tried to heel the pony forward, but his legs were so short that his feet did not extend past the saddle and the pony stood still. Grame chuckled and walked back to his forge, returning with a slender riding-crop.

'Give her just a touch with this,' he said. 'Not too hard, mind, and accompany it with a word - or sound - of command.'

Ballistar took the leather crop. 'Hiddy up!' he shouted, swiping the crop against the pony's rear.

The little animal reared and sprinted and Ballistar tumbled backwards in a somersault. Grame stepped forward and caught the dwarf, then both fell to the ground. Ballistar, his bearded face crimson, struggled to his feet as Asmidir's servant rode after the pony and led her back. Tovi was beside himself with mirth, the booming sound of his laughter echoing through the village.

'Thank you, Grame,' said Ballistar, with as much dignity as he could muster. The smith pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself down.

'Think nothing of it,' he said. 'Come, try again!' Pushing his huge hands under Ballistar's armpits he hoisted the dwarf to the saddle. 'You'll get the hang of it soon enough. Now be off with you!'

'Hiddy up!' said Ballistar, more softly. The pony moved forward and Ballistar lurched to the left, but clung on to the pommel and righted himself.

With the village behind them Ballistar's fear returned. He had been sitting quietly behind the tavern when the dark-skinned servant found him. Had he been asked beforehand whether he would be interested in a journey to the wizard's castle, Ballistar would have answered with a curt shake of his head. But two gold pieces and a pony had changed his mind. Two gold pieces! More money than Ballistar had ever held. Enough to buy the little shack, instead of paying rent. More than enough to have the cobbler make him a new pair of boots.

If he doesn 't sacrifice you to the demons!

Ballistar shivered. Glancing up at the man on the tall horse, he gave a nervous smile, but the man did not respond. 'Have you served your master long?' he enquired, trying to start a conversation.

'Yes.'

And that was it. The man touched heels to the gelding and moved ahead, Ballistar meekly following.

They rode for more than an hour, moving through the trees and over the high hills. Towards mid-morning Ballistar saw Fell and two of his foresters, Gwyn Dark-eye and Bakris Tooth-gone; he waved and called out to them.

The three foresters converged on the dwarf, ignoring the dark-skinned rider. 'Good day to you, Fell,' said Ballistar. Fell grinned, and Ballistar experienced renewed pleasure in the fact that he could look the handsome forester straight in the eye.

'Good day to you, little friend. She is a fine pony.'

'She's mine. A gift from the sorcerer.'

'He is not a sorcerer!' snapped the servant. 'And I wish you would stop saying it.'

'The Black man wants me to cook for him. Duck! Sigarni told him about me; he's paid me with this pony.' Ballistar decided not to mention the gold pieces. Fell he liked above all men, and Gwyn Dark-eye had always been kind to him. But Bakris Tooth-gone was not a man Ballistar trusted.

'Are you sure he doesn't want to cook you?' asked Gwyn. A slightly smaller man than Fell, and round-shouldered, Gwyn was the finest archer among the Loda.

Ballistar looked down upon him and noticed the man had a bald spot beginning at his crown. 'On a day like today the thought does not concern me,' said Ballistar happily. 'Today I have seen the world as a tall man.'

'Enjoy it,' sneered Bakris. 'Because when you get off that midget horse you'll return to the useless lump you've always been.' The words were harshly spoken, and they cut through Ballistar's good humour. Fell swung angrily on the forester but before he could speak Ballistar cut in.

'Don't worry about it, Fell. He's only angry because I've got a bigger prick than him. I don't know why it should concern him. Everyone else has too!'

Bakris lunged at the dwarf, but Fell caught him by the shoulder of his leather jerkin and dragged him back. 'That's enough!' roared Fell. The sudden commotion caused the pony to move forward.

Asmidir's servant nudged his gelding alongside and the two riders continued on their way.

Ballistar swung in the saddle and looked back at the foresters. When he saw Bakris staring after him he lifted his fist and waggled his little finger.

Asmidir's servant chuckled. 'You shouldn't be so swift to make enemies,' he observed.

'I don't care,' said Ballistar.

'And why is it that you Highlanders value so much the size of the male organ? Size is of no relevance, not to the act itself nor to the pleasure derived.'