'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.

49.

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.'

Ballistar glanced up at the man. 'Ah,' he thought, 'so you've got a small one too!'

Aloud he said, 'I wouldn't know. I have never had a woman.'

It was mid-afternoon when they topped the last rise before the castle. Ballistar had never travelled this far before and he halted his pony to stare down at the magnificent building. It was not a castle in the true sense, for it was indefensible, having wide-open gateways with no gates, and no moat surrounding it. It had once been the house of the Hunt Lord of the Grigors, but that clan had been annihilated in the Lowland wars, the few survivors becoming part of the Loda. A three-storied building, with a single tower by the north wall that rose to five storeys, it was built of grey granite, and the windows were of coloured glass joined by lead strips.

'We are late,' said the servant. 'Come!'

Ballistar's heart was pounding and his hands trembled as he flapped the reins against the pony's neck.

Two gold pieces seemed a tiny amount just then.

4.

AUTUMN WAS NOT far off, but here in the Highlands even the last days of summer were touched by a bitter cold that warned of the terrible winters that lay ahead. Two fires blazed at either end of the long hall, and even the heavy velvet curtains shimmered against the cold fingers of the biting wind that sought out the cracks and gaps in the old window frames.

Asmidir pushed away his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. 'You are a fine cook,' he told the dwarf. Two servants entered, lighting lanterns that hung in iron brackets on the walls, and the hall was filled with a soft glow.

'Can I go now?' asked Ballistar. The little man was sitting at the table, on a chair set upon blocks of wood.

'My dear fellow, of course you can go. But it is already becoming dark and your pony is bedded down for the night in a comfortable stall. I have had a room prepared for you. There is a warm fire there, and a soft bed. Tomorrow one of my servants will cook you a breakfast and saddle your pony. How does that sound?'

'That is wondrous kind,' said Ballistar uneasily, 'but I would like to be on my way.'

'You fear me?' asked Asmidir mildly.

'A little," admitted the dwarf.

'You think me a sorcerer. Yes I know. Sigarni told me. But I am not, Ballistar. I am merely a man. Oh, I know a few spells. In Kushir all the children of the rich are taught to make fire from air, and some can even shape dancing figures from the flames. I am not one of those. I was a nobleman - a warrior. Now I am a Highlander, albeit somewhat more dusky than most. And I would be your friend.

I do not harm my friends, nor do I lie. Do you believe me?'

'What does it matter whether I believe you or not?' countered the dwarf. 'You will do as you wish.'

'It matters to me,' said Asmidir. 'In Kushir it was considered unacceptable for noblemen to lie. It was one of the reasons the Outlanders - as you call them - defeated the armies of the Kushir King. The Outlanders kept lying: they signed treaties they had no intention of honouring, made peace, then invaded. They used spies and agents, filling Kushir soldiers with fear and trembling. An appalling enemy with no sense of honour.'

'But you fought alongside them,' said Ballistar.

'Yes. It is a source of endless regret. Come, sit by the fire and we shall talk.' The black man rose and walked to the fireside, settling his long frame into a deep armchair of burnished leather. A servant appeared and drew back Ballistar's seat, allowing the little man to slide from his cushions to the floor. Asmidir watched as he climbed with difficulty into the opposite armchair, then, waving away the servant, he leaned forward. 'You treat your affliction with great courage, Ballistar.

I respect that. Now what shall we speak of?'

'You could tell me why you served the Outlanders,' said the dwarf.

'Swift and to the point,' observed Asmidir, with an easy grin. 'It all came down to politics. My family were accused of treason by the Kushir King. He was hunting us down at the time the Outlanders invaded. My sister and my wife were executed by him, my father blinded and thrown into a dungeon. We have a saying in Kushir - the enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend. So I joined with the Outlanders.'

'And now you regret it?'

'Of course. There is no genuine satisfaction in revenge, Ballistar. All a man unleashes is a beast which will destroy even those he loves. Cities were laid waste, the people slaughtered or sold into slavery. A rich, cultured nation was set back two hundred years. And even when they had won, the slaughter continued. The Outlanders are a barbaric people, with no understanding of the simplest economic realities. The Kushir was rich because of trade and commerce. The lines of trade were severed, and treaties with friendly nations broken. There was a Great Library at Coshantin, the capital; the Outlanders burned it down.' Asmidir sighed and lifted an iron poker, idly stabbing at the burning logs.

'You grew to hate them?'

'Oh yes! Hatred as strong and tall as High Druin. But two men more than any other, the Baron Ranulph and the Earl of Jastey. The

53.

r King himself is merely a merciless savage, holding power through ruthlessness and manipulation. The Baron and the Earl hold the balance of his power.'

'Why are you telling me this?' asked Ballistar. 'It is not wise.'

Asmidir smiled. 'It is a question of judgement, my friend. Do you trust Sigarni?'

'In what way?'

'Her instincts, her values, her courage ... whatever?'

'She is intelligent and does not suffer fools. What has this to do with anything?'

'She trusts you, Ballistar. Therefore so do I. And as for the risk... well, all life is a risk. And time is running too short for me to remain conservative in my plans.

Sigarni tells me you are a great storyteller, and somewhat of a historian. Tell me of the clans. Where are they from, how did they come here? Who are their heroes and why? What are their noble lines?'

'You are moving too fast for me,' said Ballistar. 'A moment ago we were talking of trust. Before that, revenge. Now you want a story. Tell me first your purpose.'

'A clear thinker ... I like that. Very well. First I shall tell you a story.' Asmidir clapped his hands and a servant came forward bearing a tray on which were two golden goblets filled with fine red wine. Ballistar accepted the first, holding it carefully in both hands. As the servant departed Asmidir sipped his drink, then set the goblet aside. Leaning back, he rested his head on the high back of the chair. 'With Kushir in ruins I went home to my palace. An old man, dressed in a cloak of feathers, was waiting for me there. His face was seamed with wrinkles and lines, his hair and beard so thin they appeared to be fashioned from the memory of wood-smoke. He was sitting on the steps before my door. A servant told me he had arrived an hour before, and refused to be moved; they tried to lay hands upon him, but could not approach him. Knowing him to be a wizard, they withdrew. I approached him and asked what he wanted. He stood and walked towards my home. The door opened for him, though there were no servants close, and he made his way to my study. Once there, he asked me what I felt about the destruction of my land and my part in it. I did not answer him, for my shame was too great. He said nothing for a moment, then he bade me sit and began to talk of history. It was fascinating, Ballistar. It was as if he had witnessed all

54.

the events himself. Perhaps he had. I don't know. He spoke of the growth of evil and how, like a plague, it spreads and destroys. It was vital, he said, that there should always be adequate counter-balances against the forces of wickedness.

'Yet he insisted, we had reached a period of history when there was no balance.

The Outlanders and their allies were conquering all in their path. And those nations still resisting the advance of the Outlanders were doomed, for there were no great leaders among them. Then he told me of a conquered nation, and a commander yet to come. He said - and I believed him utterly - that here, in the north, I would find a prince of destiny, and from the ashes of Highland dreams would come a dynasty that would light our way forward into a better future. I came here with high hopes, Ballistar, and yet what do I find?

'There is no leader. There is no army. And in the spring the Outlanders will come here with fire and sword and exterminate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of peaceful farmers, cattle-men and villagers.' Asmidir threw a dry log to the dying blaze. 'I do not believe that the ancient one lied to me ... and I cannot accept that he might have been mistaken. Somewhere in these lands there is a man born to be King. I must find him before midwinter.'

Ballistar drained his wine. It was rich and heavy and he felt his head swimming.

'And you think my stories might help you?' he asked.

'They might provide me with a clue.'

'I don't see how. Legend has it that our ancestors passed through a magic Gateway, but I suspect our history is no different from other migrating peoples.

We probably came from a land across the water, originally as raiders. Some of our people then grew to love the mountains, and sent back ships for their families.

For centuries the clans warred upon one another, but then another migrating group arrived. They were called the Aenir, ancestors of the Outlanders. There was a great war. After that the clans formed a loose-knit confederacy.'

'But you had kings? From where did they come?'

'The first true King was Sorain, known as Ironhand. He was from the Wingoras, a mighty warrior. Hundreds of years ago he led the clans against the Three Armies and destroyed them. Even the Lowland clans respected him, for he risked everything to free their towns. He vanished one day, but legend has it he will return when needed.'

Asmidir shook his head. 'I doubt that. Every nation I know of has a hero of myth, pledged to return. None of them do. Did he have heirs?' 'No. He had a child, but the babe disappeared - probably murdered and buried in the woods.'

'So what of the other kings?' enquired Asmidir.

'There was Gandarin, also known as the Crimson - another great warrior and statesman. He died too soon and his sons fought among themselves for the crown. Then the Outlanders invaded and the clans put on their red cloaks of war and were cut down on Golden Moor. That was years ago. The young King fled over the water, but he was murdered there. Anyone known to share the blood of Gandarin was also put to the sword. And the Wearing of the Crimson was banned. No Highlander can have even a scarf of that colour.'

'And there is no one left of his line?'