‘Who shall my servant ask for tomorrow?’ Leofric enquired.
‘Oh, I am sorry, I did not introduce myself. My name is Jakuta Khan.’
Ballistar’s hatred for winter was deep and perfect, for it was the one season designed to highlight his deformity. His short, stumpy legs could not cope with deep snow and he felt a prisoner in Asmidir’s house. Ballistar longed to be with Sigarni again, planning for the spring and the coming war.
‘You would be useless now,’ he said aloud, as he perched on the battlements staring out over the winter landscape. ‘Useless.’
Scrambling to his feet, he stood. Yet today there was no enjoyment in being so high. It served only to emphasize how tiny he was. Snow began to fall as Ballistar dropped to his belly and lowered himself to the parapet.
Back inside his upper room, he stoked the fire and sat down on the rug staring into the flames. The chairs were all too tall, and Ari had brought a wooden box to the room so that Ballistar could climb into bed. Why was I born like this? he wondered. What sin could a child be guilty of that a vengeful God would condemn him to a life such as this.
No one understood his torment. How could they? Even Sigarni had once said, ‘Perhaps one day you will meet a beautiful dwarf woman and be happy.’
I don’t want a dwarf woman, he thought. Just because I am deformed, it does not mean I will find deformity attractive in others.
I want you, Sigarni. I want you to love me, to see me as a man.
It won’t happen. He remembered the taunts that marked his childhood and adolescence. Bakris Tooth-gone had once caused great merriment with a joke about Ballistar and his inability to find love. ‘How could he make love to a woman?’ Bakris had said. ‘If they were nose to nose, he’d have his toes in it, toes to toes he’d have his nose in it, and if he ever got there he’d have no one to talk to.’
Oh yes, great roars of laughter had greeted the jest. Even Ballistar had chuckled. What other choice was there?
Ballistar left his room and wandered downstairs and out into the stable-yard. The little white pony was in her stall and the dwarf climbed to the rail by her head and stroked her neck. The pony swung her head and nuzzled him. ‘Do you worry about being a dwarf horse?’ he said. ‘Do you look at the tall mares with envy?’ The pony returned to munching the straw in her feed box. It was cold in the stable and Ballistar saw that the pony’s blanket had slipped from her back. Climbing to the floor he retrieved it, and tried to flip it back into place. It was a large blanket and, as he tried to throw it high, it fell back over Ballistar’s head. Three times he tried. On the last it was almost in place, but the pony moved to its right and the blanket fell to the left.
It was the final humiliation for Ballistar. Tears welled in his dark eyes, and he thought again of the high parapet. On the north side, at the base of the wall, there were sharp rocks. If I were to throw myself from the battlements I would die, he thought. No more pain, no more humiliation …
Ballistar returned to the house and began to climb the stairs.
The servant-warrior, Ari, moved out of the library and saw him. ‘Good morning, Ballistar.’
‘Good morning,’ mumbled the dwarf, continuing his climb.
‘I was wondering if you could assist me.’
Ballistar hesitated, and glanced down through the stair rails at the tall black man.
‘Not today,’ he said.
‘It is important,’ said Ari softly. ‘I am studying the maps of the Duane Pass, for that is where we believe the first battle will be fought. Do you know it?’
‘I know it.’
‘Good, then you will be of great assistance.’ Ari turned away and re-entered the library. Ballistar stood for a moment, then slowly climbed down the stairs and followed the man. Ari was sitting on the floor with maps all around him. A coal fire was burning in the hearth.