‘I was worried near to death,’ complained the dwarf. Sigarni could not speak; she had begun to shake uncontrollably. ‘And look, you’ve cut your hand,’ he said, pointing to the trickle of blood on her palm.
Ballistar took up her clothes and led her back to the cave, where she sat wrapped in a blanket, her face and hands blue. ‘I hope that bone was worth it,’ he said.
‘It… was,’ she told him. ‘He … is … here.’
‘Who is?’
‘Ironhand.’
‘Ironhand?’ he repeated. ‘In the cave? With us?’ Ballistar gazed around fearfully. ‘I don’t see him.”
Sigarni shrugged off the blanket and moved a little way from the fire. ‘Come and rub my skin,’ she said. Ballistar put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage the flesh.
‘So now we are dealing with wizards and ghosts,’ he said.
‘Lower. On my back,’ she ordered.
Ballistar knelt behind her and rubbed gently at the cold skin. ‘You should sit closer to the fire.’
‘No. It would do more harm than good. When I am a little warmer . .. That is nice. Now my arms.’
He sat beside her, kneading her flesh, encouraging the blood to flow. He tried not to stare at her breasts, but failed. Sigarni did not seem to notice. Of course she doesn’t, he thought. I am not a man to her.
‘I am going to sleep now, Balli. Watch over me, and keep the fire going.’
Holding fast to the bone, she lay down by the fire. Ballistar covered her with two blankets. As she closed her eyes, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
‘What was that for?’ she asked sleepily.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I love you too,’ she whispered. And slept.
The fire burned low and Ballistar added the last of the wood. Sigarni’s flesh was still cool and the dwarf wandered out into the cold of the night to gather dead wood. The carcasses of the demons still lay where Sigarni had slain them, but they were not rotting; it was too cold for that. They’ll smell bad come spring, thought Ballistar as he wandered beneath the trees, kicking at the snow and seeking fuel.
‘Over there,’ said a voice. ‘Beneath the oaks.’
Ballister leapt, turned and fell over. Standing beside him was a glowing figure in ancient armour, his white beard braided into forks. He wore a long, double-handed broadsword in a scabbard of embossed silver – and the hand resting on it was made of red iron. ‘By Heaven, you are skittish,’ said the ghost. ‘Are you going to fetch the wood or not?’
‘Yes, lord,’ answered Ballistar.
‘I’m not your lord, dwarf. I am merely a spirit. Now fetch the wood before she freezes to death.’
Ballistar nodded, and dug around in the snow beneath the oaks, gadiering dead wood, then returning to the cave. The glowing figure stayed by him, watching his efforts. ‘It cannot be easy to live in such a body,’ he said.
‘A choice would be pleasant,’ muttered Ballistar.
‘You’ve a handsome face, lad. Be thankful for small gifts.’
‘All my gifts are small – bar one. And I’ll never get to use that,’ answered Ballistar, kneeling by the fire and placing two long sticks upon it.
The ghost assumed a sitting position by the fire. ‘You can never be sure,’ he said. ‘I had two dwarfs at my court and they were always in demand. Once I had to adjudicate in a very delicate matter, where a knight cited one of my dwarfs as his wife’s secret lover. He wanted the dwarf hanged and his wife burned at the stake.’.
‘What did you do? Did you kill them?’
‘Do I look like a barbarian? I told the knight that he would be laughed out of the kingdom if he sought a public trial. The wife was sent back to her family in disgrace. I had the dwarf castrated. However, that is not the point. Never lose faith, little man.’
‘Well, thank you for your advice,’ snapped Ballistar. ‘However. I have not yet met a woman who would wish to have me clamber all over her.’ He told the spirit of Bakris’ jest and Ironhand laughed.