Leofric leaned over the table and felt the cold breeze from the open window flicker against his back. ‘That is the river Dranuin, sir. It starts on the northern flank of High Druin and meanders through the forest into the sea. That is in Pallides lands.’
The Baron glanced up and smiled. The boy’s face was blue-tinged. ‘Cold, Leofric?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A soldier learns to put aside thoughts of discomfort. Now tell me about the Pallides.’
I’m not a soldier, thought Leofric, I am a cleric. And there is a difference between the discomfort endured through necessity and the active enjoyment of it. But these thoughts he kept to himself. ‘The largest of the clans, the Pallides number some six thousand people. It used to be more, but the Great War devastated them. In the main they are cattle-breeders, though there are some farms which grow oats and barley. In the far north there are two main fishing fleets. The Pallides are spread over some two hundred square miles and live in sixteen villages, the largest being Caswallir, named after a warrior of old who, legend claims, brought the Witch Queen to their aid in the Aenir Wars.’
‘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.’