‘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!’