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.’