The Ironhand's Daughter

CHAPTER X

TORGAN'S MOOD WAS not enhanced by the news from his scouts that the Loda woman was riding towards the town. At first the people of the Farlain had talked of little else - how strong she was, now noble she looked, how brave. Torgan had fast become heartily sick of it. That was why he had led his rash raid on the Outlanders, to prove that he was the natural leader of the clans. It might have worked too, save for the craven tactics of the enemy, drawing back and then loosing cavalry upon him. Had they stood and fought like men he was sure the Farlain warriors would have cut them to pieces. After that he had led two spectacularly unsuccessful attacks on their fort. Another forty men had been struck by arrows; seven had died.

Now the Farlain were talking about Sigarni once more, how she had supposedly killed demons sent against her, and how successful she had been against the Outlanders at Cilfallen. God, could they not see what she was? Just a Loda whore in pretty armour! There was little doubt in Torgan's mind that the battle at Cilfallen had been masterminded by the black-skinned bastard who rode with her.

Rode with her? Rode her, more like!

Now she was coming here again.

This time I'll make her humiliation complete, he thought.

His wife, Layelia, entered the room, bearing a cup of sweet tisane. He took it without a word and sipped it. Layelia did not depart, but stood staring at him. He looked up into her large, soft brown eyes. 'What?' he asked, gruffly.

'She is coming,' said his wife.

'I know that. I'll deal with her.'

'Are you sure you are in the right?'

'What is that supposed to mean?' he snapped. She flinched, which pleased him. A woman should know her place.

'I've heard talk that she is the chosen one. Carela told me ..."

'I'm not interested in women's gossip, Layelia. And I've heard enough!'

For a moment he thought she would stand her ground, but she bowed her head and left him alone once more. Torgan ran his hand over his close-cropped back hair. The bald spot was growing on the crown and his widow's peak was becoming more pronounced by the day. He swore softly. Why should he alone of his family lose his hair? His father had a shock of white hair, like a lion's mane, until the day he died at eighty.

Torgan threw his cloak around his shoulders and stepped out into the winter sunlight. It was bright, the day clear and cold. He could see the Loda woman in the distance. The black man was not with her, but there were a dozen or so riders following her as she made her way down the long slope. More people were on the streets than was normal for this time of day. They were making their way to the square, ready to hear the whore's words.

Torgan strode out, looking to neither left nor right. His chair had been set at the centre of the square, his lieutenants were already standing beside it. This time there was no Neren, or Calias, or Pimali. All had fallen in the battle.

I never would have acted so fast had the woman not inflamed my anger, he thought. It's her fault they are dead.

By the time Sigarni and her followers rode into the square, there were more than two hundred Farlain gathered to witness the exchange. She did not dismount, but sat her horse staring at Torgan.

'Well, woman?' he called out. 'What now? Why are you here?'

'Perhaps I just wanted to look at a fool,' she said, her words colder than the wind. 'Perhaps I wondered whether the Outlanders had made you a general in return for the number of clansmen you killed for them.'

Torgan was outraged. 'How dare you?' he shouted, surging to his feet. 'I did not come here to listen to your insults.'

'Where do you normally go?' she said. 'By God, I'd think you'd have to travel far from the Highlands not to hear insults. Three hundred men! You led them into a trap that a child could have seen. Or did no one mention cavalry to you? Did your scouts not see their hiding places? Come to that, Torgan, did you even send out scouts?'

'I don't answer to you.'

'That is where you are wrong,' Sigarni told him as, dismounting, she walked towards him. 'You answer to me, Torgan, because you have wasted three hundred Highlanders. Thrown their lives away in a moment of crass stupidity. Aye, you'll answer to me!'

Stepping in close, she slammed a right-hand punch to his chin. The blow shocked him and he stepped back, trying to ready himself. She turned away from him, then spun back and leapt, her boot cannoning against his jaw. Torgan hit the seat and fell heavily, striking his temple against the cold flagstones. Dazed, he heard her carrying on speaking as if nothing had happened. Only she wasn't talking to him, she was addressing the Farlain. 'In eleven weeks,' she said, 'an army will come to these Highlands of ours - a murderous force intent on butchery. If we are to destroy them we need to act together, under a single leader. The fool lying there will lead you to destruction.

I think you already know that. Pick him up!'

Torgan felt strong arms lifting him to his feet, then sitting him in his chair. 'The position of Hunt Lord can be passed from father to son,' he heard her say, 'but that has not always been the Highland way. We are in a war, and it is up to you to choose a Hunt Lord who can best serve the needs of the people. the people - Farlain, Loda, Pallides and Wingoras. I do not care who you choose. But whoever it is will serve under my leadership.'

'By what right?' asked a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with a silver moustache. Torgan blinked as Harcanan stepped up to stand before the woman. His uncle would put her in her place. He was a man of iron principles, not one to be fooled by this whore in scarlet.

'By what right?' echoed Sigarni. 'By right of blood and right of battle. By virtue of my sword and my skills.'

He shook his head. 'I do not know of your blood, Sigarni, but your battle was one skirmish fought at Cilfallen. As to your sword and your skills, I have seen no evidence that you can carry a fight with either. I say this with no disrespect, for I applaud your defence of Cilfallen and your determination to fight against the Outlanders. But I need more proof that you are the war leader we should follow.'

'Well said,' she told him. 'And how would you like this proof delivered?'

'I cannot say - but one battle does not convince me. Even now the Outlanders are camped on our land, their position impregnable. A war leader should be able to free us of their presence.'

'What is your name?'

'I am Harcanan.'

'I have heard of you,' she said. 'You fought at Golden Moor. It is said you killed twenty Outlanders, and led the King to safety.'

He smiled grimly. 'An exaggeration, Sigarni. But I was there the last time the clans gathered against the Outlanders and I will be there the next time, God willing.'

'So then, Harcanan, will you follow me?'

'I have already said that I need more proof.'

Sigarni stood silently for a moment. 'I will make a bargain with you, Harcanan,' she said at last.

'Pledge yourself to me, and then I will show you proof

'Why not the other way round?' he countered.

'Because I require your faith, as well as your sword.'

He smiled. 'I hear you require men to bend the knee to you, as if to a monarch. Is that what you are asking?'

'Aye, Harcanan. Exactly that. As in the old days. But you will not need to lead me to safety; you will live to see the Outlanders crushed and broken, begging for mercy. Now give me your pledge.'

Torgan sat quietly, waiting for the old warrior to laugh in her face. He did not. Instead he walked slowly forward and dropped to one knee before her. 'My sword and my life,' he said.

Sigarni swung to the crowd. Throwing up her arm, she pointed to the line of horse-drawn wagons making their slow way over the crest of the hill. 'Those wagons you see are loaded with the spoils of war, taken from the fort on Farlain land. My forces took that fort two days ago. Even as we speak, the Pallides fort is falling to us.'

Harcanan rose. 'How many men did you lose?' he asked.

'None,' she told him. 'Assemble the council, for I would address them.'

Harcanan bowed, and Sigarni turned to Torgan. 'I could - and probably should - kill you,' she said. 'But you are a Highlander, and not without courage. Be at the council meeting.'

Torgan rose and stumbled away, his mind reeling.

*

Gwalchmai was sober. It was not an uplifting experience. As he sat in the log hall, surrounded by the younger children of the encampment, he found himself yearning for the sanctuary of the jug.

There were several older women present, dishing out the last of the milk to the eager young, and about a dozen younger mothers sitting in a group, holding their babies and talking animatedly.

Gwalchmai could not hear their conversation, for most of the smaller children had gathered around him and were asking questions he found it hard to answer. For some weeks now his powers had been waning, and he found himself unable to summon visions. It was ironic, that now of all times his Talent should desert him. He had often prayed to be released from the gift - the curse - and now that it had happened he felt terribly alone, and very frightened.

The clan needed him - and he had nothing more to give.

'Why do they want to kill us all, Gwalchmai?' asked a bright-eyed young boy of around twelve.

'Have we done something wrong?'

'No, nothing wrong," he grunted, feeling himself hemmed in by the youngsters.

'Then why are we being punished?"

'It's no good asking me to make sense of it, lad. It's a war. There's no sense in war.'

'Then why are we doing it?' questioned another boy.

'We don't have a choice,' said Gwalchmai. There was still a little left in the jug, he remembered.

But where had he put it?

'Are we all going to be killed?' asked a girl with long red hair. Gwalchmai cleared his throat. A man's voice cut in and Gwalchmai looked up to see Kollarin, moving through the youngsters. The younger man grinned at Gwalch, patted his shoulder and then sat down beside him. 'When a thief enters your house,' he told the children, 'to take what is yours, then you either allow him to roam unchecked or you stop him. When a wolf pack attacks your cattle, you slay the wolves. That is the way of the hunter. The Outlanders have decided to take all that is yours. Your fathers have decided to stop them.'

'My father is a great hunter,' declared the girl. 'Last year he killed a rogue bear.'

'Not on his own,' said the boy. 'My father was with him. He shot it too.'

'He did not!' A squabble broke out between the two. Kollarin's laughter boomed out.

'Come, come, clansmen, this is no way to behave. I did not have a father - well, not that I recall. I had a mother who could shoot a bow, or wield a sword. Once, when a lioness got in amongst our sheep she strode out to the pasture, carrying only a long staff, and frightened it away. She was a fine woman.'

'You are an Outlander,' said the first boy, his earnest gaze fixed to Kollarin's face. 'Why do you want to kill us?'

'I never wanted to kill anyone,' Kollarin told him. 'There are many ... Outlanders, as you call them, from many nations. They have built an empire; I am from one part of that empire. They conquered my country a hundred and ten years ago. The Outlanders are not, by nature, evil; they do not eat babies, or make blood sacrifices to vile gods. Their problem is that they believe in their own destiny as masters of the world. They respect strength and courage above all else. Therefore the strongest, the most ruthless, tend to achieve high rank. The Baron is such a man; he is evil, and because he leads in the north his evil spreads through the men under his command.'

'What happened to your father?' asked the red-haired girl.

'He ran away when I was a babe.'

'Why?'

Kollarin shrugged. 'I cannot answer for him. My mother told me he found life on the farm too dull.'

'Did people torment you?' asked a small boy with thick curly hair.

Kollarin nodded. 'Aye, they did. A boy without a father becomes, for some reason, an object of scorn.'

'Me too,' said the boy. 'My father ran away before I was born.'

'He didn't run away,' put in another child scornfully. 'Not even your mother could have said who he was.'

The curly-haired boy reddened and started to rise. Kollarin spoke swiftly. 'Let us have no violence here. You are all of the clan, and the clan is in danger; it is no time to argue with another. But there is something else you could think about. How does evil grow? What makes it appear in a human heart, growing like a weed among the blooms? I tell you. It is born from anger and injustice, from resentment and jealousy. You have all witnessed the tiniest seed of it here in this hall. A boy with no father has been insulted for what may - or may not - have been the sin of his mother. That insult, and others like it, will simmer inside him as he grows. And by what right is he treated so unjustly?' Kollarin fixed his eyes on the older boy. 'Has his birth damaged you in some way?'

'Everyone knows his mother is a—'

'Do not say it!' said Kollarin, icily. 'For when you speak thus, you give birth to evil.'

'It's the truth!'

'No, it is a perception of the truth. There is a difference. To the Outlandersyou are an untutored barbarian, worth less than a pig. You are not even human: your mother is a whore and your father is a stinking piece of filth who needs to be eradicated. That is their perception of the truth.

They are wrong — and so are you. I do not say this to you in anger, boy. In fact it saddens me.'

'I will tell my father what you said about him, Outlander!' shouted the boy. 'He will kill you for it!'

'If that is true,' said Kollarin softly, 'there will be one less person to fight the Baron's men.

No, I do not think that he will. I think it more likely he will be saddened, as I am, thatyou should insult a brother at a time like this.'

'He's not my brother! He's the son of a whore!'

'That's enough!' roared Gwalchmai, surging to his feet. 'I am the Clan Dreamer, and I know the truth. Kollarin has spoken it, though perhaps he should not. What festers inside you, young man, is that everyone can see the resemblance between you and Kellin. You are brothers, and no amount of harsh words will change that. You have a great deal of growing up to do. Start now.'

The older boy ran from the hall, leaving the door swinging on its canvas hinges. Snow blew in and another child moved to the door, pushing it shut and dropping the latch. The children gathered again around the two men, their faces fearful. 'Sometimes,' said Kollarin, 'life can be needlessly cruel. You have witnessed such a time. Evil does not grow from the head of a devil with horns - if it did we would all run from it. It springs from an angry word, and settles in the ears of the hearers. It can grow almost unnoticed until it flowers in rage and envy, jealousy and greed. The next time you have an angry thought about a clan brother or sister, remember this.'

'He will kill you, you know,' said the curly-haired Kellin. 'Jaren's father has a terrible temper.

You should get a sword.'

'I will, should the need arise,' said Kollarin sadly. 'But now I think we should play a game, and change the mood. How many here know Catch the Bear?'

*

Gwalchmai quietly left the hall with the game still in progress, and the squeals and laughter of the children ringing in his ears. It was bright and cold outside, but the old man could smell the approach of distant spring upon the wind. He shivered.

Kollarin was right. Evil was not an external force waiting to seize upon a wandering heart. It dwelt within the heart, a cocooned maggot waiting for the moment to break out and feed, gorging itself on the darker forces of the human soul. This was well understood by the founders of the clan, who instilled the stories and myths for youngsters to emulate. Heroes never oppressed or tormented the weak, never lied or stole or used their powers for selfish purposes. Heroes were always subject to such dark desires, but resisted them manfully. All such stories had but one purpose - to encourage the young to battle the demons inside.

Even with his Talent fading, Gwalchmai knew what demons drove youngjaren. Other children whispered that Kellin was his brother.. . this meant that his father had been unfaithful to his mother, and had then betrayed another woman leaving her to bring up a son in shame. Jaren would not have his father slandered in such a way, and had turned his anger towards little Kellin, blaming him for the lies. His anger and his hatred were born of love for his father.

Gwalchmai stood in the cold sunlight, waiting.

It was not long before he saw the boy heading back with a stocky clansman beside him. For a moment he could not remember the man's name, then it came to him - Kars. When Gwalchmai called out to him, the man let go of his son's hand and strode towards the Dreamer. His square, beardless face was pale with anger.

'You lied about me, Dreamer,' he said, his tone icy. 'If you were a younger man I would slay you where you stand. The Outlander is different; he will die for the honour of my family.'

'And will the blood wash away the shame?' asked Gwalchmai, holding to the man's gaze.

Kars stepped in close. 'The woman was any man's for a copper farthing. That was her work and her pleasure. Aye, I rutted with her. Find me a man who did not.'

'That is inconsequential,' said Gwalchmai.'Good God, man, have you not looked at the boy? Every line of his face mirrors yours. Yet even that is beside the point. Why should the child carry the sins of his mother? What has he done, save to serve as a reminder of a night of casual coupling?

And as for the Outlander, he spoke only the truth.'

'He called me a piece of filth!' snarled Kars. 'Is that the truth, old man?'

'He did not call you anything, Kars. He was explaining to the children about how the Outlanders perceive us. Jaren became angry and took it all personally.'

'Enough talk!' snapped the man, drawing his claymore and turning away.

'What now, Kars?' asked Gwalchmai softly. 'Will you walk into a children's gathering and slaughter the man who leads them in games? Can you not hear the laughter? The joy? How long since the clan children knew such moments?'

At that instant the doors opened and the children moved out into the light. Kars stood stock-still, his sword in his hand. The laughter of the young faded away, and they stood by silently as Kollarin stepped out and swung his green cloak around his slender shoulders. A small boy moved out to stand beside him. Kars looked at the child, then at his own son, Jaren. No one moved. Kars plunged his sword into the snow and stepped forward to drop on one knee before Kellin. The little boy did not flinch, but stared back at the warrior.

Gwalchmai felt his heart beating erratically, his breathing shallow. For Kars to accept the boy as his own would mean a loss of honour to the proud clansman, causing grief to himself and shame to his family. To reject the evidence of his eyes would bring a different kind of shame, but one that was at least private.

The warrior reached out and placed his hands on Kellin's shoulders. 'You are a fine lad,' he said, his voice choked with emotion. 'A fine lad. Should you wish it, you would be welcome at my fire, and at my home.'

Gwalchmai could scarce believe he had heard the words. Switching his gaze to Jaren, who was standing near to his father, he saw that the boy looked close to tears. Kars glanced up and called to his son and Jaren ran to him. Kars stood, then offered his hand to Kellin. 'Let us walk for a while,' he said. Kellin took his left hand, Jaren his right.

Together they walked away towards the trees.

Kollarin strolled across to where Gwalchmai stood. 'A curious encounter,' observed the younger man.

'There is still nobility within the clan,' said Gwalchmai proudly. 'And I will die happy.'

Kollarin's face showed his sorrow. 'You are going back to your cabin, to meet the soldiers who will kill you. Why? You know that if you stay here you will thwart them.'

'Aye,' agreed Gwalchmai. 'There are magical moments when a man can change the future. But not this time. I still have one small task to perform, one last gift for Sigarni.'

'You will plant a seed,' said Kollarin sadly, 'and you will die for it.'

'Take care of my dogs, young man. I have grown to love them. And now I must go.' Suddenly Gwalchmai chuckled. 'There are two jugs of honey mead liquor hidden in my loft back home. I can hear them calling to me!'

Kollarin put out his hand. 'You are a good man, Gwalchmai, and a brave one. I know you are concerned about Sigarni, and how she will fare without your guidance. I will be her Gifted One ... and I will never betray her.'

'There is one who will,' said the old man. 'I do not know who.'

'I will watch for him', promised Kollarin.

*

Leofric's servant banked up the fire and brought in fresh candles which he lit and placed atop the dying stubs. The blond-haired young man did not acknowledge his presence, but remained poring over maps and calculations. Leofric was not a happy man. Much as he enjoyed the logistics of a campaign, he could not divorce himself from the feeling that it was all so unnecessary. The clans had been peaceful for years, and now the Baron was set to bring fire and death into their lands.

And for what? A little glory and the chance to rise again in the King's eyes. That and the speculation on land prices south of the border.

It was all so meaningless.

The servant placed a goblet of steaming tisane before him. Leofric lifted it and sipped the brew, which was sweet and spiced with liquor. 'Thank you. Most thoughtful,' he said, looking up at the servant. The man disappeared from his mind instantly.

The army would march in ten weeks. Each of the six thousand men would carry four days' food supply with them. Leofric lifted a quill pen. One pound of oats, eight ounces of dried beef, half an ounce of salt. Seven pennies for each pack, multiplied by six thousand. He shook his head. The Baron would not be pleased at such an outlay.

Sipping his tisane, he leaned back in his chair.

By his reckoning this war would cost twelve thousand four hundred gold pieces in wages, food and materials. But the Baron had budgeted for ten thousand.

Where to make cuts? Salt was expensive, but soldiers would not march without it, and it was common knowledge that an absence of beef in the diet led to cowardly behaviour. But halving the oats ration would mean less bulk food, and besides would save only... he scribbled down a calculation, then multiplied it. Three hundred and forty-two gold pieces.

Then he brightened. You have not considered the dead, he thought. The Highlanders will fight, and that means a percentage of the army would not be requiring food or payment. But how many? On a normal campaign with the Baron the losses could be as high as thirty per cent, but that would not be the situation here. Half that? A quarter? Say five per cent: Three hundred men. Once more he bent over his calculations.

Almost there, he decided.

The servant returned. 'Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a man to see you.'

'What time is it?'

'A little before midnight, sir.'

'An odd time to be calling. Who is it?'

'I do not know him, sir. He is a stranger. He asked for you and said he had information you would find invaluable.'

Leofric sighed; he was tired. 'Very well, show him in. Give us no more than ten minutes, then interrupt me on a matter of importance - you understand?'

'Of course, sir.' The man bowed and departed.

Leofric rubbed his eyes and yawned. Midnight. Dear God, I have been working on these papers for seven hours! Hastily he gathered them together, pushing them into a drawer. The servant returned, ushering in a middle-aged man with a round fleshy face and glittering eyes.

'I trust you will forgive this intrusion,' said the newcomer. 'But the news I have could not wait for the morning.'

'And why is that pray?' countered Leofric, gesturing the man to a seat.

'You were working on the invasion plans,' said the other, with a smile. 'My information will force substantial changes.'

'How do you know what I was working on?'

'Let us come back to that, Leofric,' said the man, with a wide smile. 'For now, let me tell you that two of your three forts have fallen to the clansmen, and all the supplies they contain are now being consumed by your enemies.'

Leofric's weariness vanished immediately. 'That's not possible! I supervised the structures myself. They were impregnable!'

'Not from deceit, it appears.'

Leofric sat down. 'Deceit?'

'The woman Sigarni sent the traitor, Obrin, and a hundred men posing as a relief force. Both forts surrendered without a fight.'

'How... ? Who are you?'

'I think you can fairly assume that I am a friend, Lord Leofric. I also have information concerning Sigarni and her plans. She is gathering an army, you know.'

'Under whose leadership?'

'Her own, of course. She is of the blood royal, and she masterminded the defeat of your forces at Cilfallen. Fine credentials, don't you think?'

'How many men does she command now?'

'Close to two thousand. The Farlain are with her, and the Pallides will soon follow. Unless she is stopped, that is.'

'We cannot get through until the thaw. All the northern passes are blocked.'

'You cannot get through but! can. I have already, in a manner of speaking.'

The servant entered. 'My lord, I think you should ...'

'Yes, yes, no need for that now. Bring me another tisane, and one for our guest.'

The man nodded and bowed as Leofric returned his attention to his guest. 'I think it is time you declared your interest in this matter,' he said.

'Of course. I am hunting the witch, Sigarni. My reasons are of no concern to you, but it is important to me that I find her. Surrounded as she is now by loyal clansmen, it might be ... difficult for me to reach her. You can help me in my quest - as I can help you in yours.'

'You're a magicker?'

The man laughed. 'Nothing so dainty, my lord. I am a sorcerer. Some time ago I was paid to...

remove the problem Sigarni posed. I failed. Three times. I say this without shame, for my opponents were mighty indeed. Happily, they now believe me to be dead, which leaves me free to enjoy the success I have waited for.'

'Why would they think you dead?'

'A man was torn to pieces by demons. I made sure he resembled me in every way. You wish to hear more?'

Leofric shook his head. 'Absolutely not. What is it you require of me, in return for your information?'

'I find that I am short of funds in Citadel town. I am far from my own bankers, and would be grateful for a gratuity that would enable me to rent a house in Citadel. There is much I must do to prepare for my next attempt. Men and materials, that sort of thing.'

'Of course. Where are you staying at present?'

'A hostelry nearby, the Blue Duck tavern.'

'I will have one of my servants bring you money tomorrow morning. I would also appreciate any further information you can supply concerning the plans of the rebels.'

The man rubbed his fleshy chin. 'I will consider that,' he said. 'It is a delicate business. You see, I don't want you to capture or kill Sigarni. That delight is for me. I'll think on it, and let you know my decision.'

'The Baron will almost certainly want to see you.'

'I don't believe so, Lord Leofric. Tell him you have a spy who brought you this information. That, after all, is the truth. Do not mention me to him. It would displease me.'

'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.

Ballistar slumped down beside the man. 'What do you need?' he asked.

'These woods here,' said Ari, pointing to a green section, 'are they thick and dense, or light and open?'

'Reasonably light. Firs, mostly. You thought to hide men there?'

'It was a possibility.'

Ballistar shook his head. 'Not possible. But there is a gully just beyond the woods where a force could be concealed. There!' he said, stabbing his index finger on the map. 'Now I will leave you.'

'Ah, but we have just begun,' said Ari, with a smile. 'Look at this.' He passed Ballistar a sketch and the dwarf took it. Upon it was an •outline of Duane Pass and a series of rectangles, some blacked in, others in various colours.

'What are these?'

'The classic Outland battle formation - infantry at the centre, the heavy black blocks. Two divisions. The blue represents the cavalry, the yellow archers and slingers. The cavalry also may be in two divisions, lightly armoured and heavily armoured. But this we do not yet know. Where would you place our forces?'

'I'm not a soldier!' snapped Ballistar.

'Indeed not, but you are a bright, intelligent man. Skills can be learned. Let me give you an example: Where would cavalry be of limited use?'

'In a forest,' answered Ballistar, 'where the trees and undergrowth would restrict a mounted man.'

'And what slows down infantry?'

'Hills, mountains, rivers. Forests again.'

'There, you see?' Ari told him. 'Having established that, then we look for ways to ensure that battles are fought where we desire them -in forests, on hills. So, where in Duane would you position our forces?'

Ballistar gazed at the map. 'There is only one good defensive point. There is a flat-topped hill at the northern end of the pass - but it would be surrounded swiftly.'

'Yes,' said Ari, 'it would. How many people could gather there?'

'I don't know. A thousand?'

'I would think two thousand,' said Ari. 'Which is our entire force.'

'What would be the point of such an action?' asked Ballistar. 'Once surrounded there would be no way to retreat, and even the advantage of occupying a hill would be overcome by an Outland army numbering more than five thousand men.'

'Yet it remains the only true defensive position,' insisted Ari. 'Once the Oudanders are through Duane Pass, diey can spread out and attack isolated hamlets and villages. Nodiing could stop them.'

'I don't know die answer,' Ballistar admitted.

'Nor I, but we will speak of it again. Tonight at dinner.' He looked direcdy into Ballistar's eyes. 'Or did you have odier plans?'

Ballistar took a deep breath. 'No, no odier plans.'

'That is good. I will see you later.'

'You really believe I can be of help in diis?' asked Ballistar, struggling to his feet.

'Of course. Take die sketches with you, and think about diem.'

Ballistar smiled. 'I will, Ari. Thank you.'

The black man shrugged and returned to his studies.