Ironhand's Daughter by David Gemmell

“Find out, Leofric. All possible leaders. Names, directions to their homes or farms.”
    â€œMight 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.”
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œShe’s mine!” said Ballistar, grinning.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œGive 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 backward 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.
    â€œThank you, Grame,” said Ballistar, with as much dignity as he could muster. The smith pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself down.
    â€œThink 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!”
    â€œHiddy up!” said Ballistar, more softly. The pony moved forward and Ballistar lurched to the left, but clung onto 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 inquired, trying to start a conversation.
    â€œYes.”
    And that was it. The man touched heels to the gelding and moved ahead,