LastWatch Keep

The road wound along the coast like a faded ribbon of brown earth, twisting between low hills and patches of wind-bent grass before disappearing around another rise. Recent rains had left much of it soft beneath foot. Wagon wheels had carved deep ruts through the mud, and pools of standing water reflected the broken clouds drifting overhead.

Beyond the hills, the sea stretched endlessly westward.

Even from this distance Rowan Pike could smell it.

Salt.

Kelp.

The faint scent of fish carried inland on a cool autumn breeze.

Gulls wheeled high above the cliffs, their cries echoing across the coastline as they searched for the day’s next meal.

Rowan watched them for a moment before returning his attention to the road.

“I still say forty-five Shekel for a ferry crossing is robbery.”

The donkey walking beside him flicked an ear.

Rowan took that as encouragement.

“Thirty for me, forty-five for you. That’s seventy-five Shekel just to float across a river.”

Buck continued walking.

“You’re not even helping pay.”

The donkey lowered his head and tore a mouthful from a patch of roadside grass without breaking stride.

Rowan sighed.

“Thought so.”

The pair continued along the road in comfortable silence.

At least it was comfortable for Buck.

Rowan had long ago accepted that most conversations between them were entirely one-sided.

The donkey carried the heavier share of their belongings in the large saddlebags hanging from either side of his worn travelling saddle. A rolled blanket sat behind the saddle alongside spare rope, a cooking pot, and various supplies gathered from villages scattered across Lysara.

Buck carried the weight with casual ease.

Years on the road had left him broader and stronger than most donkeys Rowan had encountered.

Not that Buck seemed particularly grateful for the compliment whenever it was mentioned.

A gust of wind swept across the hills.

Rowan pulled his weathered coat a little tighter around himself.

The rain had finally passed, but the air still carried the lingering chill of storms moving out to sea.

Ahead, the road climbed gently toward a rocky rise.

As they approached the crest, Rowan spotted the familiar shape of a small roadside shrine standing beside the path.

Time and weather had worn its stone smooth.

Lichen clung to its base.

A simple carving of a boat beneath a crescent moon had been etched into the front.

The Ferryman.

Traveller’s god.

Guide of roads, rivers, and safe journeys.

The shrine had probably stood there longer than the road itself.

Rowan stepped from the muddy track and approached.

Buck followed.

Mostly because he assumed food might somehow be involved.

The offering bowl at the shrine’s base contained a scattering of tarnished coins, a few dried flowers, and what appeared to be half a loaf of stale bread.

Rowan reached into his pocket and withdrew a single Copper Shekel.

He turned the coin between his fingers.

Then dropped it into the bowl.

The soft clink sounded surprisingly loud in the quiet afternoon.

“Can’t hurt.”

Buck immediately lowered his nose toward the offerings.

Rowan caught the donkey’s halter before disaster could strike.

“Oh no.”

Buck pulled slightly.

“No.”

Another tug.

“Those belong to the Ferryman.”

Buck looked entirely unconvinced.

“Stealing from a god seems like a poor idea.”

The donkey snorted.

Rowan pointed toward the road.

“Move.”

Reluctantly, Buck allowed himself to be guided away from temptation.

Whether he feared divine punishment or simply hadn’t liked the look of the bread remained unclear.

Knowing Buck, Rowan suspected the latter.

The road carried them onward.

The sea appeared again through a break in the hills, silver beneath shifting clouds.

Fishing boats dotted the distant water like tiny dark specks.

For a while neither traveller nor donkey encountered another soul.

Then Buck’s ears suddenly perked forward.

Rowan immediately became suspicious.

After years together he had learned one important truth.

Buck never looked that interested in anything that wouldn’t eventually cost Rowan money.

“Don’t.”

The donkey quickened his pace.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

Buck ignored him.

Naturally.

A small stone cottage sat a short distance from the road, surrounded by a fenced vegetable patch.

Turnips.

Rows and rows of turnips.

Buck had already spotted them.

Before Rowan could react, the donkey slipped through an open gate with the confidence of a creature who had committed this crime many times before.

“Buck.”

No response.

“BUCK.”

The first turnip disappeared.

Rowan closed his eyes.

The second vanished moments later.

By the time he reached the garden, a weary-looking farmer had emerged from the cottage carrying a basket beneath one arm.

The man looked at the donkey.

Then at Rowan.

Then back at the donkey.

“Your horse is eating my turnips.”

Rowan rubbed a hand across his face.

“That’s not a horse.”

The farmer nodded.

“Don’t suppose that changes anything.”

“No.”

“It doesn’t.”

The farmer sighed.

Buck continued eating.

Clearly convinced negotiations had gone in his favour.

The farmer stood patiently beside the garden while Buck continued his determined assault on the turnips.

“You know,” the farmer said, folding his arms, “most people at least pretend to stop their animals.”

“I’ve tried.”

The farmer watched as Buck selected another turnip with surprising care.

“Does it ever work?”

“Not once.”

The farmer barked a laugh.

That, at least, finally convinced Buck to look up.

Mud clung to his nose.

A half-chewed turnip protruded from one side of his mouth.

The donkey looked entirely pleased with himself.

Rowan reached into his coin pouch and counted out several Copper Shekel.

“Sorry.”

The farmer accepted the coins.

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

The farmer pointed at Buck.

“He could’ve found the cabbages.”

For the first time since stopping, Rowan genuinely smiled.

“Fair point.”

After a few more apologies and another reluctant effort to steer Buck away from temptation, the pair returned to the road.

The farmer waved them off.

“Safe travels.”

“You too.”

As they departed, Rowan glanced over his shoulder.

The farmer was already inspecting the damage while Buck looked back longingly at the vegetable patch.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Buck faced forward again.

For now.

By midday the clouds had begun to break apart.

Patches of blue sky appeared overhead while shafts of sunlight spilled across the coastline.

The road climbed onto a grassy bluff overlooking the sea.

Rowan decided it was as good a place as any to stop.

A broad windswept tree stood alone near the edge of the rise, its branches twisted by years of coastal storms.

Buck immediately began grazing.

Rowan dropped his pack beneath the tree and stretched.

His shoulders popped.

His knees complained.

Thirty-six wasn’t old.

But some mornings it felt considerably older than yesterday.

From his supplies he produced a chunk of hard cheese, a heel of bread, and several strips of dried meat.

Nothing impressive.

Travelling food rarely was.

Buck wandered over before Rowan had even finished unpacking.

“Absolutely not.”

The donkey stared.

Rowan pointed toward the grass.

“You’re standing in an entire field.”

Buck continued staring.

“I don’t care.”

The stare intensified.

Rowan sighed and broke off a small piece of bread.

Buck accepted victory with dignity.

As though the outcome had never been in doubt.

The sea rolled endlessly beyond the cliffs.

White foam gathered around dark rocks below while distant fishing vessels drifted across the horizon.

For a while the only sounds were gulls, wind, and the steady crunching of Buck’s lunch.

After eating, Rowan pulled his map from one of the saddlebags.

The parchment unfolded across his lap.

Years of travel covered its surface.

Notes crowded the margins.

Roads had been corrected and recorrected.

Crossed-out routes lingered beside newer ones.

Small symbols marked ferries, taverns, campsites, and villages.

Near one corner sat a note written in fading charcoal.

“Good stew. Terrible beds.”

Another read:

“Bridge unsafe after spring rains.”

Near the western coast a crude donkey head had been sketched beside a village.

Rowan shook his head.

“You brought that on yourself.”

Buck continued eating.

The map was less a map these days and more a record of years spent wandering.

Every mark carried a memory.

A storm survived.

A road discovered.

A village revisited.

A mistake made.

Some notes brought smiles.

Others didn’t.

Rowan folded the parchment carefully and returned it to his bag.

The road awaited.

It always did.

Later that afternoon he encountered a merchant wagon travelling in the opposite direction.

The wagon rattled along beneath a canvas cover while two heavily laden mules pulled it through the mud.

The driver raised a hand as they approached.

“Afternoon.”

“Afternoon.”

The merchant glanced toward Buck.

“That’s a sturdy-looking donkey.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

The merchant laughed.

They exchanged the usual traveller information.

Road conditions.

Weather.

Prices.

Ferry crossings.

The sort of conversation that happened thousands of times each day across Elaran.

As they prepared to part ways, the merchant scratched his beard.

“You heading to Gull’s Hollow?”

“That’s the plan.”

The merchant nodded slowly.

“Village seems nervous lately.”

“Nervous about what?”

The man shrugged.

“Heard different stories.”

“Such as?”

“Depends who’s talking.”

Not particularly useful.

Still, Rowan filed the comment away.

Travellers often noticed things locals no longer saw.

“Safe roads.”

“And to you.”

The wagon rolled onward.

Within minutes it disappeared behind a bend in the road.

The conversation lingered longer than it probably deserved.

Nervous villages weren’t unusual.

Poor harvests.

Bandits.

Bad weather.

Dozens of reasons existed for people to worry.

Still.

The merchant had mentioned it for a reason.

The afternoon drifted quietly onward.

The road followed the coast.

Sea birds wheeled overhead.

Wild grasses rippled beneath the wind.

A pair of River Gliders played near a rocky stream crossing, vanishing into the water the moment they noticed Rowan’s approach.

Far offshore, dark clouds gathered over the distant horizon.

Not today’s problem.

Perhaps tomorrow’s.

The sun had already begun its slow descent when Rowan finally reached the crest of another rise.

He paused.

Below him, nestled beside a sheltered inlet, sat Gull’s Hollow.

Smoke rose from stone chimneys.

Fishing boats crowded the harbour.

Nets hung drying beside wooden docks.

The late afternoon sun painted the village in warm shades of gold and amber.

After days of road and rain, it looked inviting.

Comfortable.

Civilized.

Exactly the sort of place a traveller hoped to find before nightfall.

Buck immediately quickened his pace.

Rowan noticed.

“You’re not fooling anyone.”

The donkey continued walking.

Faster now.

The promise of a feed trough apparently outweighed all dignity.

Rowan shook his head and adjusted the strap across his shoulder.

A warm meal.

A dry bed.

Perhaps a little work.

Nothing more.

That was all he expected to find in Gull’s Hollow.

Far below, the village waited peacefully beneath the fading autumn sky.

Neither Rowan nor Buck had the slightest idea that their stay was about to become much longer than either of them intended.