The Ashen Peaks

The first thing Rowan Pike heard that morning was a man threatening to turn his donkey into sausages.

It came from somewhere beyond the thin timber wall of the barn, carried on a voice powerful enough to send a pair of roosting pigeons fluttering from the rafters above Rowan’s head.

“You long-eared, thieving bastard! Get out of there!”

Rowan opened one eye.

For several quiet seconds he remained exactly where he was, wrapped in his bedroll among the sweet-smelling hay of the loft, listening to the distant commotion and entertaining the faint hope that somewhere in the world there happened to be another long-eared thief causing trouble.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a wooden bucket being knocked over.

A donkey brayed.

Rowan closed his eye again.

“Oh no.”

Something crashed outside.

“Not again.”

He pushed himself upright with a groan and immediately regretted the decision. Morning light streamed through the gaps between the barn boards in thin golden blades, catching drifting dust and illuminating the scattered pieces of clothing he’d abandoned beside his bedroll the previous night. One boot had somehow migrated beneath a pile of hay. His coat hung from a peg near the ladder. His belt, knife and coin purse remained where he’d deliberately placed them within reach.

Buck, however, was conspicuously absent.

Rowan dragged on his boots, tucked his shirt with only a passing concern for accuracy, collected his belt and threw his coat over one shoulder as another furious shout came from outside.

“I’ll skin you myself!”

“Coming,” Rowan muttered.

He descended the ladder, crossed the barn and stepped into the morning.

The farm occupied a gentle stretch of country beside the northern road, its stone farmhouse and weathered barns surrounded by fenced paddocks, fruit trees and rows of vegetables darkened by the night’s dew. Beyond them, open farmland rolled beneath a pale autumn sky. Low mist still clung to the hollows between distant fields, and somewhere among the hedgerows a lark was making far too cheerful a noise for this hour of the morning.

Rowan barely noticed any of it.

His attention had settled upon the vegetable patch.

A stocky farmer in a woollen undershirt was charging between neat rows of cabbages with a rake held above his head.

Approximately twenty paces ahead of him trotted Buck.

The donkey looked delighted with himself.

He had something green hanging from one side of his mouth and showed no particular urgency despite the armed man pursuing him. Whenever the farmer came close enough to make a grab for his halter, Buck simply changed direction, stepped over a row of vegetables and continued his breakfast elsewhere.

The farmer attempted to anticipate him.

Buck stopped.

The farmer stopped.

For one strange moment man and donkey stared at one another across a row of cabbages.

Then Buck turned left.

The farmer lunged left.

Buck went right.

The farmer’s boot landed squarely in the soft earth between two plants, slid forward, and only a desperate swing of the rake kept him upright.

Buck calmly lowered his head and pulled a carrot from the ground.

Rowan reached the fence.

He rested both hands upon the top rail and watched the carrot disappear.

“Oh no,” he said again. “Not again.”

The farmer’s head snapped around.

“You!”

Rowan gave him a tired little wave.

“Morning.”

“Is this your bloody donkey?”

Rowan looked at Buck.

Buck crunched loudly.

“I’ve seen him before.”

“He’s eaten half my garden!”

“That seems ambitious.”

“Look at it!”

Rowan did.

Several rows had indeed suffered from Buck’s visit, although considerably less than half the garden appeared to be involved. A few carrots had been liberated. Something unfortunate had happened to a patch of leafy greens. Several plants were flattened where either Buck or the farmer had trampled through them during the chase.

Buck himself remained largely unconcerned by the devastation.

“Buck.”

One ear turned toward Rowan.

The rest of the donkey did not.

“Come here.”

Buck selected another mouthful.

“Buck.”

Nothing.

The farmer pointed the rake at him. “He knows you’re calling him.”

“Oh, he knows.”

“And he’s ignoring you.”

“Yes.”

The farmer lowered the rake slightly.

“That normal?”

“Unfortunately.”

Rowan climbed over the fence. His stiff legs protested after a night spent on hay, and he landed with considerably less grace than he would have preferred. Buck glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the vegetables.

Rowan approached.

Buck moved away.

“Don’t.”

Buck took another step.

“I’m warning you.”

Buck’s ears twitched.

Rowan stopped.

There were battles worth fighting. There were battles worth avoiding. Then there were battles against a donkey standing in a vegetable patch who knew perfectly well that the human approaching him had absolutely no intention of sprinting before breakfast.

Rowan sighed.

“Apple.”

Buck froze.

Both ears swung forward.

The farmer stared.

Buck slowly turned his head toward Rowan.

“There we are.”

Buck abandoned the vegetables and walked over with the calm dignity of an animal who had made the decision entirely of his own accord.

The farmer looked from Buck to Rowan.

“You had an apple this whole time?”

“No.”

Rowan caught Buck by the halter.

The donkey immediately began investigating his coat.

“Don’t bother. There isn’t one.”

Buck stopped.

His head rose.

The expression that followed was difficult to describe on a donkey, but Rowan had travelled with him long enough to recognise betrayal when he saw it.

“You’re the criminal here,” Rowan told him.

Buck’s ears flattened.

“Don’t start.”

Behind them came a snort.

Rowan looked around.

The farmer had lowered his rake completely now. He was trying very hard not to smile.

It didn’t last.

“You lied to your donkey.”

“He understands consequences.”

Buck nudged Rowan hard enough to make him take a step sideways.

“Usually.”

The farmer laughed.

It was a reluctant sound at first, born somewhere between irritation and disbelief, but once it escaped him there seemed little point suppressing the rest. Rowan waited for it to pass while Buck resumed searching his pockets.

When the farmer finally caught his breath, he pointed toward the damaged rows.

“He still owes me for those.”

“He doesn’t carry money.”

“Then you owe me.”

Rowan looked at Buck.

Buck looked away.

“Of course I do.”

They spent the next quarter hour walking through the garden and assessing the damage.

The farmer’s name was Bram Heddle, and once his temper had cooled he proved considerably more reasonable than his opening threats had suggested. He also proved to have a creative understanding of arithmetic whenever that arithmetic involved his vegetables.

“Four silver.”

Rowan crouched beside a damaged row and lifted one of the flattened plants.

“For six carrots?”

“And the greens.”

“Three of those were flattened by you.”

“I was chasing your donkey.”

“You were carrying a rake.”

“What difference does that make?”

“None to the cabbage, apparently.”

Bram stared at him.

Rowan stared back.

Buck, tethered securely to the fence now, chewed something neither man remembered seeing him acquire.

“Three silver,” Bram said.

“Two and five copper.”

“Two and eight.”

Rowan considered the garden again.

“Done.”

They shook hands.

Rowan counted the coins from his purse into Bram’s palm and considered it money well spent for the continued survival of his travelling companion.

A woman had appeared in the farmhouse doorway sometime during negotiations. She was perhaps Bram’s age, wrapped in a heavy shawl against the morning chill, with dark hair streaked by grey and an expression suggesting she’d witnessed enough of the chase from the kitchen window to understand exactly what had happened.

“Bram,” she called.

“What?”

“Breakfast.”

Bram looked toward the house, then at Rowan.

His gaze shifted to the coins in his hand.

“You eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Then come on.”

Rowan glanced at Buck.

Bram followed his gaze.

“The donkey stays there.”

“Agreed.”

“And away from the apples.”

Rowan looked toward a small orchard beyond the farmhouse.

Buck’s ears rose.

“Definitely agreed.”

The woman’s name was Mara, and breakfast turned out to be considerably better than anything Rowan had expected when he’d been given permission to sleep in the barn the previous evening.

There was dark bread still warm from the oven, eggs fried in a heavy iron pan, strips of salted pork and a pot of strong tea that Rowan suspected could have stripped rust from a horseshoe. He accepted a second cup anyway.

Bram had recovered enough from the morning’s events to recount the chase in great detail, embellishing Buck’s speed each time he told it.

“He wasn’t running,” Rowan said.

“He bloody was.”

“He trots faster than that when he hears an apple being cut.”

Mara hid a smile behind her cup.

Through the kitchen window Rowan could see Buck tethered beside the barn.

The donkey was staring directly at them.

More specifically, he was staring at the table.

“He always do that?” Mara asked.

“Mostly when there’s food.”

“Looks like he’s judging us.”

“He does that too.”

Mara tore a heel from the loaf.

Rowan immediately pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

She paused.

“Don’t what?”

“Feed him.”

Buck’s ears lifted.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Buck continued staring.

Mara looked at him.

Then at Rowan.

Then back at Buck.

Rowan narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t.”

She put the bread down.

Buck’s ears drooped.

“See?” Rowan said. “Manipulative.”

Bram shook his head. “He’s a donkey.”

“That’s what he wants you to think.”

The conversation wandered after that, as conversations around farmhouse tables often did. Weather came first, followed by the condition of the northern road, the price of grain and a bridge several miles ahead that had lost part of its railing during the last heavy rain.

Eventually Bram nodded toward Rowan’s pack, which rested beside the kitchen door.

“Where you headed?”

Rowan took another drink.

“North.”

Bram waited.

Rowan didn’t elaborate.

“That’s it?”

“Usually.”

“You don’t know where you’re going?”

“I know where north is.”

Mara laughed.

Bram looked as though he couldn’t decide whether Rowan was joking.

Rowan wasn’t entirely sure himself.

“Stonewatch?” Bram asked.

“Maybe.”

“Long road.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Could turn east before then. Plenty of work through the foothills this time of year.”

Rowan nodded.

That was generally how it happened. A road led somewhere. Another road crossed it. Somebody needed something found, killed, carried, tracked or occasionally convinced to stop eating livestock. Coins changed hands, maps acquired new marks, and the original destination became something Rowan might reach eventually.

If nothing distracted him.

Something usually did.

Mara looked through the window toward the northern horizon.

“You planning on going through the Ashens?”

Rowan followed her gaze.

From the farm, the mountains were little more than a distant wall against the sky.

The Ashen Peaks.

Even at this distance their highest summits carried snow, pale jagged shapes rising beyond the softer country between. Morning cloud curled around several of the tallest peaks, hiding and revealing them as the wind shifted. They seemed impossibly far away, yet Rowan knew roads had a habit of making distant things larger one day at a time.

“Haven’t decided,” he said.

“Wouldn’t leave it too late.”

There was nothing fearful in Mara’s voice.

No warning of monsters.

No whispered superstition.

Just the practical judgement of somebody who had lived within sight of those mountains long enough to know what autumn eventually became.

Bram nodded.

“Snow comes early up there.”

Rowan studied the cloud around the peaks.

“I know.”

After breakfast, he returned to the barn and packed.

There was a comfort in the routine that never seemed to diminish no matter how many mornings he spent on the road. Bedroll first, tightly bound. Cooking pot nested with the smaller tin cup. Dried meat checked. Waterskin filled from the pump beside the house. Spare shirt folded, although Rowan knew perfectly well it would be wrinkled before midday.

Buck watched from the fence while Rowan worked.

“You could help.”

Buck blinked.

“Fair point.”

Rowan laid the saddlebags across Buck’s back and adjusted them until the weight sat evenly. The donkey had carried enough badly balanced loads before Rowan found him that Rowan had become particular about getting it right. Blankets were secured behind the saddle, food on one side, tools and supplies distributed between the rest. Nothing loose enough to slap against Buck’s flanks. Nothing sharp packed where it might rub.

Only when Rowan was satisfied did he untie him.

Buck immediately turned toward the orchard.

“No.”

Buck stopped.

“Road.”

The donkey sighed through his nose.

“Your life is very difficult.”

Another sigh.

Rowan retrieved his map and spread it across the fence rail.

The parchment had been folded and unfolded so many times that several creases had begun to whiten. Small notes crowded the margins and roads in places bore corrections in Rowan’s own hand. Some were useful.

Some less so.

He found the farm, or at least roughly where the farm ought to be, then traced the northern road with one finger.

Farther north lay the roads toward Varr and Stonewatch. Smaller tracks split away before then, threading into settlements beneath the Ashen Peaks or vanishing into country where maps became increasingly optimistic.

Rowan looked at the mountains.

Then at the map.

Then at Buck.

Buck was chewing.

“Helpful.”

He folded the map and tucked it away.

Bram and Mara saw them to the gate.

Rowan thanked them for the barn, breakfast and hospitality.

Bram glanced at Buck.

“You keep that thing out of people’s gardens.”

“I’ve been trying for years.”

Mara smiled.

“Safe roads.”

“Thank you.”

Rowan led Buck through the gate and onto the northern road.

They hadn’t gone fifty paces when he heard it.

Crunch.

Rowan kept walking.

Crunch.

He slowed.

Buck slowed with him.

Rowan turned his head.

Buck was chewing.

There was nothing unusual about Buck chewing. Buck approached eating with the dedication of a religious calling.

The problem was what he was chewing.

A thin green stem hung from the corner of his mouth.

Rowan stopped.

Buck stopped.

Rowan looked at the stem.

Buck chewed faster.

“No.”

Buck swallowed.

Rowan walked around him.

Several leafy carrot tops protruded from beneath the flap of one saddlebag.

For a long moment Rowan simply stared.

Buck’s ears tilted outward.

“You stole provisions.”

Buck reached his head toward the saddlebag.

Rowan pushed it away.

“Absolutely not.”

He looked back toward the farm.

Bram was still standing at the gate.

Even at this distance, Rowan could see his arms folded across his chest.

Rowan looked at the carrots.

Then at Bram.

Then at Buck.

“I’m not going back.”

Buck crunched another carrot.

Rowan turned north.

“Those are coming out of your wages.”

They walked.

The farm slowly disappeared behind them.

By midmorning the mist had lifted from the fields and the road had dried beneath a mild sun. Hedgerows divided the surrounding country into irregular patches of green and brown. Sheep grazed among low hills. Crows gathered in freshly turned earth behind distant ploughs, rising in black clouds whenever a farmer approached.

Wagons passed occasionally, most heading south.

Rowan exchanged nods with drivers.

A pair of mounted couriers overtook him before noon, their horses throwing dust from the road. Buck watched them disappear ahead with complete indifference.

Rowan preferred walking.

A horse might have carried him farther in a day, but distance had never been the point.

Walking gave a man time to notice things.

Fresh wheel marks where a wagon had pulled from the road during the night. Deer tracks crossing from one hedgerow to another. A fox print pressed into drying mud beside a ditch. Clouds gathering in thin streaks from the west.

The road spoke constantly.

Most people simply moved too quickly to listen.

Buck listened in his own way.

Mostly for food.

By afternoon the country had begun to change.

The broad farms became smaller. Stone appeared more frequently in the fields, first as isolated rocks and then in long walls built from generations of clearing stubborn ground. Pine began appearing among the deciduous trees. The road climbed gradually enough that Rowan barely noticed until he stopped beside a stream to refill his waterskin and looked back.

The land behind them stretched farther than it had that morning.

Ahead, the Ashen Peaks had grown.

They were still distant, but no longer small.

Sunlight touched snow along their highest ridges while darker cloud gathered behind them, turning parts of the range almost black against the afternoon sky.

Rowan drank from the stream and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Buck drank noisily beside him.

For a while neither moved.

There had been other footsteps beside Rowan’s on the road not so long ago.

That was the nature of travelling.

People joined the road.

For a day.

A week.

Sometimes longer.

Then eventually came a bridge, a town, a harbour or a fork where one road became two.

Goodbyes happened.

The road continued.

Rowan looked at Buck.

The donkey lifted his head from the stream, water dripping from his muzzle.

“You’re still here.”

Buck sneezed.

“Touching.”

Rowan stood.

“Come on.”

The afternoon wore on.

They passed another farm, then a shepherd moving a small flock south before colder weather reached the hills. The road narrowed as it climbed through increasingly rough country, following the shape of the land rather than cutting across it. Pine shadows stretched long across the ruts.

The sun had begun its slow descent when Rowan crested a low rise and stopped.

A wagon stood on the road below.

It was a heavy thing, built for distance rather than speed, loaded high with crates, rolled cloth, barrels and bundles covered beneath weather-stained canvas. Two sturdy draft animals remained harnessed at the front.

One rear wheel had slipped from the road and sunk deep into the soft shoulder.

Beside it stood a short, broad figure with an enormous grey beard.

The figure was looking at the wheel.

Then at the mud.

Then at the wheel again.

A string of language floated uphill that Rowan suspected would have impressed several soldiers he’d known.

Buck’s ears rose.

Rowan watched the stranger kick the wheel.

Another curse followed.

“Not our problem,” Rowan said.

Buck started down the hill.

Rowan remained where he was.

“Buck.”

The donkey continued.

“Buck.”

Not even an ear.

Rowan sighed and followed.

“Of course.”