The Ladies
The next few days blurred into an endless repetition of stone and sky and aching muscles.
The trails grew narrower as they climbed, sometimes little more than ledges carved into the mountainside, barely wide enough for single file.
To their left, sheer rock walls rose toward peaks still touched with snow.
To their right, nothing but empty air and a drop that ended somewhere far below in mist and shadow.
Lark kept herself between Rion and the edge whenever possible, though she knew it was a futile gesture.
If he fell, there would be nothing she could do.
But he didn’t fall. He walked with the same unrelenting persistence he had shown since the escape, his eye fixed on the path ahead, his hand braced against the rock wall for balance, speaking only when necessary and avoiding her entirely when they stopped to rest. The distance between them had become a living thing, growing larger with each passing hour despite the physical closeness the narrow trails demanded.
She watched him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
She watched how he would pause at the edges of clearings, his hand raised in that familiar gesture, his face tight with concentration as he reached for the magic that would not come.
Each failure carved new lines of frustration into his features.
Each failure pushed him further into the silence that had become his refuge.
Camping was its own particular misery. The trail offered few places wide enough to pitch tents, and those that they did find were exposed to winds that cut through their clothing like knives.
They slept in shifts, two awake at all times, huddled around fires that guttered and threatened to die in the constant gusts.
Lark took more than her share of the watches, unable to sleep even when she had the chance, her ears straining for any sound of pursuit from below.
But none came. Either the Ashen Enclave had lost their trail, or they were biding their time, waiting for the mountains themselves to do the work of killing for them. Lark didn’t know which possibility worried her more.
On the morning of the fourth day, the trail widened.
It happened gradually at first, the ledge broadening from single file to double, the sheer drop receding as the path curved around a shoulder of the mountain.
Then they rounded a bend and found themselves in a proper clearing, perhaps fifty feet across, sheltered by an overhang of rock and bordered on one side by a small stream that tumbled down from somewhere above.
In the center of the clearing stood a shack.
It was a ramshackle construction of rough-hewn timber and salvaged stone, patched in places with what looked like goat hide stretched over the holes in the walls.
Smoke curled from a crooked chimney. A wooden sign hung beside the door, the words carved deep into the weathered surface: BARRETT’S GOATS. FAIR PRICES. NO CREDIT.
Everywhere, goats.
They were larger than any goats Lark had seen, stocky creatures with thick gray coats, curved horns and hooves that looked like they could crack stone.
They milled about the clearing in a loose herd, some grazing on the sparse mountain grass, others perched improbably on boulders and ledges that seemed far too small to support their weight.
One had climbed onto the roof of the shack and was watching their approach with an expression of profound disdain.
“What,” Pippa said slowly, “are those?”
Before anyone could answer, the door of the shack banged open, and a man emerged.
He was short and wiry, with a wild gray beard that reached nearly to his belt and eyebrows so bushy they seemed to have ambitions of becoming a second beard.
He wore clothes that might once have been several colors but had long since faded into a uniform shade of brownish murk, and he was carrying a wooden staff that he brandished at them like a weapon.
“Who goes there?” he bellowed. “State your business or be gone! I’ll not have bandits and ne’er-do-wells disturbing my ladies!”
“Your ladies?” Darian murmured.
“The goats,” Lark said. “I assume he means the goats.”
“We’re travelers,” she called out, raising her empty hands to show she meant no harm. “Heading to Springhope. Can we hire mounts here?”
The man squinted at them with eyes that were surprisingly sharp despite his general air of dishevelment.
His gaze moved from Lark to Pippa to Darian, lingering on Darian’s armor with clear suspicion before finally landing on Rion.
He took in the bandages, the walking stick, and the general air of exhaustion that hung over all of them.
“Springhope, is it?” He lowered the staff slightly. “Long way up. Dangerous path. The ladies don’t take just anyone, you know. They have standards.”
“The ladies being the goats,” Darian said.
“Of course, the goats! Who else would I be talking about?” The man seemed genuinely offended by the question.
“Finest mountain goats in all of Ianorrah. Bred them myself. Raised them from kids. They can carry a full-grown man up trails that would kill a horse from fright, and they never put a hoof wrong.” He paused, then added with evident pride, “Also very intelligent. Smarter than most people I’ve met, and I’ve met a fair few. ”
As if to demonstrate this intelligence, the goat on the roof let out a sound that was somewhere between a scream and the whining grind of rusty gate hinges. Several others immediately joined in, creating a chorus of noise so jarring that Lark felt it in her teeth.
“What in the name of the moons was that?” Pippa demanded, her hands pressed over her ears.
“That’s Duchess expressing her opinion,” the man said, utterly unfazed. “She’s the leader. Very vocal. Likes to know what’s happening.”
Duchess, if that was indeed the goat on the roof, screamed again. This time, the sound went on for several seconds, warbling through multiple registers before finally trailing off to a weak cough.
“Does she do that often?” Lark asked.
“Oh, constantly. They all do. Very communicative creatures, goats. Can’t shut them up most days.
” He finally lowered his staff entirely and stuck out a hand.
“Name’s Barrett. Been tending goats on this mountain for nigh on forty years.
Never lost a rider yet, though there was one close call in the winter of thirty-two.
Don’t ask about that. Terrible memories all around. ”
Lark shook his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man who looked as if a stiff wind might carry him away.
“I’m Lark. This is Pippa, Darian, and Rion. We need transport for four people and a wolf.”
Barrett’s eyes widened when he noticed Noctis. The wolf had been hanging back, watching the goats with an expression of deep uncertainty. The goats, for their part, seemed entirely unconcerned by his presence.
“That’s a wolf,” Barrett said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t transport wolves. Wolves eat goats.”
“This wolf won’t eat your goats.”
“How do you know?”
Lark looked at Noctis, who was currently receiving a thorough sniffing from a particularly bold goat. He bore it with the patient resignation of a creature who had long since given up trying to understand the oddities that the universe kept insisting on inflicting upon him.
“He has excellent manners,” she said.
Barrett considered this. Then he shrugged. “Fair enough. But if he so much as looks at one of my ladies wrong, you’re walking the rest of the way.”
“Agreed.”
The negotiation that followed was unlike any Lark had experienced.
Barrett did not seem interested in money, though he accepted the coins she offered with a grunt of satisfaction.
What he wanted was news. He had been on the mountain for many turns of the moons, he explained, and the goats, while excellent conversationalists, were not much help when it came to current events.
So they sat on logs outside his shack and told him about Autumncrown, the battle and the retreat of the Ashen Enclave’s forces.
They didn’t mention the rescue, or the dungeon, or the horns sounding in the valley below, but they told him enough to satisfy his curiosity.
He listened with keen attention, interrupting occasionally to offer commentary or ask clarifying questions, and when they finished, he sat back and scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“War is coming then,” he said. “Actual war. Not just skirmishes and raids.”
“It seems likely,” Darian said.
“Well. The ladies won’t care for that. Very sensitive to loud noises, goats. Battles upset them.”
One goat chose that moment to let out another ear-splitting scream, and Pippa made a strangled sound that might have been laughter or might have been despair.
“How do they feel about their own loud noises?” she asked.
“That’s different. That’s communication.
Very important for herd animals.” Barrett rose to his feet with surprising energy for a man who claimed to be over sixty.
“Right then. Let me introduce you to your mounts. I’ll match you each with a lady who suits your temperament.
Very important, the matching. Get it wrong and you’ll have trouble all the way up. ”
He led them into the herd, moving among the goats with ease. The animals parted around him, some moving close to receive scratches behind the ears, others bleating their greetings in tones that ranged from moderately annoying to genuinely painful.
“This is Biscuit,” he said, stopping beside a placid-looking goat with a slightly darker coat than the others. “She’s steady and calm. Good for nervous riders. Which of you is most likely to fall off?”
Pippa raised her hand.
“Right. Biscuit for you, then. She’ll take care of you.” He moved on to a larger goat with impressive horns and a distinctly irritable expression. “This is Thunder. Strong. Proud. Doesn’t suffer fools. Good for soldiers.”
He looked at Darian, who looked at Thunder, who looked back at Darian with what could only be described as a challenge.
“Fine,” Darian said. “I’ve ridden worse.”
“That’s the spirit.” Barrett continued through the herd, matching Lark with a goat named Whisper, who was apparently “clever and watchful, like you” even though he had known her for less than an hour.
Finally, he came to Rion, who had hung back from the introductions with his eye fixed on the ground.
Barrett studied him, then he whistled, and the goat on the roof picked her way down with astonishing grace.
“Duchess,” he said. “My best. She’ll carry you safe.”
Rion looked at the goat. The goat looked at Rion. Then she let out a scream directly into his face, a sound so loud and unexpected that everyone jumped except Barrett, who merely nodded with satisfaction.
“She likes you,” he said. “Normally, she won’t go near strangers. You must have a good heart.”
Some emotion crossed Rion’s face, too quick for Lark to read. Then Duchess pressed her head against his chest and made a softer sound, almost like a purr, and after a moment, Rion raised his hand and rested it on her neck.
“Good girl,” he said quietly.
It was the first thing he had said in days that sounded like him.
They were given incredibly detailed goat care instructions and set out within the hour, mounted and carrying supplies Barrett had insisted they take. He stood at the edge of the clearing and waved as they departed, his wild beard streaming in the mountain wind.
“Mind the switchbacks near the summit!” he called after them. “And don’t let the ladies eat the blue flowers! Gives them terrible gas!”
Pippa, clutching Biscuit’s neck with both hands as the goat navigated a narrow stretch of trail, made a sound that was definitely laughter this time.
“I can’t believe this is my life now,” she said. “Riding a goat named Biscuit up a mountain while being warned about flower-induced flatulence.”
“Could be worse,” Darian said from Thunder’s back. The big goat was picking her way along the trail with surprising delicacy, her hooves finding purchase on stones that seemed far too small to support its bulk.
“How? How could it possibly be worse?”
“We could still be walking.”
Duchess screamed, and several of the other goats answered, and the cacophony echoed off the mountain walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Lark pressed her hands over her ears and guided Whisper forward with her knees.
But for the first time in days, she smiled.
She remembered being a child in Wintersorrow, trailing behind her mother at the harvest market, peppering the traveling merchants with questions about the world beyond her small enclave.
Did they really have to ride goats up the mountain to reach Springhope?
The traders had laughed and told her yes, but she had not quite believed them.
Now here she was, twenty-five years later, clinging to a goat named Whisper while Duchess bleated at the sky and the peaks of the High Greenwood rose before her.
Some questions, it seemed, answered themselves eventually. You just had to survive long enough to find out.