The Mountain Queen

Chapter Nine: Journey's End

Two more days' travel brought us to a high notch of rock from which the ground fell away steeply, sweeping out into a long, low valley dotted with hillocks and scrubby trees.  We had left the river behind not long before; it had suddenly darted to the right along the hillside as we climbed the long, slow rise to where we now stood.

By silent consent, Cressock and Felvin had pulled their steeds to a halt, and they now sat gazing out over the flattish ground below them.  Could this be the storied High Valley we had come so far to visit?  I raised the question out loud, but Cressock shook his head.

"No," he said, and he pointed.  "That is the High Valley."

I followed his gesture to where the ground rose up again beyond the broad, peaceful prospect we overlooked.  The mountain that soared up on the other side was impossibly sheer and forbidding—a veritable wall of rock, with scarcely a shelf to break the blankness of its grim, monumental face.  It made all the steep and treacherous paths we had trodden seem like smiling prairies in comparison.  At the crown of its unspeakable height, I could just see a crescent-shaped divot between two jagged peaks, and I took that to be the entrance to the High Valley—if any mortal could dream of entering there.

I looked at Cressock to see if he shared my trepidation, but his worried eyes were directed downward, at the innocent-looking valley below us.  Felvin seemed to share his wordless concern.  After a long silence, Cressock gave voice to what was in his mind.

"No cover or shelter," he said grimly.  "We'll be seen for miles around, and we'll have no escape if we're set upon."

Felvin chuckled, though he too seemed anxious.  "By whom?" he demanded, with false bravado.  "Who stands against a pair of Drymanders in this place?  The peasants of the far north?  Let them come with axes and pitchforks.  I'll stake the two of us in any venture against such men as those."

"Forgive my caution, cousin," replied Cressock.  "This land is unknown to me."  His voice was not mocking; it was troubled.  He seemed almost unnerved.

Felvin passed up this opportunity to accuse his cousin of cowardice.  His voice was gentle when he spoke.  "Our only way is forward," he said.

Cressock nodded, and spurred Allastrial on at a modest pace.  Step by step we picked our way down into the valley, Allastrial choosing each foothold with dainty caution, Mudge stumbling frequently but seeming not to notice.  As we broke onto the level ground, our speed increased to a canter, and the valley air felt fresh and smooth against my skin.

The valley was even larger than it had looked from above, and the sun was low in the sky as we drew near the rock-face at its far side.  All at once, Cressock pulled his mount to a halt, and Mudge skidded to a stop behind us.

Cressock's eyes scanned the wall of rock that loomed above us at the valley's end, and in a few moments I saw what he saw.  A thin thread of horses was winding its way down that stark, sheer barrier, moving with an uncanny, ghostly smoothness along a path too narrow to be seen.  I knew the horses' hooves must rest on something, but no matter how I strained my eyes, I could not escape the illusion that they were simply trotting on mountain air.  Their riders, sitting calm and loose in the saddle, betrayed no more alarm than if they had been out for a morning stroll through a bright meadow.  All in all, the sight had the vivid absurdity of a dream.

Cressock glanced back at Felvin.  "Is it they?" he asked.

Felvin nodded darkly.  "It is."

"Who's 'they'?" said Shamus.

Cressock wheeled Allastrial around and came abreast of Felvin's party.  "The queen's own guard," he said.  And then, more quietly: "This doesn't bode well for us.  They aren't sent out for welcomes."