The Mountain Queen

Part II, Chapter One: The Shelf and the Stream

(Part II: The Valley)

Chapter One: The Shelf and the Stream

The smallness of the valley, after the heart-stopping grandeur of our approach to it, was almost comical.  As we crested the rise that led up from the precipice, we could see the whole scope of it laid out before us—a modest expanse of grass, sloping up on every side into stark peaks, with a few stone farmhouses clinging to its edges, and a massive tent rearing up in its center.  The tent was of a deep, royal red, slung between numerous poles that rose like turrets over the peaceable grassland, where a few dull-brown cows were sluggishly grazing.  This blooming red extravagance could only be the seat of Queen Lysandra.  No doubt by her standards it was modest enough, but in this quiet place it loomed like an enormous crimson spider, incongruous and absurd.

As soon as the tent came into view, Cressock halted, and a word from him halted the others.  "This is where we part company," he said to Arantha.  "You must make your report to the queen.  And I must find a safe place for these children until our queen decides to welcome them."

"Don't be long, Cressock," replied Arantha.  "I fancy she'll have more questions for you than for me."

Cressock grinned.  "You may be right.  I'll not dawdle.  See you at court."

Arantha nodded crisply and trotted off to make her report.  I hoped the queen would not be too harsh with her.  She really had done all she could.

Cressock wheeled his horse to the left, and Shamus followed.  We skirted the edge of the tiny valley, climbing a gentle, grassy slope, slipped behind a farmhouse, and climbed more steeply, heading straight for a rocky peak.  Up we forged over the shoulder of the rising earth, curving left of the peak itself, as the ground grew hard and barren beneath us, and the cold air of the outer world snatched at our faces with its cruel hand.

As we drew level with the peak, and the ground began to fall away in front of us, we saw a small plot of grass directly below.  It lay on a narrow shelf, half-sheltered by the peak, and beyond it was only an immense drop into the unseen.

Incredibly, a farmhouse stood in the center of this meager grass patch.  It was a modest structure, built of wood rather than stone, and no bigger than Father's fishing shack.  A low fence at its back enclosed a ragged little garden, and a pen for animals, about the same size as the house, stood nearby.  The farmhouses of the valley behind us were humble enough, but next to this they were downright palatial.  Whoever lived here had his own idea of comfort—and a great taste for solitude.

We descended the steep slope to the grass below and made straight for the farmhouse.  Reaching it, Cressock swung out of his saddle, strode to the low door, and rapped softly with a single knuckle.  A goat bleated from somewhere close by.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and a red, white-bearded face thrust its way out.  The face brightened into a beaming smile as soon as it saw Cressock.  The next moment, the old man it belonged to had darted forward and flung his arms about Cressock in a fierce embrace.

Cressock laughed and patted the man's back.  "It's good to see you, Hollitch," he said warmly.

"And thank the gods you're back!" cried the old man.  "Sure, but I feared for ya.  Strange times, they are.  Strange people."  His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper.  "You've not come back a moment too soon.  Things are afoot.  Dark things.  I feel it in my inwards."

"We'll put things right," said Cressock soothingly.  He turned and gestured toward the horses.  "I want you to meet my friends.  The ones I told you of.  That's Shamus, and Brody behind him.  And the girl is—"