The hemp line hummed like a wet bowstring as the pack mule stepped across the narrowest notch of the narrow high walkway.
Kezra Venn kept her shoulder pressed against the mule’s ribs, guiding its heavy head away from the southern drop. Meanwhile, Fellis Dain leaned his hip against the rear timber of the pack frame. Beneath their boots, the tarred sling around the lower dark rock horn held without a tremor, taking the lateral pull of the nine-hundred-pound load and transferring it cleanly into the mountain’s fiery root.
Paxa Sel crossed third, her ash staff clicking on the frost-whitened treads with careful rhythm. She didn’t look down into the northern mist or across to the bitter salt shimmer of Saltglass. Her gaze remained fixed on the small hollow behind the mule’s left hock. He watched for the telltale tremor of a strained tendon.
They reached the wider rock shelf twenty paces beyond the notch. Then, Yseld caught the mule’s halter and snubbed it to a deep cleft in the dark rock face.
“Halt here for ten minutes,” the guide said. He wiped a sheen of cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her mittened hand. “Let the animal’s pulse settle before we take the crest incline. Kezra, check your cordage.”
