The next morning, before Jondalar began further work on the flint tools, he talked to S’Amodun about the two injured youngsters. He had thought about it the night before, and, recalling how Darvo had taken to flint knapping even as a young boy, he felt that if they could be taught a craft, like flint knapping, they could lead independent and useful lives even though they were crippled.
“With Attaroa as headwoman, do you really think they will ever have the opportunity?” S’Amodun asked.
“She allows Ardemun more freedom; she might feel that the two boys will not be a threat, either, and let them out of the Holding more often. Even Attaroa might be persuaded to see the logic of having a couple of toolmakers around. Her hunters’ weapons are poorly made,” Jondalar said. “And who knows? She may not be a leader much longer.”
S’Amodun eyed the blond stranger speculatively. “I wonder if you know something I don’t,” he said. “In any case, I will encourage them to come and watch you.”
Jondalar had worked outside the evening before, so the sharp chips that broke off in the process of knapping the flint would not be scattered around their only shelter. He had picked a spot somewhat behind the stone pile near the place where they passed their wastes. Because of the smell, it was the end of the enclosure that the guards tended to avoid, and was watched the least.
The blade-shaped pieces he had quickly detached from the flint core were at least four times as long as they were wide with rounded ends, and these were the blanks from which other tools would be made. The edges were razor sharp as they were cleaved from the flint core, sharp enough to cut through tough leather as if it were congealed fat. The blades were so sharp, in fact, that often the edges had to be dulled so the tool could be handled without cutting the user.
Inside the lean-to the following morning, the first thing Jondalar did was to select a place under a crack in the roof, so he would have sufficient light to work by. Then he cut off a piece of leather from his makeshift cloak and spread it out on the ground to catch the inevitable sharp bits of flint debris. With the two lame boys and several others seated around him, he proceeded to demonstrate how a hard oval stone and a few pieces of bone could be used to make tools of flint, which in turn could be used to shape and make things out of leather, wood, and bone. Though they had to be careful not to draw attention to their activity, getting up occasionally to maintain a normal routine, then coming back and huddling together for warmth, which also served to block the view of their guards, they all watched with fascination.
Jondalar picked up a blade and examined it critically. There were several different tools he wanted to make, and he was trying to decide which of them would lend itself best to this particular blank. One long, sharp edge was nearly straight, the other wavered somewhat. He started by dulling the uneven edge by scraping the hammerstone across it a few times. He left the other edge as it was. Then, with the long tapered end of a broken legbone, he pressure-flaked the rounded end, breaking off carefully controlled small chips until it was a point. If he’d had sinew, or glue, or pitch, or a number of other materials with which to attach it, he could have added a handle, but when he was through, it was an adequate knife as it was.
As the tool was passed around and tested on the hair of an arm or bits of leather, Jondalar picked up another blade blank. Both edges of it dipped in to a narrow waist near the middle. Applying careful pressure with the knobby, rounded end of the legbone, he broke off only the sharpest edge of both lengths, which dulled them only slightly but, more important, strengthened them, so this piece could be used as a scraper to shape and smooth a piece of wood or bone. He showed how it was used and passed it around, too.
With the next blank, he dulled both edges so the tool could be handled easily. Then, with two carefully placed blows at one end of it, he detached a couple of spalls, leaving a sharp, chisellike point. To demonstrate its use, he cut a groove into a piece of bone, then went over the groove many times, making it deeper and deeper and creating a little pile of curled shavings. He explained how a shaft, or a point, or a handle, could be cut out with roughly the desired shape, then finished by scraping or smoothing.
Jondalar’s demonstration was almost a revelation. None of the boys or younger men had ever seen an expert flint-knapping toolmaker work, and few of the older men had ever seen one so skilled. In the few moments of twilight the night before, he had managed to cleave off nearly thirty usable blanks from the single nodule of flint before the flint core was too small to work. By the next day, most of the men had used one or more of the tools he made from them.
Then he tried to explain the hunting weapon he wanted to show them. Some of the men seemed to understand him immediately although they invariably questioned the accuracy and speed he claimed for a spear thrown with a spear-thrower. Others couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of it at all, but it didn’t matter.
Having good serviceable tools in their hands, and working on something constructive with them, gave the men a sense of purpose. And doing anything that opposed Attaroa, and the conditions she had forced upon them, lifted the despair of the Men’s Camp and fostered the hope that it might be possible, someday, to regain control of their own destiny.
Epadoa and her guards sensed a change in attitude over the next few days, and she felt sure something was going on. The men seemed to walk with a lighter step, and they smiled too much, but as hard as she looked, she couldn’t see anything different. The men had been extremely careful to hide not only the knives and scrapers and chisels Jondalar had made, and the objects they were making, but even the waste products of their efforts. The smallest flint chip or spall, the tiniest curled shaving of wood or bone, was buried inside the lean-to and covered with a roof plank or a piece of leather.
But the greatest change of all was in the two crippled boys. Jondalar not only showed the youngsters how the tools were made, he made special tools for them, and then showed them both how to use them. They stopped hiding in the shadows of the lean-to and began to get acquainted with the other, older boys in the Holding. Both idolized the tall Zelandonii, Doban in particular, who was old enough to comprehend more, though he was reluctant to show it.
For as long as he could remember, living with the disturbed and irrational Attaroa, Ardoban had always felt helpless, completely at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control. In a tiny corner of his being, he had always expected something terrible to happen to him, and after the excruciatingly painful and terrifying trauma of his experience, he was convinced that his life would only get worse. He often wished he were dead. But watching someone take two stones that he found near a stream and with them, using the skill of his hands and the knowledge in his mind, offer the hope of changing his world, made a deep impression. Doban was afraid to ask—he still couldn’t trust anyone—but more than anything, he wanted to learn to make tools out of stone.
The man sensed his interest and wished that he had more flint, so he could begin to teach him, at least to get him started. Did these people go to any kind of Summer Meetings or Gatherings, he wondered, where ideas and information and goods could be exchanged? There had to be some flint knappers in the region who could train Doban. He needed to learn a skill like that, where being lame wouldn’t matter.
After Jondalar made a sample spear-thrower out of wood, to show them what it looked like and how to make it, several of the men began to make copies of the strange implement. He also made flint spear points from some of the blanks, and out of the strongest leather they had he cut thin strips for bindings to fasten them with. Ardemun even found the ground nest of a golden eagle and brought back some good flight feathers. The only thing lacking were the shafts for the spears.
Trying to make one out of the scanty materials that were available, Jondalar cut a fairly long, thin piece out of a plank with the sharp chisel tool. He used it to show the younger men how to fasten the point and attach the feathers, and he demonstrated how to hold the spear-thrower and the basic technique for using it, without actually casting the spear. But cutting a spear shaft out of a plank was a long and tedious job, and the wood was dry and brittle, with no spring, and it broke easily.
What he needed were young, straight saplings, or reasonably long branches that could be straightened; though for that he needed the heat of a fire. He felt so frustrated stuck in the Holding. If only he could get out and look for something with which to make shafts. If only he could convince Attaroa to let him out. When he mentioned his feelings to Ebulan as they were getting ready to sleep, the man looked at him strangely, started to say something, then shook his head, closed his eyes, and turned away. Jondalar thought it was a strange reaction, but he soon forgot about it and fell asleep thinking about the problem.
Attaroa had been thinking about Jondalar, too. She was looking forward to the diversion he would give her through the long winter, gaining control over him, and seeing him do her bidding, showing everyone that she was more powerful than the tall, handsome man. Then, when she was through with him, she had other plans for him. She had been wondering if he was ready to be let out and set to work. Epadoa had told her that she thought something was going on inside the Holding, and that the stranger was involved, but she hadn’t yet discovered what it was. Perhaps it was time to separate him from the other men for a while, Attaroa thought, maybe put him back in the cage. It was a good way to keep them all unsettled.
In the morning she told her women that she wanted a work crew, and to include the Zelandonii man. Jondalar was glad just to be getting out where he could see something besides bare earth and desperate men. It was the first time he had been allowed outside the Holding to work, and he had no idea what she planned to have him do, but he hoped he would have an opportunity to look for young, straight trees. Finding a way to get them into the Holding would be another problem.
Later in the day, Attaroa strode out of her earthlodge, accompanied by two of her women and S’Armuna, and wearing—flaunting—Jondalar’s fur parka. The men had been carrying mammoth bones that had been brought earlier from some other place, and they were piling them up where Attaroa wanted. They had worked all morning and into the afternoon with nothing to eat and little to drink. Even though he was out of the Holding, he had not been able to look for potential spear shafts, much less think of a way of cutting them down and bringing them back. He was watched too closely and given no time to rest. He was not only frustrated, he was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and angry.
Jondalar put down one end of the legbone that he and Olamun were carrying, then stood up and faced the approaching women. As Attaroa neared, he noticed how tall she was, taller than many men. She could have been very attractive. What had happened to make her hate men so much? he wondered. When she spoke to him, her sarcasm was clear, though he didn’t understand her words.
“Well, Zelandonii, are you ready to tell us another story like your last? I’m ready to be entertained,” S’Armuna translated, complete with sarcastic intonation.
“I did not tell you a story. I told you the truth,” Jondalar said.
“That you were traveling with a woman who rides on the backs of horses? Where is this woman, then? If she has the power you say, why hasn’t she come to claim you?” Attaroa said, standing with her hands on her hips, as though to face him down.
“I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. I’m afraid she went over the cliff with the horses you were hunting,” Jondalar said.
“You lie, Zelandonii! My hunters saw no woman on the back of a horse, and no body of a woman was found with the horses. I think you have heard that the penalty for stealing from the S’Armunai is death, and you are trying to lie your way out of it,” Attaroa said.
No body was found? Jondalar was elated in spite of himself when S’Armuna translated, feeling a surge of hope that Ayla might still be alive.
“Why do you smile when I have just told you that the penalty for stealing is death? Do you doubt that I will do it?” Attaroa said, pointing to him, and then to herself for emphasis.
“Death?” he said, then paled. Could someone be put to death for hunting food? He had been so happy to think that Ayla might still be alive that he hadn’t really comprehended what she had said. When he did, his anger returned. “Horses were not given to the S’Armunai alone. They are here for all of Earth’s Children. How can you call hunting them stealing? Even if I had been hunting the horses, it would have been for food.”
“Ha! See, I’ve caught you in your lies. You admit you were hunting the horses.”
“I did not! I said, ‘Even if I had been hunting the horses.’ I didn’t say that I was.” He looked at the translator. “Tell her, S’Armuna. Jondalar of the Zelandonii, son of Marthona, former leader of the Ninth Cave, does not lie.”
“Now you say you are the son of a woman who was a leader? This Zelandonii is an accomplished liar, covering one lie about a miraculous woman with another about a woman leader.”
“I’ve known many women who were leaders. You are not the only headwoman, Attaroa. Many Mamutoi women are leaders,” Jondalar said.
“Coleaders! They share leadership with a man.”
“My mother was a leader for ten years. She became leader when her mate died, and she shared it with no one. She was respected by both women and men, and gave the leadership over to my brother Joharran willingly. The people did not wish it.”
“Respected by women and men? Listen to him! You think I don’t know men, Zelandonii? You think I was never mated? Am I so ugly no man would have me?”
Attaroa was nearly screaming at him, and S’Armuna was translating almost simultaneously, as though she knew the words the headwoman would be saying. Jondalar could almost forget that the shaman was speaking for her, it seemed as though he were hearing and understanding Attaroa herself, but the shaman’s unemotional tone gave the words a strange detachment from the woman who was behaving so belligerently. A bitter, deranged look came into her eyes as she continued to harangue Jondalar.
“My mate was the leader here. He was a strong leader, a strong man.” Attaroa paused.
“Many people are strong. Strength doesn’t make a leader,” Jondalar said.
Attaroa didn’t really hear him. She wasn’t listening. Her pause was only to hear her own thoughts, to gather her own memories. “Brugar was such a strong leader that he had to beat me every day to prove it.” She sneered. “Wasn’t it a shame that the mushrooms he ate were poisonous?” Her smile was malignant. “I beat his sister’s son in a fair fight to become leader. He was a weakling. He died.” She looked at Jondalar. “But you are no weakling, Zelandonii. Wouldn’t you like a chance to fight me for your life?”
“I have no desire to fight you, Attaroa. But I will defend myself, if I must.”
“No, you will not fight me, because you know I would win. I am a woman. I have the power of Muna on my side. The Mother has honored women; they are the ones who bring forth life. They should be the leaders,” Attaroa said.
“No,” Jondalar said. Some of the people watching flinched when the man disagreed so openly with Attaroa. “Leadership doesn’t necessarily belong to one who is blessed by the Mother anymore than it does to one who is physically strong. The leader of the berry pickers, for instance, is the one who knows where the berries grow, when they will be ripe, and the best way to pick them.” Jondalar was working up to a harangue of his own. “A leader has to be dependable, trustworthy; leaders have to know what they are doing.”
Attaroa was scowling. His words had no effect on her, she listened only to her own counsel, but she didn’t like the scolding tone of his voice, as though he thought he had the right to speak so freely, or to presume to tell her anything.
“It doesn’t matter what the task is,” Jondalar continued. “The leader of the hunt is the one who knows where the animals will be and when they will be there; he is the one who can track them. He’s the one most skilled at hunting. Marthona always said leaders of people should care about the people they lead. If they don’t, they won’t be leaders for very long.” Jondalar was lecturing, venting his anger, oblivious to Attaroa’s glowering face. “Why should it matter if they are women or men?”
“I will not allow men to be leaders anymore,” Attaroa interrupted. “Here, men know that women are leaders, the young ones are raised to understand it. Women are the hunters here. We don’t need men to track or lead. Do you think women cannot hunt?”
“Of course women can hunt. My mother was a hunter before she became leader, and the woman I traveled with was one of the best hunters I know. She loved to hunt and was very good at tracking. I could throw a spear farther, but she was more accurate. She could knock a bird out of the sky or kill a rabbit on the run with a single stone from her sling.”
“More stories!” Attaroa snorted. “It’s easy enough to make claims for a woman that doesn’t exist. My women didn’t hunt; they weren’t allowed to. When Brugar was leader, no women were even allowed to touch a weapon, and it was not easy for us when I became leader. No one knew how to hunt, but I taught them. Do you see these practice targets?”
Attaroa pointed to a series of sturdy posts stuck in the ground. Jondalar had noticed them in passing before, though he hadn’t known what they were for. Now he saw a large section of a horse carcass hanging from a thick wooden peg near the top of one. A few spears were sticking out of it.
“All the women must practice every day, and not just jabbing the spears hard enough to kill—throwing them, too. The best of them become my hunters. But even before we learned to make and use spears, we were able to hunt. There is a certain cliff north of here, near the place I grew up. People there chase horses off that cliff at least once every year. We learned to hunt horses like that. It is not so difficult to stampede horses off a cliff, if you can entice them up.”
Attaroa looked at Epadoa with obvious pride. “Epadoa discovered how much horses like salt. She makes the women save the water they pass and uses it to lead the horses along. My hunters are my wolves,” Attaroa said, smiling in the direction of the women with spears who had gathered around.
They took evident pleasure in her praise, standing taller as she spoke. Jondalar hadn’t paid much attention to their clothing before, but now he realized that all of the hunters wore something that came from a wolf. Most of them had a fringe of wolf fur around their hoods and at least one wolf tooth, but often more, dangling around their necks. Some of them also had a fringe of wolf fur around the cuffs of their parkas, or the hem, or both, plus additional decorative panels. Epadoa’s hood was entirely wolf fur, with a portion of a wolf’s head, with fangs bared, decorating the top. Both the hem and cuffs of her parka were fringed, wolf paws hung down from her shoulders in front, and a bushy tail hung behind from a center panel of wolf skin.
“Their spears are their fangs, they kill in a pack, and bring the food back. Their feet are their paws, they run steady all day, and go a long way,” Attaroa said in a rhythmic meter that he felt sure had been repeated many times. “Epadoa is their leader, Zelandonii. I wouldn’t try to outsmart her. She is very clever.”
“I’m sure she is,” Jondalar said, feeling outnumbered. But he also couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration for what they had accomplished, starting with so little knowledge. “It just seems such a waste to have men sitting idle when they could be contributing, too, helping to hunt, helping to gather food, making tools. Then the women alone wouldn’t have to be working so hard. I’m not saying women cannot do it, but why should they have to do it all, for both men and women?”
Attaroa laughed, the harsh, demented laugh that gave him a chill. “I have wondered the same thing. Women are the ones who produce new life; why do we need men at all? Some of the women don’t want to give men up yet, but what good are they? For Pleasures? It’s men who get the Pleasure. Here we don’t worry about giving men Pleasures anymore. Instead of sharing a hearth with a man, I have put women together. They share the work, they help each other with their children, they understand each other. When there are no men around, the Mother will have to mix the spirits of women, and only female children will be born.”
Would it work? Jondalar wondered. S’Amodun had said that very few babies had been born in the last few years. Suddenly he remembered Ayla’s idea that it was the Pleasures that men and women shared that started new life growing inside a woman. Attaroa had kept the women and men separated. Could that be why there were so few babies?
“How many children have been born?” he asked, out of curiosity.
“Not many, but some, and where there are some, there can be more.”
“Have they all been girls?” he asked then.
“The men are still too close. It confuses the Mother. Soon enough all the men will be gone; then we will see how many boy babies are born,” Attaroa said.
“Or how many babies are born at all,” Jondalar said. “The Great Earth Mother made both women and men, and like Her, women are blessed to give birth to both male and female, but it is the Mother Who decides which man’s spirit is mingled with the woman’s. It is always a man’s spirit. Do you really think you can alter what She has ordained?”
“Don’t try to tell me what the Mother will do! You are not a woman, Zelandonii,” she said contemptuously. “You just don’t like to be told how worthless you are, or perhaps you don’t want to give up your Pleasures. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Suddenly Attaroa changed her tone, affecting a purr of attraction. “Do you want Pleasures, Zelandonii? If you will not fight me, what will you do to gain your freedom? Ah, I know! Pleasures. For such a strong, handsome man, Attaroa might be willing to give you Pleasures. But can you give Attaroa Pleasures?”
S’Armuna’s change to speaking about the woman, rather than as her, made him suddenly aware that all the words he had heard had been translated. It was one thing to speak as the voice of Attaroa the headwoman, it was quite another to speak as the voice of Attaroa the woman. S’Armuna could translate the words; she just couldn’t take on the intimate persona of the woman. As S’Armuna continued to translate, Jondalar heard both of them.
“So tall, so fair, so perfect, he could be the mate of the Mother Herself. Look, he is even taller than Attaroa, and not many men are. You have given many women Pleasure, haven’t you? One smile from the big, tall, handsome man with his blue, blue eyes and women clamor to climb into his furs. Do you Pleasure them all, Zelandonii man?”
Jondalar refused to answer. Yes, there was once a time when he enjoyed Pleasuring many women, but now he only wanted Ayla. A wrenching pain of grief threatened to overcome him. What would he do without her? Did it matter if he lived or died?
“Come, Zelandonii, if you give Attaroa great pleasure, you can have your freedom. Attaroa knows you can do it.” The tall, attractive headwoman walked seductively toward him. “See? Attaroa will give herself to you. Show everyone how a strong man gives a woman Pleasures. Share the Gift of Muna, the Great Earth Mother, with Attaroa, Jondalar of the Zelandonii.”
Attaroa put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Jondalar did not respond. She tried to kiss him, but he was too tall for her, and he would not bend down. She was not used to a man who was taller; it wasn’t often that she had to reach up to a man, especially one she could not bend. It made her feel foolish and flamed her anger.
“Zelandonii! I am willing to couple with you, and give you a chance for your freedom!”
“I won’t share the Mother’s Gift of Pleasures under these circumstances,” Jondalar said. His quiet, controlled voice belied his great anger, but did not hide it. How did she dare to insult the Mother like that? “The Gift is sacred, meant to be shared with willingness and joy. Coupling like this would be contemptuous of the Mother. It would defile Her Gift and anger Her just as much as taking a woman against her will. I choose the woman I want to couple with, and I have no desire to share Her Gift with you, Attaroa.”
Jondalar might have responded to Attaroa’s invitation, but he knew it was not genuine. He was an exciting, handsome man to most women. He had gained skill at pleasing them, and experience in the ways of mutual attraction and invitation. For all her sinuous walking, there was no warmth to Attaroa, and she gave him no spark of desire. He sensed that even if he had tried, he could not have pleased her.
But Attaroa looked stunned when she heard the translation. Most men had been more than willing to share the Gift of Pleasures with the handsome woman to gain their freedom. Visitors unfortunate enough to pass through her territory and get caught by her hunters had usually jumped at the chance to get away from the Wolf Women of the S’Armunai so easily. Though some had hesitated, doubtful and wondering what she was up to, none had ever refused her outright. They soon found out they were right to doubt.
“You refuse …” the headwoman sputtered, unbelieving. The translation was spoken without feeling, but her reaction was clear enough. “You refuse Attaroa. How dare you refuse!” she screamed, then turned to her Wolf Women. “Strip him and tie him to the practice target.”
That had been her intention all along, just not so soon. She had wanted Jondalar to keep her occupied through the whole long, dreary winter. She enjoyed tantalizing men with promises of freedom in exchange for Pleasures. To her, it was the height of irony. From that point, she led them into further acts of humiliation or degradation, and she usually managed to get them to do whatever she wanted before she was ready to play her final game. They would even strip themselves when she told them she would let them go if they did, hoping it would please her enough.
But no man could give Attaroa Pleasure. She had been used badly when she was a girl, and she had looked forward to mating the powerful leader of another group. Then she discovered that the man she had joined with was worse than the situation she had left behind. His Pleasures were always done with painful beatings and humiliation, until she finally rebelled and caused his painful, humiliating death. But she had learned her lesson too well. Warped by the cruelty she received, she could not feel Pleasure without causing pain. Attaroa cared little for sharing the Mother’s Gift with men, or even women. She gave herself Pleasures watching men die slow and painful deaths.
When there was a long time between visitors, Attaroa had even played with S’Armunai men, but after the first two or three fell to her “Pleasures,” they knew her game and would not play it. They just pleaded for their lives. She usually, but not always, gave in to those who had a woman to plead their case. Some of the women were not as cooperative—they didn’t understand it was for them that she needed to eliminate men—but they could usually be controlled through the males to whom they were tied, so she kept them alive.
Travelers ordinarily came during the warmer season. People seldom traveled very far in the cold of winter, especially those on a Journey, and there had been fewer travelers lately, none the previous summer. A few men, by a lucky fluke, managed to escape, and some women ran away. They warned others. Most people who heard the stories passed them on as rumors, or fantastic tales of storytellers, but the rumors of the vicious Wolf Women had been growing, and people were staying away.
Attaroa had been delighted when Jondalar was brought back, but he turned out to be worse than one of her own men. He wouldn’t go along with her game, and he didn’t even give her the satisfaction of watching him plead. If he had, she might have even let him live a little longer, just to savor the pleasure of seeing him bend to her will.
At her command, Attaroa’s Wolf Women rushed Jondalar. He swung out wildly, knocking aside spears and landing hard blows that would have telling aftereffects. His struggles to get free were almost successful, but he was eventually overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He continued to fight while they cut the lashing closures of his tunic and trousers to strip him of his clothes. But they expected it and held sharp blades to his neck.
After they tore off his tunic and bared his chest, they tied his hands together with a length of slack rope between them, then lifted him up and hung him with his hands over his head from the high peg on the target post. He kicked while they pulled off his boots and trousers, landing a few strong blows that would leave bruises, but all his resistance only served to make the women want to get back at him. And they knew they could.
Once he was hanging naked from the post, they all stood back and looked him over with self-satisfied smirks, pleased with themselves. Big and strong as he was, his fighting had done him no good. Jondalar’s toes touched the ground, but just barely, and it was clear that most men would have dangled there. It gave him some slight feeling of security to touch the earth, and he sent a vague, unvoiced appeal to the Great Earth Mother to somehow deliver him from this unexpected and fearful predicament.
Attaroa was interested in the massive scar on his upper thigh and groin. It had healed well. He had given no hint that he had sustained such a serious injury, no limping or favoring of that leg. If he was that strong, perhaps he would last longer than most. He might give her some enjoyment yet. She smiled at the thought.
Attaroa’s detached appraisal gave Jondalar second thoughts. He felt a breeze raise goose bumps, and he shivered, but not only with the cold. When he looked up, he saw Attaroa smiling at him. Her face was flushed and her breathing fast; she looked pleased and strangely sensual. Her enjoyment was always greater if the man she Pleasured herself with was handsome. Attracted in her own way to the tall man with the unconscious charisma, she anticipated making this one last as long as possible.
He looked across at the fence made of poles, and he knew the men were watching through the cracks. He wondered why they hadn’t warned him. It was obviously not the first time something like this had happened. Would it have done any good if they had? Would he have just anticipated with fear? Perhaps they thought he would be better off not knowing.
In truth, some of the men had talked about it. They all liked the Zelandonii and admired his toolmaking skills. With the sharp knives and tools that were his legacy, they each hoped they might find an opportunity to break away. They would always remember him for that, but each of them knew in his heart that if there was too long a time between visitors, Attaroa was likely to hang one of them from a target post. A couple of them had already been strung up once, and they knew that their abject pleadings would probably not move her to delay her deadly game again. They secretly cheered his refusal to give in to her demands, but they were afraid that any noise would call attention to themselves. Instead they watched in silence as the familiar scene unfolded, each of them feeling compassion and fear and a small stab of shame.
Not only her Wolf Women, but all the women of the Camp were expected to bear witness to the man’s ordeal. Most of them hated to watch, but they feared Attaroa, even her hunters. They stood as far back as they dared. It made some of them sick, but if they did not appear, then any man they had spoken up for in the past was the next one chosen. Some women had tried to run away, and a few had managed it, but most were caught and brought back. If there were men in the Holding they cared about—mates, brothers, sons—as punishment, the women were made to watch them suffer days in the cage without food or water. And occasionally, though rarely, they were put in the cage themselves.
The women with boys were particularly fearful, not knowing what would become of their sons, especially after what she had done to Odevan and Ardoban, but the women who feared the most were the two with infants and the one who was pregnant. Attaroa was delighted with them, gave them special treats and asked after their welfare, but they each harbored a guilty secret and were afraid that if she ever found out, they would end up hanging from the target posts.
The headwoman stepped in front of her hunters and picked up a spear. Jondalar noticed it was rather heavy and clumsy and, in spite of himself, he thought about how he could make them a better one. But the poorly made thick point was nonetheless sharp and effective. He watched the woman take careful aim and noticed she was aiming low. She did not mean to kill, but to maim. He was conscious of his naked exposure to whatever pain she chose to inflict on him, and he fought an urge to lift his legs to try to protect himself. But then he’d be dangling, too, and he felt that would make him even more vulnerable, and would expose his fear.
Attaroa watched him through narrowed eyes, knowing that he feared her and enjoying it. Some of them begged. This one she knew would not, at least not immediately. She pulled her arm back as she prepared to make her throw. He closed his eyes and thought of Ayla, wondering if she was alive or dead, her body crushed and broken below a herd of horses at the bottom of the cliff. With a pain sharper than any spear could inflict, he knew that if she were dead, life had no meaning for him anyway.
He heard a thunk as a spear landed on the target, but above him, not low and painful. Suddenly he dropped to his heels as his arms were freed. He looked at his hands and saw that the short length of slack in the rope, which had been hung over the peg, was severed. Attaroa still held her spear in her hand. The spear he heard had not come from her. Jondalar looked up at the target pole and saw a neat, somewhat small, flint-tipped spear embedded beside the peg, its feathered end still quivering. The thin, finely made point had cut the cord. He knew that spear!
He turned back to look in the direction from which it had come. Directly behind Attaroa he saw movement. His vision became blurry as his eyes filled with tears of relief. He could hardly believe it. Could it really be her? Was she really alive? He glanced down to blink several times so he could see more clearly. Looking up, he saw four nearly black horse legs attached to a yellow horse with a woman on her back.
“Ayla!” he cried. “you’re alive!”