S’Armuna stepped outside her lodge and watched the two visitors as they walked away toward the edge of the Camp. She saw that Attaroa and Epadoa, standing in front of the headwoman’s lodge, had turned to watch them, too. The shaman was about to go back in when she noticed Ayla suddenly changing direction and heading for the palisade. Attaroa and her chief Wolf Woman also saw her veer, and both moved forward in quick strides to intercept the blond woman. They reached the fenced enclosure almost simultaneously. The older woman arrived a moment later.
Through the cracks, Ayla looked directly into the eyes and faces of silent watchers on the other side of the sturdy poles. On close inspection, they were a sorry sight, dirty and unkempt, and dressed in ragged skins, but even worse was the stench emanating from the Holding. It was not only malodorous; to the perceptive nose of the medicine woman it was revealing. Normal body odors of healthy individuals did not bother her, even a certain amount of normal bodily wastes was not offensive, but she smelled sickness. The foetid breath of starvation, the noisome filth of excrement resulting from stomach ailments and fever, the foul odor of pus from infected, suppurating wounds, and even the putrid rot of progressed gangrene, all assaulted her senses and infuriated her.
Epadoa stepped in front of Ayla, trying to block her view, but she had seen enough. She turned and confronted Attaroa. “Why are these people held here behind this fence, like animals in a surround?”
There was a gasp of surprise from the people who were watching when they heard the translation, and they held their breaths waiting for the headwoman’s reaction. No one had ever dared to ask her before.
Attaroa glared at Ayla, who stared back with dauntless anger. They were nearly equal in height, though the dark-eyed woman was a shade taller. Both were physically strong women, but Attaroa was more muscular as a natural attribute of her heredity, while Ayla had flat and wiry muscles developed from use. The headwoman was somewhat older than the stranger, more experienced, crafty, and totally unpredictable; the visitor was a skilled tracker and hunter, quick to notice details, draw conclusions, and able to react swiftly on her judgments.
Suddenly Attaroa laughed, and the familiar manic sound sent a shiver through Jondalar. “Because they deserve it!” the headwoman said.
“No one deserves that kind of treatment,” Ayla retorted, before S’Armuna had a chance to translate. The woman instead respoke Ayla’s comment to Attaroa.
“What do you know? You were not here. You don’t know how they treated us,” the dark-eyed woman said.
“Did they make you stay outside when it was cold? Did they not give you food and clothing?” Some of the women who had gathered around looked a little uneasy. “Are you any better than they were if you treat them worse than you were treated?”
Attaroa did not bother to reply to the words repeated by the shaman, but her smile was harsh and cruel.
Ayla noticed movement beyond the fence, and she saw some of the men standing aside so the two boys who had been in the lean-to could limp to the front. All the others crowded around them. It angered her even more to see the injured youngsters, and other boys cold and hungry. Then she saw that some of the Wolf Women had entered the Holding with their spears. She felt such fury that she was hardly able to suppress it, and she addressed the women directly.
“And did these boys also treat you badly? What did they do to you to justify this?” S’Armuna made sure all could understand.
“Where are the mothers of these children?” she asked Epadoa.
The leader of the Wolf Women glanced at Attaroa after hearing the words in her own language, looking for some kind of direction, but the headwoman only looked back with her cruel smile, as though waiting to hear what she would say.
“Some are dead,” Epadoa said.
“Killed when they tried to run away with their sons,” one of the women from the crowd standing nearby said. “The rest are afraid to do anything for fear their children will be hurt.”
Ayla looked and saw it was an old woman who had spoken, and Jondalar noticed it was the one who had grieved so loudly at the funeral of the three young people. Epadoa shot her a threatening look.
“What more can you do to me, Epadoa?” the woman said, stepping boldly to the forefront. “You’ve already taken my son, and my daughter will soon be gone, one way or another. I’m too old to care if I live or die.”
“They betrayed us,” Epadoa said. “Now they all know what will happen if they try to run away.”
Attaroa gave no sign of approval or disapproval to indicate that Epadoa had voiced her own feelings. Instead, with a bored look, she turned her back on the tense scene and walked to her lodge, leaving Epadoa and her Wolf Women to guard the Holding. But she stopped and spun around when she heard a loud, shrill whistle. A fleeting expression of dread replaced her cold, cruel smile when she saw both horses, who had been almost out of sight at the far edge of the field, galloping toward Ayla. She quickly entered her earthlodge.
Feelings of stunned amazement filled the rest of the settlement as the blond woman, and the man with even lighter yellow hair, leaped on the backs of the animals and galloped away. Most of those remaining wished they could leave as quickly and easily, and many wondered if they would ever see the two again.
“I wish we could keep on going,” Jondalar said, after they had slowed down and he had pulled Racer up alongside Ayla and Whinney.
“I wish we could, too,” she said. “That Camp is so unbearable; it fills me with anger and sadness. I’m even angry about S’Armuna allowing it to go on for so long, though I pity her and understand her remorse. Jondalar, how are we going to free those boys and men?”
“We’re going to have to work that out with S’Armuna,” Jondalar said. “I think it’s obvious that most of the women want things to change, and I’m sure many of them would help, if they knew what to do. S’Armuna will know who they are.”
They had entered the open woods from the field, and they rode through its cover, though in places it was quite sparse, toward the river and then back around to the place they had left the wolf. As soon as they neared, Ayla signaled with a soft whistle, and Wolf bounded out to greet them, almost beside himself with happiness. He had been watching from the place Ayla had told him to stay, and they both gave him praise and attention for waiting. Ayla did notice he had hunted and brought his kill back, which meant he had left his hiding place at least for a while. It worried her, since they were so close to the Camp and its Wolf Women, but she found it hard to blame him. It made her all the more determined, however, to get him away from the hunting women who ate wolves as soon as possible.
They walked the horses quietly back toward the river, to the grove where they had hidden their packs. Ayla got out one of their few remaining cakes of traveling food, broke it in two, and gave the larger piece to Jondalar. They sat amidst the brush, eating their snack, glad to be away from the depressing environment of the S’Armunai Camp.
Suddenly she heard a low rumbling growl from Wolf, and the hair on the back of Ayla’s neck stood on end.
“Someone’s coming,” Jondalar whispered, feeling a quick rush of alarm at the sound.
Snapped to the sharp edge of awareness by the warning, Ayla and Jondalar scanned the area, certain that Wolf’s keener senses had detected immediate danger. Noticing the direction Wolf’s nose was pointing, Ayla looked carefully through the screen of brush and saw two women approaching. One of them, she was almost certain, was Epadoa. She tapped Jondalar’s arm and pointed. He nodded when he saw them.
“You wait, keep horses quiet,” she signed to him in the silent language of the Clan. “I make Wolf hide. I go stalk women, keep women away.”
“I go,” Jondalar signed, shaking his head.
“Women more listen to me,” Ayla replied.
Jondalar nodded reluctantly. “I watch here with spear-thrower,” he said with gestures. “You take spear-thrower.”
Ayla nodded in agreement. “And sling,” she signaled back.
With silent stealth, Ayla circled around in front of the two women, then waited. As they slowly approached, she heard them talking.
“I’m sure they came this way after they left their campsite last night, Unavoa,” the head Wolf Woman said.
“But they already came to our Camp since last night. Why are we still looking here?”
“They may come back this way, and even if they don’t, we may find out something about them.”
“Some people are saying they disappear, or turn into birds or horses when they leave,” the younger Wolf Woman said.
“Don’t be silly,” Epadoa said. “Didn’t we find where they camped last night? Why would they have to make a camp if they could turn into animals?”
She’s right, Ayla thought. At least she uses her head and thinks, and she’s not really so bad at tracking. She’s probably even a decent hunter; it’s too bad she’s so close to Attaroa.
Ayla, crouching behind bare tangled brush and yellowed knee-high grass, watched as they drew closer. At a moment when both women were looking down, she silently stood up, holding her spear-thrower poised.
Epadoa started with surprise, and Unavoa jumped back and let out a little squeal of shock when they looked up and saw the blond stranger.
“You look for me?” Ayla said, speaking in their language. “I am here.”
Unavoa appeared ready to break and run, and even Epadoa seemed nervous and frightened.
“We were … we were hunting,” Epadoa said.
“No horses here to chase over edge,” Ayla said.
“We weren’t hunting horses.”
“I know. You hunt Ayla and Jondalar.”
Her sudden appearance, and the strange quality to the way Ayla said the words in their language, made her seem exotic, from someplace far away, perhaps even from another world. She made both women want nothing more than to get as far away as possible from this woman, who seemed endowed with attributes that were more than human.
“I think these two should return to their Camp, or they may miss the big feast tonight.”
The voice came from the woods, and it was speaking Mamutoi, but both women understood the language and recognized that it was Jondalar who spoke. They looked back in the direction from which his voice had come and saw the tall blond man leaning nonchalantly against the bole of a large white-barked birch, holding his spear and spear-thrower ready.
“Yes. You are right. We don’t want to miss the feast,” Epadoa said. Prodding her speechless young companion, she wasted no time in turning around and leaving.
When they were gone, Jondalar could not resist cracking a big grin.
The sun was descending toward late afternoon of the short winter day when Ayla and Jondalar rode back to the S’Armunai Camp. They had changed Wolf’s hiding place, leaving him somewhat closer to the settlement, since it would soon be dark, and people seldom went beyond the comfort of firelight at night, though Ayla still worried that he might be captured.
S’Armuna was just leaving her lodge as they dismounted at the edge of the field, and she smiled with relief when she saw them. In spite of their promises, she couldn’t help wondering if they would return. After all, why should strangers put themselves in jeopardy to help people they didn’t even know? Their own kin had not even come for the past several years to find out if all was well with them. Of course, friends and kin had not been made welcome the last time they came.
Jondalar removed Racer’s halter so he would not be encumbered in any way, and both gave the horses friendly slaps on the rump to encourage them to move away from the Camp. S’Armuna walked over to meet the two.
“We are just finishing our preparations for the Fire Ceremony tomorrow. We always start a warming fire the night before; would you like to come and warm up?” the woman said.
“It is cold,” Jondalar said. They both walked beside her to the kiln on the other side of the Camp.
“I’ve found a way to heat the food you brought, Ayla. You said it would be better warm, and I’m sure you are right. It smells wonderful.” S’Armuna smiled.
“How can you heat such a thick mixture in baskets?”
“I’ll show you,” the woman said, ducking into the anteroom of the small structure. Ayla followed her, with Jondalar right behind. Although no fire burned in the small fireplace, it was quite warm inside. S’Armuna went directly to the opening of the second chamber and removed the mammoth shoulder bone that was covering it. The air from inside was hot, hot enough to cook, Ayla thought. She looked in and saw that a fire had been started inside the chamber, and just inside the opening, some distance from the fire itself, were her two baskets.
“It does smell good!” Jondalar said.
“You have no idea how many people have been asking when the feast is going to start,” S’Armuna said. “They can even smell it in the Holding. Ardemun came to me and asked if the men are really going to get a share. It’s not only this. I’m surprised, but Attaroa did tell the women to prepare food for a feast, and to make enough for everyone. I can’t remember when we last had a real feast … but we haven’t had much reason to celebrate. It makes me wonder what we have to celebrate tonight.”
“Visitors,” Ayla said. “You are honoring visitors.”
“Yes, visitors,” the woman said. “Remember, that was her excuse to get you to come back. I must warn you. Do not drink or eat any food that comes from a dish that she has not eaten from first. Attaroa knows many harmful things that can be disguised in food. If necessary, only eat what you have brought. I have watched it carefully.”
“Even in here?” Jondalar said.
“No one dares come in here without my permission,” the One Who Served the Mother said, “but outside of this place, be very careful. Attaroa and Epadoa have had their heads together most of the day. They are planning something.”
“And they have many to help them, all the Wolf Women. Who can we count on to help us?” Jondalar said.
“Nearly everyone else wants to see a change,” S’Armuna said.
“But who will help?” Ayla said.
“I think we can count on Cavoa, my acolyte.”
“But she’s pregnant,” Jondalar said.
“All the more reason,” the woman said. “All the signs indicate that she will have a boy. She will fight for the life of her baby, as well as her own. Even if she has a girl, the chances are Attaroa won’t let her live long once the baby is weaned, and Cavoa knows it.”
“What about the woman who spoke out today?” Ayla said.
“That was Esadoa, Cavoa’s mother. I’m sure you can count on her, but she blames me as much as Attaroa for the death of her son.”
“I remember her at the funeral,” Jondalar said. “She threw something in the grave that made Attaroa angry.”
“Yes, some tools for the next world. Attaroa had forbidden anyone to give them anything that might help them in the world of the spirits.”
“I think you stood up to her.”
S’Armuna shrugged as if to pass it off. “I told her once the tools were given, they could not be taken back. Not even she dared to retrieve them.”
Jondalar nodded. “I’m sure all the men in the Holding would help,” he said.
“Of course, but first we have to get them out,” S’Armuna said. “The guards are being especially watchful. I don’t think anyone could even sneak in right now. In a few days, perhaps. That will give us time to talk to the women quietly. When we know how many we can count on, then we can work out a plan to overpower Attaroa and the Wolf Women. We’re going to have to fight them, I’m afraid. That’s the only way we’ll get the men out of the Holding.”
“I think you’re right,” Jondalar said, looking grim.
Ayla shook her head in sorrow at the thought. There had been so much pain in this Camp already that the idea of fighting, of causing more trouble and pain, was distressing. She wished there was some other way.
“You said you gave Attaroa something to make the men sleep. Couldn’t you give something to Attaroa and her Wolf Women to make them sleep?” Ayla asked.
“Attaroa is wary. She will not eat or drink anything that isn’t first tasted by someone else. That was what Doban did once. Now, I think she’ll just pick out one of the other children,” S’Armuna said, glancing outside. “It’s almost dark. If you are ready, I think it’s time for the feast to begin.”
Ayla and Jondalar each picked up one of the baskets from the inner chamber; then the One Who Served closed it up again. Once outside, they could see that a big bonfire had been started in front of Attaroa’s earthlodge.
“I wondered if she was going to invite you in, but it appears the feast is going to be eaten outside, in spite of the cold,” S’Armuna said.
As they approached, bearing their baskets, Attaroa turned to face them. “Since you wanted to share this feast with the men, it seemed right to eat out here, so you can watch them,” she said. S’Armuna translated, although Ayla understood the woman perfectly, and even Jondalar knew enough of their language to get the meaning of her words.
“But it is hard to see them in the dark. It would help if you built another fire on their side,” Ayla said.
Attaroa paused a moment, then laughed, but she made no move to comply with the request.
The feast seemed to be an extravagant affair with many dishes, but the food was primarily lean meat with hardly any fat, very few vegetables or grains or filling starchy roots, and no dried fruit or hint of sweetness, not even from the inner bark of a tree. There was some of the lightly fermented brew made from birch sap, but Ayla decided she would not drink it, and she was pleased to see a woman coming around and pouring hot herb tea into cups for those who wanted it. She’d had experience with Talut’s brew and knew it could cloud her judgment; tonight she wanted all her wits about her.
All in all, it was a rather meager feast, Ayla thought, although the people of the Camp would not have agreed. The food was more like the kind that might be left at the end of the season, not what should have been available in the middle of winter. A few furs had been scattered around Attaroa’s raised platform near the large fire for the guests. The rest of the people were bringing their own to sit upon while they ate.
S’Armuna led Ayla and Jondalar toward Attaroa’s fur-covered platform, and they stood waiting until the headwoman swaggered to her place. She was dressed in all her wolf-fur finery and necklaces of teeth, bone, ivory, and shell, decorated with bits of fur and feathers. Most interesting to Ayla was the staff she held, which was made from a straightened mammoth tusk.
Attaroa commanded that the food be served and, with a pointed look at Ayla, ordered that the share set aside for the men be taken into the Holding, including the bowl Ayla and Jondalar had provided. Then she sat down on her platform. Everyone else took it as a signal to sit down on their furs. Ayla noticed that the raised seat put the headwoman in an interesting position. She was above everyone else, which enabled her to see over the heads of the others and also to look down on them. Ayla recalled that there had been times when people had stood on logs or rocks when they had something to say to a group that they wanted everyone to hear, but it had always been a temporary position.
It was a powerful placement Attaroa had created, Ayla realized, as she observed the unconscious postures and gestures of the people around. Everyone seemed to express toward Attaroa the attitude of deference that the women of the Clan did when they sat in silence in front of a man, waiting for the tap on the shoulder that gave them the right to make their thoughts known. But there was a difference that was hard to characterize. In the Clan, she never sensed resentment from the women, which she felt here, or lack of respect from the men. It was just the way things were done, inherent behavior, not forced or coerced, and it served to make sure that both parties were paying close attention to the communication between them, which was expressed primarily with signs and gestures.
While they were waiting to be served, Ayla tried to get a better look at the headwoman’s staff. It was similar to the Speaking Staff used by Talut and the Lion Camp, except the carvings were very unusual, not at all like Talut’s staff, yet they seemed so familiar. Ayla recalled that Talut brought out the Speaking Staff for various occasions including ceremonies, but particularly during meetings or arguments.
The Speaking Staff invested the one who held it with the right to speak, and allowed each person to make a statement, or express a point of view without interruption. The next person with something to say then asked for the staff. In principle, only the one holding the Speaking Staff was supposed to talk, although at Lion Camp, especially in the midst of a heated discussion or argument, people didn’t always wait their turn. But with some reminding, Talut was usually able to get the people to abide by the principle, so that everyone who wanted to was given a chance to have a say.
“That is a most unusual and beautifully carved Speaking Staff,” Ayla said. “May I see it?”
Attaroa smiled when she heard S’Armuna’s translation. She moved it toward Ayla and closer to the firelight, but she did not give it up. It was soon obvious that she had no intention of letting it go at all, and Ayla sensed that the headwoman was using the Speaking Staff to invest herself with its power. As long as Attaroa held it, anyone who wanted to speak had to request permission from her, and by extension, other actions—when to serve the food, or when to begin eating, for example—waited on her permission. Like her raised platform, Ayla realized, it was a means of affecting, and controlling, the way people behaved toward her. It gave the younger woman much to think about.
The staff itself was quite unusual. It was not newly carved, that much was obvious. The color of the mammoth ivory had begun to turn creamy, and the area where it was usually held was gray and shiny, caused by the accumulated dirt and oils of the many hands that had held it. It had been used by many generations.
The design carved into the straightened tusk was a geometric abstraction of the Great Earth Mother, formed by concentric ovals to shape the pendulous breasts, rounded belly, and voluptuous thighs. The circle was the symbol for all, everything, the totality of the known and unknown worlds, and symbolized the Great Mother of All. The concentric circles, especially the way they were used to suggest the important motherly elements, reinforced the symbolism.
The head was an inverted triangle, with the point forming the chin, and the base, curved slightly into a domelike shape, at the top. The downward pointing triangle was the universal symbol for Woman; it was the outward shape of her generative organ and therefore also symbolized motherhood and the Great Mother of All. The area of the face contained a horizontal series of double parallel bars, joined by laterally incised lines going from the pointed chin up to the position of the eyes. The larger space between the top set of double horizontal lines and the rounded lines that paralleled the curved top was filled in with three sets of double lines that were perpendicular, joining where eyes would usually be.
But the geometric designs were not a face. Except that the inverted triangle was placed in the position of a head, the carved markings would not even have suggested a face. The awesome countenance of the Great Mother was too much for an ordinary human to behold. Her powers were so great that Her look alone could overwhelm. The abstract symbolism of the figure on Attaroa’s Speaking Staff conveyed that sense of power with subtlety and elegance.
Ayla remembered from the training she had begun with Mamut the deeper meaning of some of the symbols. The three sides of the triangle—three was Her primary number—represented the three major seasons of the year, spring, summer, and winter, although two additional minor seasons were also recognized, fall and midwinter, the seasons which signaled changes to come, making five. Five, Ayla had learned, was Her hidden, power number, but the three-sided, inverted triangles were understood by everyone.
She recalled the triangular shapes on the bird-woman carvings, representing the transcendent Mother changing into Her bird shape, that Ranec had made … Ranec … Suddenly, Ayla remembered where she had seen the figure on Attaroa’s Speaking Staff before. Ranec’s shirt! The beautiful, creamy white, soft leather shirt that he had worn at her adoption ceremony. It had been stunning partly because of its unusual style with its tapered body and wide flaring sleeves, and because the color looked so good with his brown skin, but mostly because of its decoration.
It had been embroidered with brightly dyed porcupine quills and threads of sinew with an abstract Mother figure that could have been copied directly from the carving on the staff that Attaroa held. It had the same concentric circles, the same triangular head; the S’Armunai must be the distant relatives of the Mamutoi that Ranec’s shirt had originally come from, she realized. If they had taken the northern route that Talut had suggested, they would have had to pass by this Camp.
When they had left, Nezzie’s son, Danug, the young man who was growing into the image of Talut, had told her that someday he would make a Journey to the Zelandonii to visit her and Jondalar. What if Danug did decide to make such a Journey when he got a few years older, and what if he came this way? What if Danug, or any other Mamutoi, got caught by Attaroa’s camp and came to harm? The thought strengthened her resolve to help these people put an end to Attaroa’s power.
The headwoman pulled back the staff Ayla had been studying and turned to her with a wooden bowl. “Since you are our honored visitor, and since you have provided an accompaniment to this feast that is collecting so many compliments,” Attaroa said, her tone heavy with sarcasm, “let me offer you a taste of the specialty of one of our women.” The bowl was full of mushrooms, but since they were cut up and cooked, there was no way to identify the variety.
S’Armuna translated, adding a cautionary, “Be careful.”
But Ayla needed neither the translation nor the warning. “I don’t want any mushrooms right now,” she said.
Attaroa laughed when she heard Ayla’s words repeated, as though she had expected such an answer. “Too bad,” she said, dipping into the bowl with her hand and lifting out a large mouthful. When she had swallowed enough to speak, she added, “These are delicious!” She ate several more mouthfuls, then handed the bowl to Epadoa, smiled knowingly, and downed her cup of birch brew.
As the meal progressed, she drank several more cups and was beginning to show the effects; she was becoming loud and insulting. One of the Wolf Women who’d been left guarding the Holding—they had exchanged places with other guards so that everyone could share in the feast—approached Epadoa, who then came to Attaroa and spoke to her in a whisper.
“It seems Ardemun wants to come out and bring thanks from the men for this feast,” Attaroa said, and she laughed with derision. “I’m sure I am not the one they want to thank. It is our most honored visitor.” She turned to Epadoa. “Bring the old man out.”
The guard went back and soon Ardemun was limping toward the fire from the gate of the wooden fence. Jondalar was surprised at how glad he was to see him, and he realized that he hadn’t seen any men since he had left the Holding. He wondered how they all were.
“So the men want to thank me for this feast?” the headwoman said.
“Yes, S’Attaroa. They asked me to come and tell you.”
“Tell me, old man, why do I have trouble believing you?”
Ardemun knew better than to reply. He simply stood there, looking down at the ground, as though he wished he could disappear.
“Worthless! He’s worthless! No fight in him at all,” Attaroa spat with disgust. “Just like all of them. They’re all worthless.” She turned to Ayla. “Why do you keep yourself tied to that man?” she said, indicating Jondalar. “Are you not strong enough to be free of him?”
Ayla waited until S’Armuna translated, which gave her time to consider her answer. “I choose to be with him. I lived alone long enough,” Ayla replied.
“What good will he be to you when he becomes weak and feeble like Ardemun there,” Attaroa said, casting a sneering glance at the old man. “When his tool is too limp to give you Pleasure, he’ll be as worthless as the rest of them.”
Again Ayla waited for the older woman, though she understood the headwoman. “No one stays young forever. There is more to a man than his tool.”
“But you should get rid of that one; he won’t last long.” She motioned toward the tall blond man. “He looks strong, but it’s all show. He did not have the strength to take Attaroa, or perhaps he was just afraid.” She laughed and swallowed another cupful of brew, then turned to Jondalar. “That was it! Admit it, you fear me. That’s why you couldn’t take me.”
Jondalar also understood her, and it made him angry. “There is a difference between fear and lack of desire, Attaroa. You cannot force desire. I did not share the Mother’s Gift because I did not want you,” Jondalar said.
S’Armuna glanced at Attaroa and cringed before she began the translation, almost forcing herself not to modify his words.
“That’s a lie!” Attaroa screamed, incensed. She stood up and hovered over him. “You feared me, Zelandonii. I could see it. I’ve fought men before, and you were even afraid to fight me.”
Jondalar stood up, too, and Ayla with him. Several of her women closed in around them.
“These people are our guests,” S’Armuna said, also getting up. “They were invited to share our feast. Have we forgotten how to treat visitors?”
“Yes, of course. Our guests,” Attaroa said scornfully. “We must be courteous and hospitable to visitors, or the woman won’t think well of us. I’ll show you how much I care what she thinks of us. You both left here without my permission. Do you know what we do to people who run away from here? We kill them! Just like I will kill you,” the headwoman screeched, as she lunged for Ayla with a sharpened pointed fibula of a horse in her hand, a formidable dagger.
Jondalar tried to intercede, but Attaroa’s Wolf Women had surrounded him, and their spear points were pushed to his chest, stomach, and back so hard that they had pierced the skin and drawn blood. Before he knew it, his hands were tied behind his back, as Attaroa knocked Ayla down, straddled her, and raised a dagger to her throat, without a hint of the drunkenness she had shown before.
She had planned it all along, Jondalar realized. While they had been talking, trying to think of ways to blunt Attaroa’s power, she had been planning to kill them. He felt so stupid, he should have known. He had sworn to himself he would protect Ayla. Instead he was watching helplessly, full of fear for her, while the woman he loved tried to fight off her attacker. That was why everyone feared Attaroa. She killed without hesitation or remorse.
Ayla had been taken completely by surprise. She’d had no time to reach for a knife or a sling, or anything, and she was not experienced in fighting with people. She had never fought anyone in her life. But Attaroa was on top of her, with a sharp dagger in her hand, trying to kill her. Ayla grabbed the headwoman’s wrist and struggled to hold her arm away. Ayla was strong, but Attaroa was both strong and cunning, and she was pushing down, against Ayla’s resistance, forcing the sharp tip toward Ayla’s throat.
Instinctively, Ayla rolled over at the last moment, but the dagger grazed her neck, leaving a line of red welling up, before the weapon was plunged halfway into the ground. And Ayla was still pinned by the woman whose demented anger added to her strength. Attaroa yanked the dagger out of the ground, then hit the blond woman, stunning her, straddled her once again, and pulled back to plunge her dagger down.