Horses were running, crowding together all around her, neighing, whinnying, screaming, and their fear was strong in her nostrils. She whistled again, loud and piercing, but she wasn't sure if she could be heard above the din, and she knew the urge to run was powerful.
Suddenly, in the haze of dust and smoke, Ayla saw a horse slow, try to turn away and resist the urgings of the panicked horses racing past her, communicating their fear of the fire. Though her coat was the color of the choking air, Ayla knew it was Whinney. She whistled again to encourage her, and she saw her beloved mare stop, undecided. The instinct to run with the herd was strong in her, but that whistle had always meant safety, security, love, and she was not as frightened of the fire. She had been raised with the smell of smoke nearby. It had only signaled the proximity of people.
Ayla saw Whinney standing her ground while other horses brushed close or bumped her while trying to avoid her. The woman urged Racer forward. The mare started to turn back toward the woman, but a light-colored horse suddenly appeared, seemingly out of the dust. The big herd stallion tried to head her off, screaming a warning challenge at Racer, even in his panic, trying to keep his new mare away from the younger male. This time Racer screamed a response, then pranced and pawed the ground and started for the bigger animal, forgetting in all the excitement that he was too young and inexperienced to fight a mature stallion.
Then, for some reason – a sudden change of mind or contagion of fear – the stallion wheeled and pounded away. Whinney started to follow, and Racer rushed to overtake her. As the herd raced closer and closer to the edge of the cliff and the sure death waiting below, the mare with a coat the color of sun-ripened hay and the young brown stallion she had foaled, with the woman on his back, were being carried along with them! With fierce determination, Ayla pulled Racer to a stop in front of his dam. He whinnied with fear, wanting to run in panic with the rest of the horses, but he was held in check by the woman and the commands he was trained to obey.
Then all the horses had passed her by. As Whinney and Racer stood shivering with fear, the last of the herd disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Ayla shuddered at the distant sound of neighing, screaming, whinnying horses, and then she was stunned by the silence. Whinney and Racer and she, herself, could have been with them. She breathed deeply at the close call, then looked around for Jondalar.
She didn't see him. The fire was moving south but east; the wind was blowing away from the southwestern edge of the field – but the flames had served their purpose. She looked in all directions, but Jondalar was nowhere in sight. Ayla and the two horses were alone on the smoking field. She felt a lump of fear and anxiety rise in her throat. What happened to Jondalar?
She slid off Racer and, still holding his lead rope, leaped easily onto Whinney's back, then headed back to the place where they had separated. She scanned the area carefully, walking back and forth, looking for tracks, but the ground was covered with hoofprints. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spied something and ran to see what it was. With her heart pounding in her throat, she picked up Jondalar's spear-thrower!
Looking more closely, she saw footprints, obviously many people, but distinctive among them were the imprints of Jondalar's large feet encased in his well-worn boots. She had seen those prints too many times at their campsites to be mistaken. Then she saw a dark spot on the ground. She reached down to touch it and pulled back a fingertip red with blood.
Her eyes opened wide, and fear caught in her throat. Standing where she was, so as not to disturb the signs, she carefully looked around, trying to piece together some sense of what had happened. She was an experienced tracker, and to her trained eye, it soon became clear that someone had hurt Jondalar and dragged him away. She followed the tracks north for a while. Then she took note of her surroundings, so she could pick up the trail again, mounted Whinney, with Racer's lead firmly in hand, and turned west to retrieve the backpack.
As she rode toward the west, she was scowling, and the hard angry frown expressed exactly how she felt, but she had to think things out and decide what to do. Someone had hurt Jondalar and taken him away, and no one had the right to do that. Perhaps she didn't understand all the ways of the Others, but that was one thing she knew. She knew something else, too. She didn't know how yet, but she was going to get him back.
She was relieved when she saw the backpack still leaning against the rock, just as they'd left it. She dumped everything out of it and made a few adjustments so Racer could carry it on his back, then began to repack. She had left off her carrying belt that morning – it had felt rather clumsy – and stuffed everything into the backpack. She lifted the belt and examined the sharp ceremonial dagger that was still in the loop, accidentally pricking herself with the point. She stared at the tiny drop of blood beading up, and for some strange reason she felt like crying. She was alone again. Someone had taken Jondalar away.
Suddenly she put the belt on again and stuffed her dagger, knife, hatchet, and hunting weapons back into it. He wasn't going to be gone for long! She packed the tent on Racer's back, but she kept the sleeping roll with her. Who could tell what kind of weather she might run into? She kept a waterbag, too. Then she took out a cake of traveling food and sat down on the rock. It wasn't so much that she was hungry, but she knew she had to keep her strength up if she was going to follow the trail and find Jondalar.
The other nagging worry that had been bothering her besides the missing man, was the missing wolf. She couldn't leave to find Jondalar until she found Wolf. He was more than just an animal companion that she loved, he could be essential in following the trail. She hoped he would appear before nightfall, and she wondered if she could backtrack over their trail until she found him. But what if he was hunting? She might miss him. As impatient as it made her feel, she decided it was best to wait.
She tried to think about what she could do, but she couldn't even think of possible courses of action. The very act of hurting someone and taking him away was so alien to her that it was hard to think beyond it. It seemed such an unreasonable, illogical thing to do.
Intruding on her thoughts she heard a whine and then a yip. She turned to see Wolf running toward her, obviously happy to see her. She was greatly relieved.
"Wolf!" she cried with joy. "You made it, and much earlier than yesterday. Are you better?" After greeting him affectionately, she examined him and was glad when she confirmed again that although he was definitely bruised, nothing was broken, and he seemed much improved.
She decided to leave immediately, so she could pick up the trail while it was still light. She tied Racer's lead to a strap that held Whinney's riding blanket on, then mounted the mare. Calling Wolf to follow her, she started back toward the trail, then rode all the way to the place where she had found his footprints along with the others, his spear-thrower, and the spot of blood, now a slightly brownish stain on the ground. She dismounted to examine the place again.
"We have to find Jondalar, Wolf," she said. The animal looked at her quizzically.
She lowered herself and, sitting comfortably on her haunches, looked more closely at the footprints, making an effort to identify individuals so she could estimate how many there were, and to commit the size and shapes of them to memory. The wolf waited, sitting on his haunches and staring at her, sensing something unusual and important. Finally she pointed to the bloodstain.