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.

"Someone hurt Jondalar and carried him away. We need to find him." The wolf sniffed the blood, then wagged his tail and yipped. "That's Jondalar's footprint," she said, pointing to the distinctive large impression among the smaller ones. Wolf again sniffed where she pointed, then looked at her, as if waiting for her next move. "They took him away," she said, indicating the other imprints of human feet.

Suddenly she stood up and walked over to Racer. She took Jondalar's spear-thrower out of the pack on Racer's back and knelt to let the wolf sniff it. "We have to find Jondalar, Wolf! Someone took him away, and we're going to get him back!"

26

Jondalar slowly became aware that he was awake, but caution made him lie still until he could sort out what was wrong, because something most certainly was. For one thing, his head was throbbing. He opened his eyes a crack. There was only dim light, but enough to see the cold, hard-packed dirt he was lying on. Something felt dry and caked on the side of his face, but when he attempted to reach up and find out what it was, he discovered that his hands were tied together behind his back. His feet were tied together, too.

He rolled to his side and looked around. He was inside a small round structure, a kind of wooden frame covered with skins, which he sensed was inside a larger enclosure. There were no sounds of wind, no drafts, no billowing of the hides as there would have been if he had been outside, and though it was cool, it wasn't freezing. And he suddenly realized that he was no longer wearing his fur parka.

Jondalar struggled to sit up, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. The throbbing in his head localized to a sharp pain above his left temple, near the dry, caked residue. He stopped when he heard the sound of voices drawing near. Two women were speaking an unfamiliar language, though he thought he detected a few words that sounded vaguely Mamutoi.

"Hello out there. I'm awake," he called out, in the language of the Mammoth Hunters. "Will someone come and untie me? These ropes aren't necessary. I'm sure there has been a misunderstanding. I mean no harm." The voices stopped for a moment, then continued, but no one either answered or came.

Jondalar, lying facedown on the dirt, tried to remember how he had gotten there, and what he might have done that would have prompted someone to tie him up. In his experience, the only time people were tied up was when they behaved wildly and tried to hurt someone. He recalled a wall of fire – and horses racing toward the drop-off at the edge of the field. People must have been hunting the horses, and he'd been caught up in the middle of it.