The Valley of Horses (4 page)

Ayla headed north and slightly west after her perilous river crossing. The summer days warmed as she searched the open steppeland for some sign of humanity. The herbal blossoms that had brightened the brief spring faded, and the grass neared waist high.

She added alfalfa and clover to her diet, and welcomed the starchy, slightly sweet groundnuts, finding the roots by tracing rambling surface vines. Milk-vetch pods were swelling with rows of oval green vegetables in addition to edible roots, and she had no trouble distinguishing between them and their poisonous cousins. When the season for the buds of day lilies passed, the roots were still tender. A few early-ripening varieties of low-crawling currants had begun to turn color, and there were always a few new leaves of pigweed, mustard, or nettles for greens.

Her sling did not lack for targets. Steppe pikas, souslik marmots, great jerboas, varying hares—gray brown now instead of winter white—and an occasional, omnivorous, mouse-hunting giant hamster abounded on the plains. Low-flying willow grouse and ptarmigan were a special treat, though Ayla could never eat ptarmigan without remembering that the fat birds with the feathered feet had always been Creb’s favorite.

But those were only the smaller creatures feasting on the plain’s summer bounty. She saw herds of deer—reindeer, red deer, and enormous antlered giant deer; compact steppe horses, asses, and onagers, which resembled both; huge bison or a family of saiga antelope occasionally crossed her path. The herd of reddish brown wild cattle, with bulls six feet at the withers, had spring calves nursing at the ample udders of
cows. Ayla’s mouth watered for the taste of milk-fed veal, but her sling was not an adequate weapon to hunt aurochs. She glimpsed migrating woolly mammoths, saw musk oxen in a phalanx with their young at their backs facing down a pack of wolves, and carefully avoided a family of evil-tempered woolly rhinoceroses. Broud’s totem, she recalled, and suitable, too.

As she continued northward, the young woman began to notice a change in the terrain. It was becoming drier and more desolate. She had reached the ill-defined northern limit of the wet, snowy continental steppes. Beyond, all the way to the sheer walls of the immense northern glacier, lay the arid loess steppes, an environment that existed only when glaciers were on the land, during the Ice Age.

Glaciers, massive frozen sheets of ice that spanned the continent, mantled the Northern Hemisphere. Nearly a quarter of the earth’s surface was buried under their unmeasurable crushing tons. The water locked within their confines caused the level of the oceans to drop, extending the coastlines and changing the shape of the land. No portion of the globe was exempt from their influence, rains flooded equatorial regions and deserts shrunk, but near the borders of the ice the effect was profound.

The vast ice field chilled the air above it, causing moisture in the atmosphere to condense and fall as snow. But nearer the center high pressure stabilized, creating extreme dry cold and pushing the snowfall out toward the edges. The huge glaciers grew at their margins; the ice was nearly uniform across its full sweeping dimensions, a sheet of ice more than a mile thick.

With most of the snow falling on the ice and nourishing the glacier, the land just south of it was dry—and frozen. The constant high pressure over the center caused an atmospheric chute funneling the cold dry air toward lower pressures; wind, blowing from the north, never stopped on the steppes. It only varied in intensity. Along the way it picked up rock that had been pulverized to flour at the shifting border of the grinding glacier. The airborne particles were sifted to a texture only slightly coarser than clay-loess—and deposited over hundreds of miles to depths of many feet, and became soil.

In winter, howling winds whipped the scant snowfall across the bleak frozen land. But the earth still spun on its tilted axis, and seasons still changed. Average yearly temperaturas
only a few degrees lower trigger the formation of a glacier; a few hot days have little effect if they don’t alter the average.

In spring the meager snow that fell on the land melted, and the crust of the glacier warmed, seeping down and out across the steppes. The meltwater softened the soil enough, above the permafrost, for shallow rooting grasses and herbs to sprout. The grass grew rapidly, knowing in the heart of its seed that life would be short. By the middle of summer, it was dry standing hay, an entire continent of grassland, with scattered pockets of boreal forest and tundra nearer the oceans.

In the regions near the borders of the ice, where the snow cover was light, the grass supplied fodder the year around for uncountable millions of grazing and seed-eating animals who had adapted to the glacial cold—and to predators who can adapt to any climate that supports their prey. A mammoth could graze at the foot of a gleaming, blue-white wall of ice soaring a mile or more above it.

The seasonal streams and rivers fed by glacial melt cut through the deep loess, and often through the sedimentary rock to the crystalline granite platform underlying the continent. Steep ravines and river gorges were common in the open landscape, but rivers provided moisture and gorges shelter from the wind. Even in the arid loess steppes, green valleys existed.

The season warmed, and, as one day followed the next, Ayla grew tired of traveling, tired of the monotony of the steppes, tired of the unrelenting sun and incessant wind. Her skin roughened, cracked, and peeled. Her lips were chapped, her eyes sore, her throat always full of grit. She came across an occasional river valley, greener and more wooded than the steppes, but none tempted her to stay, and all were empty of human life.

Though skies were usually clear, her fruitless search cast a shadow of fear and worry. Winter always ruled the land. On the hottest day of summer, the harsh glacial cold was never far from thought. Food had to be stockpiled and protection found to survive the long bitter season. She had been wandering since early spring and was beginning to wonder if she were doomed to roam the steppes forever—or die after all.

She made a dry camp at the end of another day that was
so like the days that had gone before it. She had made a kill, but her coal was dead, and wood was getting more scarce. She ate a few bites raw rather than bothering with a fire, but she had no appetite. She threw the marmot aside, although game seemed more scarce too—or she wasn’t keeping as sharp an eye out for it. Gathering was more difficult as well. The ground was hard-packed and matted with old growth. And there was always the wind.

She slept poorly, troubled by bad dreams, and awoke un-rested. She had nothing to eat; even her discarded marmot was gone. She took a drink—stale and flat—packed her carrying basket, and started north.

Around noon she found a streambed with a few drying pools of water, which tasted slightly acrid, but she filled her waterbag. She dug up some cattail roots; they were stringy and bland, but she chewed on them as she plodded. She didn’t want to go on, but she didn’t know what else to do. Dispirited and apathetic, she wasn’t paying much attention to where she was going. She didn’t notice the pride of cave lions basking in the afternoon sun until one roared a warning.

Fear charged through her, tingling her into awareness. She backed up and turned west to skirt the lions’ territory. She had traveled north far enough. It was the spirit of the Cave Lion that protected her, not the great beast in his physical form. Just because he was her totem did not mean she was safe from attack.

In fact, that was how Creb knew her totem was the Cave Lion. She still bore four long parallel scars on her left thigh, and had a recurring nightmare of a gigantic claw reaching into a tiny cave where she had run to hide when she was a child of five. She had dreamed about that claw the night before, she recalled. Creb had told her she had been tested to see if she was worthy, and marked to show she had been chosen. Absently, she reached down and felt the scars on her leg. I wonder why the Cave Lion would choose me, she thought.

The sun was blinding as it sank low in the western sky. Ayla had been hiking up a long incline, looking for a place to make camp. Dry camp, again, she thought, and was glad she had filled her waterbag. But she would have to find more water soon. She was tired and hungry, and upset that she had allowed herself to get so close to the cave lions.

Was it a sign? Was it just a matter of time? What made her think she could escape a death curse?

The glare on the horizon was so bright that she nearly missed the abrupt edge of the plateau. She shielded her eyes, stood on the lip, and looked down a ravine. There was a small river of sparkling water below, flanked on both sides by trees and brush. A gorge of rocky cliffs opened out into a cool, green, sheltered valley. Halfway down, in the middle of a field, the last long rays of the sun fell on a small herd of horses, grazing peacefully.

“Well then, why did you decide to go with me, Jondalar?” the brown-haired young man said, mistaking a tent made of several hides laced together. “You told Marona you were only going to visit Dalanar and show me the way. Just to make a short Journey before you settled down. You were supposed to go to the Summer Meeting with the Lanzadonii and be there in time for the Matrimonial. She is going to be furious, and that’s one woman I wouldn’t want angry at me. You sure you’re not just running away from her?” Thonolan’s tone was light, but the seriousness in his eyes gave him away.

“Little Brother, what makes you think you’re the only one in this family with an urge to travel? You didn’t think I was going to let you go off by yourself, did you? Then come home and brag about your long Journey? Someone has to go along to keep your stories straight, and keep you out of trouble,” the tall blond man replied, then stooped to enter the tent.

Inside it was high enough to sit or kneel comfortably, but not to stand, and large enough for both their sleeping rolls and their gear. The tent was supported by three poles in a row down the center, and near the middle, taller pole was a
hole with a flap that could be laced closed to keep out rain, or opened to let smoke escape if they wanted a fire in the tent. Jondalar pulled up the three poles and crawled back out of the opening with them.

“Keep
me
out of trouble!” Thonolan said. “I’m going to have to grow eyes in the back of my head to watch your rear! Wait until Marona finds out you’re not with Dalanar and the Lanzadonii when they get to the Meeting. She might decide to turn herself into a donii and come flying over that glacier we just crossed to get you, Jondalar.” They started folding up the tent between them. “That one has had her eye on you for a long time, and just when she thought she had you, you decide it’s time to make a Journey. I think you just don’t want to slip your hand in that thong and let Zelandoni tie the knot. I think my big brother is mating-shy.” They put the tent beside the backframes. “Most men your age already have a little one, or two, at their hearths,” Thonolan added, ducking a mock punch from his older brother; the laughter now had reached his gray eyes.

“Most men my age! I’m only three years older than you,” Jondalar said, feigning anger. Then he laughed, a big hearty laugh, its uninhibited exuberance all the more surprising because it was unexpected.

The two brothers were as different as night and day, but it was the shorter dark-haired one who had the lighter heart. Thonolan’s friendly nature, infectious grin, and easy laughter made him quickly welcome anywhere. Jondalar was more serious, his brow often knotted in concentration or worry, and though he smiled easily, especially at his brother, he seldom laughed out loud. When he did, the sheer abandon of it came as a surprise.

“And how do you know Marona won’t already have a little one to bring to my hearth by the time we get back,” Jondalar said, as they began rolling up the leather ground cloth, which could be used as a smaller shelter with one of the poles.

“And how do you know she won’t decide my elusive brother isn’t the only man worthy of her well-known charms? Marona really knows how to please a man—when she wants to. But that temper of hers … You’re the only man who has ever been able to handle her, Jondalar, though Doni knows, there are plenty who would take her, temper and all.” They were facing each other with the ground cloth
between them. “Why haven’t you mated her? Everyone’s been expecting it for years.”

Thonolan’s question was serious. Jondalar’s vivid blue eyes grew troubled and his brow wrinkled. “Maybe just because everyone expects it,” he said. “I don’t know, Thonolan, to be honest, I expect to mate her, too. Who else would I mate?”

“Who? Oh, just anyone you wanted, Jondalar. There isn’t an unmated woman in all the Caves—and a few who are—who wouldn’t jump at the chance to tie the knot with Jondalar of the Zelandonii, brother of Joharran, leader of the Ninth Cave, not to mention brother of Thonolan, dashing and courageous adventurer.”

“You forgot son of Marthona, former leader of the Ninth Cave of the Zelandonii, and brother of Folara, beautiful daughter of Marthona, or she will be when she grows up.” Jondalar smiled. “If you’re going to name my ties, don’t forget the blessed of Doni.”

“Who can forget them?” Thonolan asked, turning to the sleeping rolls, each made of two furs cut to fit each man and laced together around the sides and bottom, with a drawstring around the opening. “What are we talking about? I even think Joplaya would mate you, Jondalar.”

They both started packing the rigid boxlike backframes that tapered outward toward the top. They were made of stiff rawhide attached to wooden slats and held on with leather shoulder straps made adjustable by a row of carved ivory buttons. The buttons were secured by threading a thong through a single center hole and knotting it in front to a second thong that passed back through the same hole and on to the next.

“You know we can’t mate. Joplaya’s my cousin. And you shouldn’t take her seriously; she’s a terrible tease. We became good friends when I went to live with Dalanar to learn my craft. He taught us both at the same time. She’s one of the best flint knappers I know. But don’t ever tell her I said so. She’d never let me forget it. We were always trying to outdo each other.”