People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear

to high-breasted young Blue Wing, and ordered her removed. Skimmer and the rest of the women had watched silently as pretty Blue Wing stepped out, endured Nashat’s rude assessment of her slim body, and then was ordered to be taken and delivered to the Guide.
    Skimmer had silently thanked Wolf Dreamer that it wasn’t her. Now, after four days, she wasn’t so sure. Blue Wing might have to endure Ti-Bish pumping himself between her legs, but she probably had food and drink.
    Skimmer swallowed down her dry throat. Is that what I have become? An animal willing to let a twisted beast use my body in return for a drink and something to eat?
    And what of Ashes? She considered at her daughter, safely nestled at her feet.
    Skimmer shivered, and looked up at the moonlit night. Only the wind from the south gave them hope. When it faded, the terrible cold came rolling down from the Ice Giants. She could see them above the line of poles, rising white and misty in the moonlight.
    Skimmer had never been this close to the huge mountains of ice, had never imagined that they could be so big. They filled the northern horizon, rising in oddly shaped peaks that rose to twisted points. Here and there, she could see where some had slid down, the ice cracked and broken. The whole of it was riddled with dark holes that ran down to where?
    The very thought of it sent shivers through her bones that not even her chilled flesh could mock.
    What brought me here? Her reeling soul couldn’t quite grasp her situation. It was like living a disjointed Dream, some impossible twist of imagined horror.
    Oh, Hookmaker, how did this happen to us? But her husband was gone. The time to plead with ghosts was over. The fate they had feared had come to collect them. Hookmaker was dead. She’d stood behind his body, had stared in disbelief that the man she loved and argued with lay bleeding and dying before her. In that shocked moment, some voice within had urged her to run; but she had remained rooted, eyes fixed on her husband as he groaned and blood ran out of his head. She’d barely noticed the warriors who surrounded her, lifted her, and carried her away. She had turned, staring in horror at Hookmaker’s body until it was out of sight.
    “Mother, I’m scared. Where’s Father?” Ashes’ pleading voice interrupted her misery.
    “Don’t cry, Ashes,” Skimmer whispered. “Hallowed Ancestors, please don’t cry.”
    She glanced up at the pole palisade that surrounded the cramped captives. Like wicked black fangs it rose against the moonlit night. She turned her head away, trying to send her souls back to a place where Hookmaker lived, where the stench of human feces, urine, and fear didn’t clog her nose.
    “Are they going to kill us?” Ashes whispered fearfully. “The Nightland warriors?”
    “No. We’re going to escape. I promise you.”
    Ashes clutched Skimmer’s leg. Her young lips had swollen and cracked until she could barely speak. Skimmer stroked her matted hair, wondering how much longer Ti-Bish would force them to suffer.
    Tens of people, survivors of the attacks, packed the small log enclosure, standing shoulder to shoulder. Children cried everywhere, mothers impotent to heal the wounds of thirst or hunger. And many of the women were injured. Bloody bandages wrapped arms, legs, and skulls. And these had been the strong ones: the women and children who could carry heavy packs back to the Nightland villages.
    They’d been waiting for days, tortured by thirst, the icy wind tearing at their flesh. Several women had gone mad, screaming and lashing out at anyone who unknowingly pressed against them, trying to maintain their slim boundary of space. The sick and weak, too feeble to stand, took turns sitting, heads braced on drawn-up knees. Some were already dead, their bodies hauled to a stinking pile against the back wall. Every time the cold wind changed direction it brought her the scent of rotting corpses. Bile would rise in her throat, and