《Imbrium: Wind Singer》 Birth Sabba''s first memories were ice and fear. The chill-slick birth waters clinging to his coat, the dew-frost on the pounded down grass beneath him, and the shiver in his dam''s voice as she goaded him to stand, stand quickly, and drink for strength. For life. She''d birthed late, left the safety of her band as mares were want to do, and sought out a sheltered place to bring Sabba into the world alone. Her speckled body made a wall between the colt and a wind that held more of winter than she''d expected, too much chill for a newborn. Sabba heard the story of his plight in his mother''s voice. "Rise, little love, a Wind Singer''s strength is his truest value." Eventually, her urging drove him to try, to stagger up only to fall back to the squishy ground. In frustration, he cried out, a squeak of voice that was not yet hardened. Still fresh and young as his damp coat. The mare shushed him, and the real fear in her voice drove his new ears back against his neck. "We must be quick, now," she said. "For more than the winter wind stalks the skies above." Sabba tried again... and fell again. The long limbs which were clearly meant to carry him aloft seemed excessive and awkward. His efforts to control them proved futile, and he chewed his own lips to keep from another outburst. His mother''s soft nose breathed heat over his coat, brought the first warmth to his world, thawed him and lent him a renewed fury. He thew himself upwards, teetered, staggered a step, and then crashed to earth once more. "They''re too long," he mewled. "And they won''t do what I tell them." The mare chuckled, her heat wafting over him again. She lipped playfully at his bristle mane and whispered, "So determined." Sabba flicked his tail against his rump and flattened his ears. He breathed in, a rush of cool wind in his lungs, and heaved himself up, bracing his legs this time, willing them to keep their position beneath him, to not buckle and twitch. "Very good, little love," his dam crooned. "Steady and strong. A short walk, and you can feed." Stiff and stilted, the colt took another step, and another. His legs wobbled on the third, and this time, his mother slid in beside him, using her long neck to steady him gently. Her presence brought new smells, the sweet aroma of her sweat, the sharpness of blood and birth, and behind it all, something tantalizing and fresh. That scent tugged him onward, set a new determination in Sabba''s heart... and in his belly. He was hungry, and here, his instincts whispered, here was satiation. His dam stood stalwart against the freezing winds. Her long legs more rigid than anything Sabba had even known. Around them was dry grass and thin brush, an amber sky that stretched on forever in all directions, and a flat, dust-brown horizon that circled them completely without notable features. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.As the colt tested his legs and leaned toward life, the wind teased, daring him to give up and lay down again, just for a moment. He blew out, felt his nostrils quiver for the first time and found the gesture, and the rumbling sounds it made, enjoyable. His upper lip lifted and he shifted it back and forth, testing its limits, rumbling again and again until the mare chided. "Play second, my foal. Eat first." Still, there was humor in her voice, affection in her correction. "Come now. We are behind, you and I. Late in more ways than one." Her neck bowed, bringing her head around so that she could nose at his rump, urge him so close that he nearly stood beneath her. There, wrapped in his mother''s admiration, Sabba found his first meal, the sweet life-milk that would lend him the strength all foals needed in their first, bright, staggering moments. As he suckled, his dam spoke to him, soft and with an intonation that bordered on chanting. "We are Wind Singers, my Sabba," she told him. "Proud and free, we live on these grassy lands. Our strength is in our voice and in our hardiness. For it is a rare thing which can stop us, a very rare thing which can drive us to fear." At that, her head turned away, lifting, tilting as she eyed the darkening skies. The shifting of her position allowed the wind to slide nearer, to chill the drying liquid clinging to Sabba''s coat. "This is our land," his dam continued, defiant, almost angry now. "And here we have lived for as long as we called ourselves Wind Singers." "Why?" Sabba mumbled, lowered his nose with his belly full but his hunger still churning. "Why do we call ourselves--" Before he could finish, his dam let out a shrill sound, an air-splitting whinny that shivered more than the wind. It was fierce and furious, and it held a dare that Sabba could not refuse. He sucked in a breath and let out a tiny, quavering song that seemed too small even to reach the nearest patch of brush. His dam whickered, laughing, not unkindly, at his efforts. "There you go, little one," she said. "Let the world know that you are afraid of nothing." But even as she said it, her ears swiveled, her head lifted to the skies once more. Sabba understood then. He followed her gaze for a moment, stared at the purpling clouds, and lifted his upper lip in defiance. Then, he tucked closer to the mare, pressed against her belly, and returned to his meal. The milk was strength, and a Wind Singer needed nothing more than that. Sabba''s mother had taught him his first and most significant lesson: The whole world was made of cold and danger, and she was everything warm and wonderful within it. Legs Walking, it turned out, was one of the easier things to do when your legs were brand new. Sabba mastered tottering from his mother¡¯s side to the nearby bush and back. From that bush to the next, and then the next, until his dam¡¯s nicker told him he¡¯d strayed too far for her tastes. Too far for safety. The trot proved more difficult, jostling his newborn bones and sending him bounding forward at a jarring, two-beat rhythm. As his confidence grew, he learned to stretch, to press onward into the rolling canter, to kick out with his heels while on the fly, though that sent him tumbling to the earth more than once. While his dam grazed and watched the horizon, Sabba steadied. He learned to rear onto his hind legs, if only for a few breaths, and to paw at the air. ¡°You look like a proper warrior,¡± his dam beamed. The colt let her words wash through him, igniting a desire to prove himself in battle. He trotted a strutting circle around the mare, holding his head high and pinning his ears fiercely. His dam chuckled, which only fanned the flames. Annoyed that his show of strength might be seen as humorous, the colt humped his back and pushed with his rear legs, bucking for the first time and enjoying the wildness of it. He forgot his indignation and bucked again, hopping sideways across the grass with his head down and his rump bouncing skyward. ¡°There, now,¡± his dam soothed. ¡°Not too far, little love.¡± They¡¯d been traveling while she grazed, while Sabba learned to use his body as a proper Wind Singer. Slowly, the mare led them north and east, toward the spot where the sun awoke each morning and the place where her band spent the colder months. When she looked at the horizon, her ears splayed with worry. Her nostrils widened and drank of the chill air, desperate for any hint of the others. She should have stayed closer, perhaps, but the instincts of a mare in foal are impossible to argue with. Only now that her colt was safely at her flank could she spare the time to worry about what came next. The band would not have waited. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Even if Gallen lingered, hoping for her return, too many days had passed now. His task was to lead the entire band, to look after each member of the Morada. They would have moved, drifting closer to the Cleft and the Fahr-itza. It would make her journey longer. It would leave Sabba in the open world, in danger, when she¡¯d only ever meant to keep him safe. ¡°Slow down!¡± Sabba¡¯s huffy cry drew her attention back to the world. She¡¯d been loping, had broken into a canter at the thought of all the ground between them and their band. The colt galloped past her, streaking by as if he could not quite work out how to stop. Three strides beyond her, he threw up his head, stiffened his front legs, and slid to a stop so abrupt that he sat on his tail. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said. ¡°But we have a long way to go, and I have wasted too much time on my dining. From now on, I will graze in the evenings, while we rest.¡± As if the word has spawned itself upon the world, Sabba yawned at her, stretching his tiny muzzle wide and groaning, ears loose and flat. ¡°I¡¯m tired now,¡± he said. ¡°From all that playing.¡± His dam swallowed her fear and sighed, her great, wide barrel trembling as she blew through her nose. ¡°Fine. Rest now, then. But be ready to move more quickly when we¡¯re off again.¡± ¡°Where are we going?¡± Already, the colt¡¯s voice was deepened with sleep. His head bumped her flank as he sidled up beside her, fuzzy, still smelling of sweet newborn foal. ¡°Home,¡± she answered. ¡°Back to our band where we belong, little love.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t they come with us?¡± His bristle tail whisked back and forth, then sagged against his rump. ¡°Some things, one must do alone,¡± she said. Those words echoed in the colt¡¯s small mind, almost unheard yet strong enough to sink in, to ferret away in a private corner of Sabba¡¯s thoughts and dig in. ¡°Eat now,¡± his dam said. ¡°Before you sleep.¡± Sabba lengthened his neck, reached for the warm milk, but paused short of nursing. ¡°Why do you watch the sky?¡± he asked in a ragged, sleep-weak voice. ¡°For our safety,¡± his dam answered without hesitation. ¡°I watch for shadows.¡± ¡°Shadows?¡± For a moment, he forgot his need, forgot hunger and fatigue both. ¡°What can a shadow do?¡± He¡¯d learned already about his own, how it danced along beside him everywhere he went. How it grew thin at dusk and went to bed long after he did. How it woke before him and waited patiently at his heels to be about and moving. If his mother watched for shadows only, perhaps he¡¯d misjudged her mood. Perhaps there was nothing to fear after all. He yawned again and went back to his meal, nursing with the blissful focus of one whose mind does not yet latch onto subtext. Who has only just begun to understand the world around them. And so, as Sabba drifted into a milk trance, he missed his mother¡¯s final words, missed the way she lifted her nose to the wind, her eyes to the sky above. He missed her warning, for he was already deep in his dreaming. ¡°The shadows,¡± she told the silent plain. ¡°Shadows that circle overhead.¡± Shadows The grassland went on forever. As Sabba¡¯s strength grew, he strayed farther from his dam, gamboling ahead and then spinning and racing back when that distance made his heart flutter with anxiety. Usually, he turned just a whisker¡¯s length before she called out to him, but if he strayed too long, the mare whinnied, singing her wind-song to the colt and reeling him back in with her concern. The days they traveled the wide, grass plain grew shorter, even colder, and the flat sky took on an ominous pallor. Like the coat of an old white horse who¡¯d rolled too many times in the dry dust. But it was not dry now, even the crinkling grass grew soggy as the moisture in the air threatened ice and snow. Sabba¡¯s dam drove them ever toward the meeting place, but with each passing sunset, she feared they would not join the rest of their band before winter landed good and hard upon them. Sabba grew like a sedge sprout, quickly mastering his gaits and his voice. His cry was still the high-pitched whisper of a foal, but every day it was louder, more demanding. His fuzzy coat thickened, as did the mare¡¯s, and his soft baby hooves turned to iron. Though his dam had given up on grazing but for the evening hours, the curious colt tasted everything within his reach. He lipped at the bushes and the grass, at the hardened dirt, and once, at an unfortunate beetle who happened to be crossing their pathway. Each time, Sabba jerked back, scrunching his velvet muzzle in distaste. How his mother could survive on such fare baffled him, and he turned with more frequency to nursing as he grew. ¡°Tell me more about the M¡¯rda,¡± he asked as he pranced past his dam one afternoon when the sun was still putting in an effort to warm them. ¡°It¡¯s Morada,¡± the mare giggled and reached out, nipping his rump gently as he darted by. ¡°What do you want to know, little love?¡± ¡°Well,¡± Sabba paused, letting her pass him before dancing up to her shoulder again. ¡°Are they all Wind Singers?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Yes,¡± she answered. He sagged a bit, lowered his tail, and let his ears splay. ¡°All the bands on the eastern plains are Wind Singers, Sabba,¡± the mare continued. ¡°Led by the fahr-itza, Jada, of the Cubatai. The colt began to repeat the strange word, then stalled and blew out noisily. ¡°The wide grasslands are ours,¡± his dam continued. ¡°From the estuary which divides our country from the Sun Runner¡¯s desert in the south, all the way beyond the Cleft, to a place where it is always cold.¡± ¡°It¡¯s always cold here,¡± Sabba said, tossing his head in emphasis and blowing steamy breath through his nostrils. ¡°Not always.¡± The mare corrected him, but there was little force to it. She¡¯d grown distracted by her subject, and continued long after Sabba fell bored and began to prance again. ¡°The huge Stone Striders live there,¡± she said. ¡°With their shaggy legs and long, dragging tails. And west, beyond the inland sea, is another land like this, one that changes from season to season but which suffers rains that turn the whole land green and soggy.¡± ¡°Yuck,¡± Sabba said, but she could not be certain if he referred to the Rain Weaver¡¯s plight or the dried leaf he¡¯d just tasted. ¡°I suppose the horses there like it well enough. They remain, after all, amid their trees.¡± Aware that she spoke to herself now, the mare fell silent, plodding forward and ruminating on the tastes of other horses. So, she was startled into a sharp whinny when the colt threw another question her way. ¡°Why do we move north in the winter, then?¡± He trotted ahead, and his ears aimed backwards in her direction. ¡°If it¡¯s so cold in the north?¡± ¡°It¡¯s cold everywhere in winter,¡± she answered, reaching without thinking toward the ground for a bit of grass. ¡°Except, perhaps the desert itself. But our kinfe is small, Sabba. Its stones barely reach my withers. Near the Cleft the ground breaks, there are taller rocks, canyons, to provide us shelter from the winds.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± His response seemed faint, distant enough to jerk her head up, tearing her thoughts back to the present moment. Sabba stood ten or more paces off, and he¡¯d lowered his head to inspect one of the shriveled, spiky brambles that grew in solitary clumps amid the grass. They were bitter things, and she thought for a breath to warn him. Then her eyes caught movement beyond her colt, and the mare¡¯s large heart seized. ¡°Sabba!¡± She took a cautious step, hoping even now that there was time to recall her foal. But Sabba¡¯s curiosity had fixed upon the bramble, and the colt had not noted the twin black shapes skimming over the ground behind him. Circling and crisscrossing, each easily as large as the foal. The shadows neared, and from the sky over their heads, two raptors let loose a sharp, ear-tearing screech. Raptors It¡¯s eye was red. Sabba spun back toward his mother, and caught the glint of a round eye that was far too close, that belonged in a sleek, black feathered head which crowned the largest bird he¡¯d ever imagined. Almost as large as him. He squealed and bucked, kicking off with his hind legs and feeling the wind of the bird¡¯s passing just above his back. ¡°Run, Sabba!¡± His dam¡¯s voice quivered with her terror. She galloped straight for him, and her hooves beat an angry staccato against the grassland. ¡°Run to me.¡± The tearing screech of the big birds devoured her cries. Sabba shied sideways at the streak of movement to his right, just at his shoulder. A pair of taloned feet swept past his muzzle, barely missing, formed of scaly branches tipped with curving, thorn claws. He¡¯d caught his mane on a thorn once, and had been forced to struggle free from the thing¡¯s terrible grip. These thorns looked build for holding and keeping, for tearing, for feeding the horrible red-eyed birds. ¡°Down.¡± The order rang loud and bright against the cold air. Sabba bent his forelegs and fell to the grass, not quite graceful enough to avoid banging his hocks. The raptor swept over him again, screaming in fury while its twin circled around to take its place. His mother let loose a nostril-quivering rumble that was all battle cry. She appeared before the colt, a wall of bone and muscle, rising onto her hind legs and threshing the air with her fore hooves. Her ears pinned against her skull, and she tossed her muzzle defiantly at the birds. The raptors widened their circles, rising as easily as pollen on the breeze. They watched with their red eyes, and though they¡¯d missed an easy opportunity, one look up at their hooked beaks and angry, clenching toes told Sabba they had not given up. They would not give up. ¡°What do we do?¡± he cried. ¡°We must find cover,¡± his dam¡¯s words were tight as his skin, and she kept her eyes on the sky, even when she dropped back to all fours again. ¡°Stay close. What do you see?¡± Sabba glued himself to the mare¡¯s flank, using her body as a shield as he turned his long neck, gazing at the empty grassland which had seemed so wonderfully wide only moments ago. Now it was empty, devoid of shelter or aid. Hostile. The raptors screamed again, closing their circle until they spun around the speckled mare and her colt. Too high for his dam to reach with her hooves. An enemy out of range and impossible to fight unless it chose to dive. ¡°There¡¯s nothing,¡± Sabba said, sagging. ¡°Only grass and¡­¡± ¡°And?¡± Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Sabba squinted at the shadows on the horizon, the clumps of sparse brush which dotted the plain. They seemed to thicken in one direction, but the bushes were far too short. They might reach his shoulder if he was lucky. There was no way at all they would shelter the mare. ¡°There¡¯s brush,¡± he said. ¡°But it¡¯s too small.¡± ¡°It must do.¡± She shouldered him in the direction of the shadow. They moved together, one step at a time while the birds circled. Every six or so steps, one of the birds would draw nearer, but each time it did, Sabba¡¯s dam reared, pawing a warning at the diving bird. The colt could not help but wonder why they took turns. If both raptor¡¯s attacked at once, his mother could not fully protect him. Even as his fear raced, turning his blood icy, Sabba questioned their strategy. Had it been him on the offensive, he would have attacked the horses from both sides, dividing the mare¡¯s attention or forcing the colt to defend itself. He knew better than to share this observation, though he believed his mother would take pride in it. The birds were fierce and better armed than a Wind Singer, but he suspected they had lesser brains. That they were not built for battle so much as survival. One at a time, they harried the mare, and little by little the horses closed on the patchy brush. It still looked like poor shelter for them, but Sabba trusted his mother knew her business. He believed in her, for she was all he had in the world to place his faith in. When their objective neared, however, the raptors seemed to catch on. Just when Sabba¡¯s muscles relaxed, when he could see the individual branches of each bush, one of the birds shrieked a new, higher-pitched sound. ¡°Ready,¡± Sabba¡¯s dam whispered fiercely. ¡°They mean to attack at once.¡± How she knew this, the colt could not have guessed. That she was correct, however, could not be denied. The bird let loose another battle cry, and both dove simultaneously, one toward the mare¡¯s head, and the other, straight for her rump. Sabba wheeled to face his mother¡¯s tail. When she reared again, he mimed the posture, teetering more than she, but remaining on his two hind feet. The raptor appeared claws first. While its partner dealt with the mare¡¯s front hooves, it reached, greedily for her round rump. Sabba squealed as those weapons made contact, as bright red gouges appeared in his mother¡¯s speckled pelt. The mare barely flinched, but a rage filled her son¡¯s mind. Gripped with a new fury, Sabba struck, churning his legs and landing a glancing blow against the raptor¡¯s wing as it flapped to drag its owner upwards. His foe screamed at him, and the colt whistled back. A long, enraged trumpet played through Sabba¡¯s nostrils as the bird banked sharply, struggling to regain its poise in flight. He longed to press his attack, to step away from his dam¡¯s side, but instinct or wisdom held him in place. As the raptor lifted out of sight again, he felt the impact of his mother¡¯s hooves up on the ground. She¡¯d dropped again, and now that the attack had paused, staggered a half step against the pain of her injury. ¡°You¡¯re hurt.¡± Sabba¡¯s voice still held a trace of the whistle. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± The mare¡¯s voice, too, was full of anger. ¡°They¡¯ll need to gather themselves after that, little love. Now is your chance.¡± For the space of one heartbeat, Sabba believed she meant for him to attack. They her words solidified. Your chance. His mind paired the words with a patch of brush much to short to shelter a full-grown mare. ¡°Mother,¡± he tried. ¡°Now, Sabba.¡± Her order was iron and flint, a hard as her hooves. ¡°Run. Run and run and don¡¯t stop.¡± ¡°But you¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ll catch up. Now, run!¡± The mare pivoted, using her hip to press him into motion. Sabba could not hesitate in the face of her order, could not argue no matter how his heart seized. She was all he knew, and her words had always led him. He leapt away, rear hooves biting into the ground as he sprang. Galloping, streaking for the brush as his dam demanded, Sabba fled. His legs settled into a panicked rhythm, his neck stretched long and low, and his velvet nostrils widened, taking in more air, fueling his flight. He ran, and even when the raptors screamed their next attack, he knew better than to look back. The Hole Sabba stretched for the bushes, had just brushed his nose against the first outlying scrub, when the shadow crossed his path again. The dark streak rippled over the spiky plants, and that tearing, skin-shivering cry echoed directly above the colt¡¯s ears. He shied left, bucking, nearly losing his footing. If he fell, he knew, the bird would be upon him. Instinct whispered, if he went down, he would never get up again. The raptor shrieked and circled, and Sabba crashed into the thicker brush. It was, as he¡¯d feared, too short to fully shield him. He wanted to stop, to cry out for the mare and to fight back the next time the bird circled. His dam¡¯s voice still echoed, however, still rang in his mind as firm as stone, as solid as his own hooves. Run. His ears swiveled back, as if he could pick up the mare¡¯s voice, as if she might call out new instructions. Sabba¡¯s heart ran, too, inside his chest, and its rhythm was built of terror. The flapping sound drove him to the right, hopping sideways and forward at the same time. His legs tangled. The colt stumbled and threw his neck out for balance, recovered just as the bird streaked past again. This time, he spied more than its shadow. It flew low, reaching with its hooked claws and the tips of its ragged wings. The brush closed in at his sides, scraping with thin fingers as he breezed through, catching and tugging at his bottle-brush tail. Sabba lunged and dodged as the growth appeared in his path. He weaved his way deeper into the thick of it, and the shadow looped back, gliding along beside him. The ground beneath the bushes was lumpy, studded with stones that had not been present in the wide grassland. They rolled and shifted under-hoof, throwing each stride off balance. Sabba stepped higher, lifted each hoof with more care, and was forced to reduce his speed for fear of falling. The raptor cried. Sabba ducked and whinnied back at it. Even in his fear he analyzed its error. To call out before an attack was a foolish weakness, an offer to the enemy to prepare and defend. Should the colt live to battle in his own right, he vowed to remain silent, to keep control of his baser urges. Something brushed at his whithers. A sharp sting sprouted against his neck as the bird¡¯s claws found their mark, grazing only, thanks to the warning and Sabba¡¯s instinct to duck, to lower his head and shift his weight away from the attack. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The pain was real enough, however, to override both his instincts and his dam¡¯s request. He skidded to a stop, let the raptor overfly him, and braced his hooves, widening his hind legs¡¯ stance and tensing for the monster bird¡¯s return. He was a Wind Singer, after all, and the fight flowed through his blood as truly as any other trait or impulse. His neck twisted as he searched for the bird, and when it swooped down upon him again, Sabba was ready. He stood, rising to his hind legs, and locking his fore into a curled, pre-strike pose. His hooves shifted against the rocks. He pivoted, faced the banking raptor just as it pulled back, as it rose, and its talons dropped forward. Sabba lifted his upper lip, baring ineffective milk teeth in what he hoped was a fierce grimace. He waited, only swaying slightly as the bird¡¯s dive brought it in range. Its smell was blood and musky feathers, and its round eye murderous. When he could feel its wind, Sabba struck out, flinging both hooves into the feathery mass. One grazed through the long, wingtip frill. The other hit true, landing square against the feathered body that seemed far too solid for its ability to float through the air. The raptor¡¯s shriek was pain-filled, furious. Its claws continued to reach as it was thrown sideways, and once again they raked twin tracks along the colt¡¯s neck. This time, however, the bird dropped, rolling over itself in midair and tumbling toward the scrubby bushes. Sabba meant to finish it. He spun a tight circle, still rearing, still balanced on two hooves. His gaze fixed on the attacker, tracking its fall, following the dark body to the ground so that he might seize that moment of impact and finish it. In his peripheral, the grasslands streaked around him, pale and wide. If Sabba¡¯s mother still battled there, he could not say, but as soon as he¡¯d dispatched his bird, the colt meant to find out, to return triumphant and never to run from her again. The raptor¡¯s cry shifted to one of pure alarm. It flapped frantically, the long wings beating against both the bushes and Sabba¡¯s flank. The colt sidestepped again, circled, staggered in an attempt to time his final lunge. There was no doubt the bird would land, and he meant to pin its wicked body against the stones, to crush it with his colt¡¯s weight and the fury of his newly-hardened hooves. As he aimed, the brush tickled his sides. The stones rolled and shifted, and the bird¡¯s cry warbled into a single, screeching note. Sabba pulled higher, tucked his forelegs again, and arched his neck, ready, ready. The ground beneath him bucked and parted. Sabba felt the earth moving, the world tilting sharply to one side, and squealed despite himself. In a rush, the brush, the sky, the evil bird, swept past him. He was falling, sinking into the earth itself while a rain of stones and debris showered him. His side scraped against something firm and unforgiving. His eyes clotted with fine dust. His legs churned, going nowhere. Everything was dim chaos, tiny pains, and steady pressing panic. Then, all at once, he hit something solid and slept. ALONE Sabba opened his eyes on a wall of dirt. Dusty particles clung to his lashes, and he blinked them away while his mind stirred enough to think clearly. He¡¯d fallen, but the bird had not taken him. Still, a slow flexing of his neck brought pain, the memory of hooked claws raking through his coat. The world seemed to press in on him from all sides, but the dim glow illuminating the dirt in his field of vision gave him hope he¡¯d not been totally buried. Soon, his mother would come for him. Any moment now, he¡¯d hear the rhythmic advance of hoof beats. Sabba breathed in, coughed with the effort and the filthy taste in his throat. He considered a whinny, for he must make some sound to alert his dam of his location, but the raptors could still be above him. Before he could cry out, he needed to survey his situation. Shifting his weight carefully, he tested his body for damage. Aside from the scores on his neck, which did not seem to be deep or threatening, there was a twinging in his left foreleg each time he flexed his pastern. Whether it would leave him lame or not remained a mystery while he lay on his side, and so he rolled his read legs fully beneath his hindquarters, and heaved upward with all his foal¡¯s strength. Which was not much. Still, a rain of debris resulted, and the wan light brightened, offering promise of freedom. Sabba lowered his neck, cringing, and brought his forelegs into action. Rocking one way and then the other, he worked upwards until, in a sudden burst of light, he was standing. He had not, as he¡¯d feared, been buried. The dirt and debris piled over him must have slid along with him into the hole. Now that he¡¯d dislodged it, Sabba found room to stand, to shuffle his hooves, and to look around an assess his surroundings. He¡¯d landed in a sort of hollow cave, a vug in the earth lined with grass roots and varied pebbles. A rent in the ceiling suggested the place where he¡¯d broken through, and though it allowed some sunlight to enter, the majority of the cave¡¯s illumination came from Sabba¡¯s right, a place where the walls bent sharply, suggesting a passage beyond. For a long moment, he stood debating, letting his breath return to normal and allowing his heart¡¯s beating to slow and stabilize. If his mother searched for him above, he should not move. But even if she found her way to that slashed ceiling, she could not extract him from this hole through it. Not unless he suddenly sprouted wings of his own. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He looked to the passage, to yellowed light painting the surfaces of its wall into high relief. It was bright enough to give him hope the trek would be short. If his exit was near enough, would it not be an easy task to circle back to the place where he fell and wait for his dam? The thought of her sweet smell, her warm body like a shield, and her wide, encouraging eyes, pressed Sabba into motion. He stepped lightly toward the cave opening, and though his foreleg continued to twinge, found the need to limp very slight. His injuries, then, seemed superficial, and with a swelling heart, he traveled toward the lighter end of the hollow chamber. Around the bend in the walls he expected to see open grassland, but the passage twisted again. The light, which he¡¯d taken for a sign of exit, was filtering in through another gap in the cave roof. Sabba paused in a pool of it, bathed in warmth and faced with another decision. The tunnel continued, but it was no lighter than the place he stood. For all he knew, he could be working his way deeper into the earth, farther from his mother and the open range of his birth. There was no way to be sure, but he was certain of a few things. Firstly, he could not escape through the roof gashes, and secondly, there was nothing at all to eat in the rough earth and shriveled roots around him. The passage was large to a foal, though he suspected a full-grown horse would not have fit so easily inside it. Its floor was rough and lumpy, however, and he could not tell if the ups and downs there were leading more toward the sky or the deep earth. He flared his nostrils and drank in the dry scent of dust, the soft mustiness of rotting growth. A fresher swirl carried on the currents, and though he thought it might only be his fancy which made it seem to come from ahead, Sabba pricked his ears, lifted his head high, and walked on into the further passage. As soon as he stepped out of the light, he was rewarded with a new breeze, a riffle of bright, clean air. Sabba tried a trot, found that his foreleg held. Even on the rough terrain. He¡¯d barely left the second bend behind when the wall broke open, and daylight poured in through the gap. Beyond the opening, however, was not the wide grassland he expected. He skidded to a halt and gazed out, blinking away more dust and trying to decipher the strange setting on the far side of the broken wall. Oranges and reds lay in broad stripes to the sides. Even the ground, which continued in a narrow strip between high walls, carried a russet tone. Where he expected to find scrubby grass and stippled sagebrush, there grew a low, thick carpeting of some creeping vine. Boulders poked through this in places, and as he watched, a small, skinny-legged lizard skittered over one of these. It was not his home he¡¯d discovered. It was a different place, a red place with rocks where the bushes should have been. A place with walls he could tell already would not be climbed. A trench, leading even further from his dam. And long before Sabba stepped out into it, he knew he was truly lost. The Snake The creeping vines were bitter and too hairy against his tongue. Sabba spit them out and flapped his velvet lips in consternation. He¡¯d stepped from the cave into a narrow world, a deep cleft in the earth with sheer stone sides and a twisting, angular bottom. It was as if his path lay in only one direction, and Sabba¡¯s certainty grew with each step that it would not take him back to his mother. His stomach crimped around his hunger, and his tongue felt dry and lifeless. With his heart steady, the colt faced the trench before him. His belly rumbled, and his small nostrils stretched to their fullest diameter, inhaling, hoping. He risked a brief whinny, calling out once to lend his panic voice. Nothing answered. The day had warmed as the sun passed its zenith, but ice still threatened in his breath. Winter loomed, and Sabba knew he could not spend it alone. He could not hold here, at the mouth of the cave, and only hope to be found. He imagined there might be a way out of the trench somewhere, a rise of ground or a lowering of the high walls. All he had to do was find it. All he had to do was survive the meantime. He forced his steps not to tremble and aimed his path directly down the center of the trench. Prancing, keeping his head up and his ears forward, Sabba trotted away from shelter and security¡­ and inevitable starvation. He tested the air for anything palatable and listened always for a sign of life in his newly-discovered wasteland. Each time the trench bent sharply in either direction, he told himself a way out would appear. But the crevice walls never faltered. The ground remained flat and rocky, and no breach or branching offered him an alternative route. The sun began its descent, and the shadows thrown inside the narrow space lengthened, turning a deeper shade of umber. He saw nothing of shelter nor any sign of inhabitation beyond the skittering lizards. These quickly grew used to him. Once they¡¯d darted behind their rocks, they would often return, flattening their wide bellies against the warm stone or bobbing their round heads as he passed as if agreeing with some unspoken conversation. At first the colt found their jerking nods disconcerting. As the hours passed, he began to invent a soothing dialog for them. ¡°Is this the way out?¡± Nod. Nod. Nod. ¡°It¡¯s close now?¡± Nod. Nod. Sabba trotted along, letting the game lift his knees and brighten his spirit. ¡°Why thank you, Mr. Lizard,¡± he said, flicking an ear respectfully at the nearest rock. ¡°I¡¯ll just be on my way.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. In answer, the flat creature bobbed merrily. Eventually, Sabba began to tire. His hooves felt like stones at the ends of his legs, and he slowed to a brisk walk, then a slow amble. The creeping vine thinned and eventually faded, replaced by tufts of wiry grass that grew around the base of each rock. The blades were a greenish-gray color but looked less hairy. More tempting. ¡°Should I try some?¡± Though no lizard had appeared for several strides, Sabba imagined a round head giving enthusiastic consent. He veered from the center of the trench, approaching the nearest group of rocks. The stones had grown larger as he went, many standing higher than his knees. There were more as well, clustered tightly together now. Yet Sabba saw not one lizard perching among them. Perhaps the sun had grown too dim for their liking. Possibly, they¡¯d returned to their dens for the evening, to their families and their mothers who had not been lost far behind in the grassland. ¡°I¡¯ll find her soon,¡± he told the empty stones, wishing with all his might that a lizard would appear if only to agree with him. When nothing stirred, he sagged, reached out with his long neck and lifted his lip, scenting deeply of the new sort of grass. ¡°It will be sweet,¡± he declared. ¡°Filling.¡± Something buzzed sharply in answer. Sabba jerked back, rolling his eyes and taking a sideways step away from the sound. It quieted instantly, evaporated until the colt could believe it had only been the wind shoving at dried leaves, rattling through a withered bit of sage. Except, there was no sage here. There was only hot stone and spiky grass, and Sabba¡¯s belly was empty. He pawed the ground once, stepped in again, and this time, held his ground when the sound returned. He remained still and watched the clump of grass he wanted shiver as something passed behind it. Snake. The word formed in his mind without assistance, though he¡¯d never seen one, and his mother¡¯s description of the danger had been vague, many days dulled in his memory. Still, this legless creature winding in and around his grass, bending itself over and back again, could be nothing else. The rattling sound came from one end of it, and at the other, a pair of huge, slitted eyes fixed him with a menacing glare. ¡°I need to eat,¡± he told it. ¡°There¡¯s plenty of grass here.¡± In answer, the snake loosed a long, thin, split-tipped tongue. The black appendage slid between the reptile¡¯s lips, fluttered one leisurely and rude salute at Sabba, then vanished into the snake¡¯s mouth again. The colt¡¯s belly gurgled. The snake¡¯s tail buzzed a warning. Something inside Sabba snapped. There were other tufts of grass, other rocks and other chances, but who could say if there might be a snake guarding each of these? The world, it seemed, had stacked itself against him. It had taken his mother. Wounded him, dropped him, left him for dead. But he was a Wind Singer. Wind Singers are brave and strong. His mother¡¯s voice reminded him just as the snake grew tired of waiting and struck. It hurled the first third of its body at Sabba¡¯s nose, mouth gaping to expose a pair of long, pointed teeth. Sabba jerked up, lifting onto his hind legs before those fangs could make contact. His heart pounded inside his chest, but he was not afraid. Wind Singers were brave. With a piercing, if slightly squeaky, battle cry, the colt straightened his forelegs, twisted his neck so that he could stare the snake it its wicked face, and slammed his hooves down atop its overlapping body. Again and again, Sabba rose, struck, and screamed, and each time his hooves hit their mark, he felt his own power surging beneath his speckled hide. Survival Sabba had killed. The snake''s body lay limp in the grass, curled back and over itself and torn along its length by Sabba''s hooves. A sense of ownership washed over the foal. This rock, this simple clump of forage, was his now. He''d won it through battle, and as if to show his dominance over it, he lowered his muzzle and crunched off the tips of a few blades. It tasted bitter, dry, and unwieldy on his tongue. He mouthed it, shifting the blades back and forth while his milk teeth gummed at them. Eventually, he swallowed, gagging on the thick paste that was nothing at all like his mother''s milk. Not sweet. Not warm. Not remotely comforting. Still, his belly welcomed it. His fatigue shivered for more. Sabba bit again. Chewed again, with more vigor this time. After he''d swallowed the third bite, he pawed the snake''s body aside. It was possible there were more about, but something deep in Sabba''s belly told him they would not be near this rock. They would not have hidden in the same shade with the one he''d killed. This creature, his instincts insisted, was not a herding sort of beast. It was not social, not sentient in the way a horse was, and that thought settled the last trace of uneasiness that had whispered to him of guilt. He shoved it fully aside and ate, thinking, My rock. My grass. My survival. The meal sat heavily in his belly when he finished. He¡¯d cleaned the circumference of the rock, trimming the blades into a tiny stubble around its base. Though he hadn¡¯t enjoyed the taste, it filled him. It gave him strength but also put a dry longing on his tongue. He needed to drink, and one glance around his rocky surroundings told him there would be no answering that need here. Besides, Sabba felt no desire to face more snakes, fighting one serpent after another for his dinner. He lifted his nose to the breeze, stretched his nostrils, and inhaled the scents, hoping for anything familiar. His mother¡¯s sweet pelt, perhaps. Only chalky stone and hot dirt answered his searching. He shook himself, pranced away from the rock, and then trotted onward. The meal had eased his hunger, but his muscles still ached from the fall. Trotting teased these complaints to the surface, but Sabba¡¯s victory was more pressing. Pride coursed through him, and it overshadowed the pain, both from his bruises and the hot trenches where the raptor¡¯s talons had raked his neck. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The cleft he traveled widened slightly after the rocky place. Creeping vines returned, and the soil they covered turned as red as the walls to either side. The clumping sagebrush he¡¯d known on the grassland, also returned, but if there was any egress from his trench to the plain above, Sabba could not find it. He watched to the sides, sniffing, and fluttering his ears back and forward, as alert as any young foul had ever been. There was no one to guard for him. No one to hide behind, and Sabba felt the weight of his own future settling across his short back. Then he caught a new smell, a silvery freshness that made his tongue press against his teeth. His throat tightened, and he veered in the direction of the odor. Three paces toward the far stone wall and his ears picked up a twittering sound that was unlike the noise of any bird he knew. He approached cautiously, for it had been a bird which tore his neck, which chased him into this crevice in the plain from which he could find no escape. The sound grew as he neared, and there was a steady rhythm to it, a constant which told him it was not alive. He recognized it mere steps before he spotted the water trickling down the red stones. Some moisture on the plain above had spilled its confines. The rivulet drizzled over the slick rock, dancing and splashing to the dry earth below and only barely managing to pool before it was absorbed by the sere earth. The puddle it made was too small for his muzzle, too filthy to be appetizing, but Sabba pressed his lips to the trickle and let his tongue roll free to gather the moisture. It lacked the rich flavor of his mother¡¯s milk, but as soon as he drank, the dryness in his throat parted. He let a soft rumble shiver through his nostrils and sucked at the thin tendril of water until all his thirst abated. When he was satiated, full of grass and water, the colt lowered his head, let his eyes drift closed, and rested. Why hadn¡¯t his mother found him? Sabba chased that thought into the darkest corner. The raptors screamed at him from his memory, and a low whimper slipped free of his lips. The weight he¡¯d been carrying doubled, made him want to fold his long legs and curl up beside the little patch of mud. It was too much to face on his own, and he was far too young. The world was too terrifying, wide and varied and full of surprises that hissed and struck at him just for trying to eat. To live. His rear leg cocked, easing the burden of his own weight to the other side. He was tired. Sore and saddened. But he was also a Wind Singer. Sabba jerked his head up and stamped his foreleg. He sucked in a breath and blew out through his nostrils, trumpeting a squeaky call of defiance and anger. The world had dealt him an overpowering blow, but he would not roll over for it. Eventually, the trench would end. He would find his way back to the plain, and he would turn, as his mother had, to the north and the east. To the place where the sun rose each morning. He would not stop. He would not die. And one way or the other, Sabba would find his herd. Fever Sabba stumbled over his own hooves, jerking his head up to avoid falling. The wound on his neck throbbed, tore again at the sudden movement. His body felt hot and swollen, dull at the edges as if he were somehow fading, burning away a little at a time until there¡¯d be nothing left of him. He walked on because there was nothing else to do. An entire day had passed since he¡¯d last found water, and the dry tightening of his throat only accentuated the heat which seemed to come both from the sun above and from some deep place inside himself. Burning. Once, he¡¯d stumbled and staggered until he¡¯d been so turned around that he retraced his own steps for a long while. When he¡¯d finally turned around again, it had felt almost as if he tracked another horse, as if he was not quite so alone in the wretched trench. He fantasized about it, imagining each of his previous hoof prints as the mark of a stranger. One more step and he¡¯d see them in the distance. One call from his parched throat and the herd he¡¯d never met would come for him. When he reached the place he¡¯d been turned around, however, the ground returned to its lonely hard pan. Sabba sagged, shivering beneath his speckled hide, and shuffled forward. There is no one else. In truth, the only proof he had of other horses were his dam¡¯s words. He¡¯d never seen one, never known anything but the mare and the wide plain. For all he knew they¡¯d been the only two equines in the entire world. If she fell to the raptors, and Sabba had long since decided she had, he could easily be the only horse in existence. But not for long. As the heat in his body built and his steps became even more erratic, Sabba¡¯s certainty grew that he¡¯d been bitten by the snake. He was poisoned, certainly, and he could think of no other culprit on which to pin the blame. His dam had warned him of venomous serpents. She¡¯d advised caution when dealing with anything scaled, prepared him as best she could in the short time they¡¯d had together. Yet the first thing he¡¯d encountered on his own had surely done him in. He¡¯d let his anger overtake his reason and vowed never to forget the lesson. Considering he likely had only hours to live, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable promise. He stumbled again, scowling through a sudden haze at the rock which must have leapt into his path. Bending his body into a curve, Sabba pranced around it. The jerking, exaggerated movements of his legs carryied him into a clump of nearby brush which scratched at his sensitive pelt. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Heat. Everything was heat and pain. He cried out, singing his tiny, Wind Singer chorus to a still and unflinching sky. There was no fairness in it, in giving life only to seize it back again. There was no justice in leaving a colt alone to suffer. He called again, sides heaving, forcing his fury into the song. His despair and frustration. When the echo died, his belly rumbled. His nostrils flared, and his tiny ears swiveled instinctively. He imagined his dam had heard his call, that she galloped, even now, for the rim of the trench. But the raptors had killed her in the end. The mare was gone, and Sabba would die alone. He should have given up already, lain down upon the crusty ground and simply let it happen. The wind stirred gently, offering no relief to the heat but bringing a soft sound to one twitching ear. Sabba aimed himself in its direction, listening without hope as the air shifted. He imagined he heard a distant whicker, the steady thump of approaching hooves. Squinting down the trench that never ended, Sabba thought he saw her. A dark shape, round in the belly, bounding in his direction. Silly. The fever had cooked his mind. Sabba shook his head, and the trench danced wildly. The shape in the distance flickered in and out of view as his eyes teared, shut, opened again. Speckled. A hide like his painted by the angry sun. His nostrils quivered and a pathetic, squealing snort emerged. He took a step and faltered, leaning hard to one side and then the other as his legs refused to answer even one more order from his fevered brain. He tried to cry out, to call, ¡°Mother,¡± but the sound was a faint croak from a sere throat. Suddenly, he knew he hadn¡¯t imagined her. He was dying, and his mother had come from beyond death to retrieve him. Finally, when he could go no farther, she had found him. As if in proof, the call came again, trumpeting in a mare¡¯s voice. An odd sound, not instantly familiar. Had he already forgotten the sound of her? Should he not be able to recognize his own dam? To smell her long before her gallop brought her clearly into focus? The mare called again, and Sabba squinted, peered through watery eyes and could make out only speckles. Light and shadow. A hide so like his own he threw off his musing and rallied the last of his strength. Kicking his legs forward, the colt staggered to meet death. Half blind and fully resigned, Sabba trotted toward the spotted shape of the mare, certain it was his mother, certain he was already beyond hope. It wouldn¡¯t matter, so long as he was not alone. He would perish willingly if he could do so at the side of his dam. And so he broke into a wild canter, weaving as he went. Singing. All his terror and his pain and his loneliness rattled free in a plaintive call as he raced to meet her. And he was so blinded by it, so dulled with fever and longing, that he never noticed the second shape bobbing along at the mare¡¯s flank. Rivals Sabba nursed while his dam¡¯s tongue bathed him in bold, forceful strokes. Her milk was warm and sweet, a balm against his days-dried throat. She cleaned the wounds on his neck, and as she worked, the colt¡¯s head spun, clearing briefly, then clouding over again as the fever swept through him. His belly filled. Despite the trembling heat, his legs grew strong again. In one moment of clear thinking, he noted the color of the mare¡¯s coat, soft and gray and nothing at all like his dam¡¯s. For a breath, he froze. Then his instincts carried him away again, reminding him that life was strength and strength came from the milk he desperately needed. A gentle voice crooned to him, ¡°Easy, easy.¡± Sabba trembled with relief and with the spreading heat. He drank as if he would never stop, and was certain he was safe again. Loved again. Until something firm knocked against his shoulder. ¡°Mine.¡± An angry voice blared in his ears, and Sabba flattened them to shut it out. He angled his body to shield the mare¡¯s flank and was drinking again when something pinched his rump. Sabba kicked, and a foal¡¯s squeal dragged him from his meal. He twisted, teeth bared, and his vision spun. ¡°Shame, Dabon.¡± A mare¡¯s voice chided, and it was this, the strange sound of a dam that was not his own, which cleared the misunderstanding. Sabba hung his head, staggering a step away from her warmth. He blinked against the blurriness. His neck burned where the mare had cleaned his wound. Her milk had given him strength, but his body still fought against him as if possessed. ¡°Who are you?¡± Sabba blurted, squinting at the blurry shapes that were wholly strangers to him. ¡°I am Muria,¡± the mare said. She was soft gray of coat, and when she shifted, her white spots drifted like falling snow. ¡°This is my colt, Dabon, and you are very far from home, little one.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Dabon lifted his upper lip, making a face at Sabba. His mother nudged him less than gently with her nose, lowering her head enough to look both colts in the eye. Even scolding her foal, Muria had a kind gaze, a soft set to her ears. One look at her gentle expression was too much for Sabba. He began to bawl. Sabba¡¯s sides heaved with each sob. His nostrils ran. His eyes teared. A frantic keening took him, and each breath lent it more volume. The other colt squealed and pranced to the far side of his mother. Ears back and head low, he glared at the emotional from behind the shelter of his dam¡¯s belly. The mare shifted from hoof to hoof, and her voice was forced from its gentle tones in order to be heard over Sabba¡¯s grief. ¡°Hush now. There, there.¡± Her face rippled in Sabba¡¯s vision. The chasm, the whole world around them spun. ¡°It¡¯s been a hard time for you, hasn¡¯t it?¡± Someone else¡¯s mother asked. ¡°A long road.¡± ¡°I want my dam,¡± Sabba howled. ¡°But the raptors¡­ the grassland¡­ and I fell. In. A. Hole.¡± ¡°Poor baby,¡± Muria soothed. ¡°Poor lost foal.¡± ¡°He¡¯s a weirdo,¡± Dabon declared, his voice slithering underneath his dam¡¯s. ¡°He¡¯s too loud.¡± ¡°Hush.¡± The mare¡¯s voice sharpened, and she nudged her colt aside with her hip. ¡°He¡¯s all alone, Dabon. And he needs our help.¡± ¡°He¡¯s sick,¡± Dabon¡¯s anger chased away Sabba¡¯s grief. It sparked an answering fire in the lost colt¡¯s belly. ¡°I am not.¡± Sabba meant to shout, but it came out more like a moan. ¡°Easy,¡± Muria said. ¡°Save your strength for the fever, little one.¡± ¡°What¡¯s a fever?¡± he asked her, eyeing the rival foal sideways. If he really was sick, Sabba had no doubt Dabon would prance on his grave. ¡°It means your wounds have soured,¡± Muria said. ¡°We need to clean them, and to get you food and drink, and a great deal of rest.¡± She didn¡¯t say sick, and Sabba was grateful to her for that. He had a feeling she could have, and made a point of not looking in Dabon¡¯s direction. Food and drink, he¡¯d managed to find on his own, but rest¡­ rest sounded a little bit too tempting. ¡°You must come with us,¡± the mare continued. ¡°Come back to the kinfe and safety, little one. No, Dabba, don¡¯t make that face. We¡¯ll not leave him out here on his own to suffer.¡± Sabba liked the sound of her voice. He liked it even better when she was scolding Dabon. He enjoyed the shape of her, the way she was so like his own dam. But everything he admired about Muria reminded him that he had to get back to the grassland. He had to find his own mother. But when Dabon scampered away from them, when Muria turned herself back toward the direction from which they¡¯d come, a small voice hissed in Sabba¡¯s mind. It said his mother was already gone, that he would never find her. ¡°Come, little one.¡± This new mare called to him, and Sabba was simply too weak to argue. The Song
Sabba dreamed, and the world ran hot and cold. One breath, and he was full through with flame, certain his fur would singe. The next, and his skin was ice, his body wracked with shivers that seemed to come from within, that rattled his knees and turned his speckled pelt dark and slick. He walked through it all, sometimes light and quick. Sometimes slow and staggering. His vision filled with curios vistas. At times he trod the narrow trench, high walls keeping him from the grassland, trapped in a shrinking world from which escape was impossible. Another time, he seemed to stand on the rim of the world. A great gash spread before him, as if the ground had been rent by a giant raptor¡¯s claw, flayed open, its many ribbon layers laid bare and deep. The other voices guided him. A mare who was not his dam urging him onward. A foal who was not exactly his friend taunting him when he wanted to buckle and cease moving. It might have been hours or centuries that they led him, days or months that his fever raged, but when Sabba fully woke to himself again, he was in a dark place. The air was cool and smelled of fresh water and other horses. The firm earth beneath him had been padded with dried grass. Sabba lay in the thick of it, and when his stomach rumbled, curled his neck absently and bit off a mouthful of the bedding. It was coarse and tasteless, but there was satisfaction in chewing, in breathing and living and knowing that he had not succumbed. He would live, and of the mad illness which had so long fogged his mind there was no trace. The colt flared his nostrils, stretched his upper lip high, and scented his surroundings. He shifted, and a voice answered from the darkness. "What was that?" Sabba recognized it as belonging to the other colt, to Dabon. He remembered enough of that one to play a trick. "The monster behind you," he answered. His ears perked in delight when the other colt whimpered and cried, "Mother?" Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. "There are no monsters here." The mare''s voice chided, but gently. "And I believe our young guest is feeling better.?" "Yes," Sabba said. Then, because guilt had finally caught him, "Sorry." From the sound of their voices and the soft shuffling noises Saba guessed they were both near, close enough that he should have been able to see them easily. "Why is it so dark?" he asked around a spike of worry. Had his illness taken his vision with it? "It is night." There was no trace of concern in the mare''s voice, yet Sabba had slept many nights on the plain with his own dam, and even at the heart of midnight, the sky glowed with stars, and a horse''s eyes could see shadowed shapes of grass and brush, the silhouette of his dam nearby. "Where are the stars?" he asked. "He''s not very smart," Dabon whispered clearly enough to be heard. Sabba''s ears flattened, and he lifted his lip again, baring teeth that no one could see in this black, starless place. "Hush, Dabon," the mare said sharply. The dry bedding crunched as if a hoof had stamped against it. "We''re not outside," she told Sabba. "We''re here in the cleft, not far from the Nurani kinfe." Most of what she said made no sense to the colt, but he knew that last word, knew that kinfe meant safety, meant home and reunion with the rest of his band. His mother had taught him as much before... HIs mind shied from the end of that thought. He had survived. His future lay before him now, somewhere in the darkness of a new kinfe. He might be a colt, fresh and alone in the world, but he was also a Wind Singer. Without meaning to, Sabba let loose with as large a song as any foal could muster. His voice, which was small and weak, seemed to grow louder, to fold back upon itself, amplified again and again. The sound went on long after he''d closed his muzzle, and he braced himself for a correction, apology at the ready. Instead, he heard the other colt squeal gleefully. "That''s more like it," Dabon said, and sang out on his own, rumbling and squealing a song that echoed away from them. Sabba answered it. To his surprise so did the mare. Then, another voice, a distant trumpet, called back to them. Before it died another followed, and another. The darkness filled with many horses singing, near and far the Wind Singers called and answered. Their voices melded, proud and glorious. And Sabba closed his eyes, lay his head against the dry bedding, and listened with his whole heart.
The Kinfe The Nurani band lived at the bottom of the great Cleft. Sabba learned this the first time Dabbon led him out of the cave and into the open air again. They emerged near the bottom of an enormous gash in the earth, a place so low the red walls rose like long towers above them. Sabba had to invert his neck and crane his head backwards until his throat hurt just to see the top of the cliffs. Slender trails wound between the caves and the thin valley at the very bottom of the canyon, and there a sparse grass grew to feed on. He learned, too, that the place he¡¯d wandered in his fever was only the shallow beginning of the Cleft, one that the Nurani rarely visited. That he¡¯d been found at all was hailed a miracle, and he was put fully in the care of Dabon¡¯s dam. The grass at the base of the walls was tasty, though not as sweet as Muria¡¯s milk. Sabba and Dabon ate when the mare encouraged them, and shared nursing when she would allow. The days grew icy, then frigid, and finally a thin blanket of snow covered the grazing. They were shown how to paw it away to eat, but the fare was soggy now, unpleasant and growing scarce as the winter descended. Once Sabba asked Muria why they couldn¡¯t simply return to the grasslands to eat. She tsked at him softly, flapping velvet lips and blowing out through her nostrils. ¡°The grasslands are occupied,¡± she said. ¡°During the ice months, other bands come to shelter in the rocky places near the Cleft.¡± Something about her words tickled a memory, but it tasted bitter in the colt¡¯s mind, and he shoved it aside, took his adopted dam¡¯s declaration for what it was, and forgot any idea of climbing from the protection of the deep place. He ate, he grew, and he met the other Nurani horses, learning names and colors, placing the patterned hides one by one into his memory so that he might greet his band-mates properly by name. The older horses mainly ignored him, but then, they ignored Dabon as well. The yearlings were too busy with one another to have time for foals, but the band had enjoyed a prosperous year, and there were plenty of other fillies and colts to meet and play with. When not learning to graze, the band¡¯s foals gamboled along the valley, tossing snow with their heels and battling on their hind legs in harmless mimicry of the older horses. Battle was a constant sport among the Nurani, and Sabba found he could best most of the foals his age. Only Dabon could escape his hooves, and the dark foal ducked like the wind, spun like a whirligig, and struck lightning fast while Sabba was still trying to track his movements. They sparred every day, and every day Sabba felt his own prowess growing. Still, every day would see Dabon come out on top. Time softened Sabba¡¯s loss. By the time the heavier snows covered the valley and the days became long, boring watches from the mouth of their cave, Sabba felt at home with his adopted family, with the Cleft and the Nurani and the safety of the band well below the grasslands. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. The leaning rocks which marked the heart of their territory stood at the furthest end of the Cleft. On a day when the snow had stopped falling and the valley lay in a muffled silence below them, Dabon took Sabba along the pathways to see the kinfe. They stepped carefully on the stone walkways, but the passing of many hooves had already melted the snow and ice from the paths. Sabba still picked each step with care, snorting at the edge, the drop, and the deep snowbanks far below them. ¡°Are you sure this is the way?¡± he asked. ¡°Stupid,¡± Dabon chided. ¡°I¡¯ve been to the kinfe a hundred times.¡± Sabba suspected that was a lie, but the mood was heavy enough beneath the cold air and the dangerous footing, so he let it go. The pathways sloped up and then down, always hugging the stone cliff. They passed many caves like their own, small holes in the rock where a mare and her foal might shelter, larger, gaping openings where many bachelor stallions denned together. All the openings along the Cleft were as varied as the patterns of the Nurani, and the rock shelves linked these together in crisscrossing angles. As they neared the far end of the canyon, a place where the caves thinned and the paths sloped more consistently upward, Dabon¡¯s pace slowed to a crawl. Here the traffic was lighter, and a sparkling sheen still clung to the stone walkways. ¡°Be careful,¡± the colt called back to Sabba. ¡°It¡¯s really slick.¡± ¡°Are we almost to the kinfe?¡± Sabba asked. Something about the word comforted him, suggested shelter and home in a way even their shared cave did not. He wanted to see it, but his hooves shifted beneath him when he stepped, and the distance to fall grew taller the further they went. ¡°It¡¯s just ahead,¡± Dabon answered in a muted voice. ¡°You can see it.¡± But all Sabba could see was Dabon¡¯s rump and the scruff of his dark mane. The fuzzy ears that aimed back to catch Sabba¡¯s voice, and the sheer red wall beside them. Then, the wall curved. The path hugged it at a new angle, and the kinfe appeared. As Dabon had said, it lay just ahead of them, maybe three strides of an adult horse away. There, the path widened into a shelf, a large, half circle of stone that protruded over the valley. Behind it, another cave mouth yawned, tall and slender and very dark inside. In front of it, dominating the wide shelf, was a trio of massive stone slabs. They stood at different angles, all leaning toward one another and yet not quite touching. Each stone was twice as tall as an adult stallion, and as wide a two horses standing side by side. The shadows they cast made a twisted star across the stone cliff face, and as Sabba¡¯s eyes attempted to pick out the shape of each stone, one of the shadows moved. From between the stones, a lone stallion came forth. He was long bodied and stout of build, with thick legs and shaggy fetlocks. His mane fell in a tangle from his crest, striped white and black like the forelock which covered both his eyes. His pelt was a muddy wash of black and white without any distinct separation or markings. When he lifted his head and turned in their direction, Sabba and Dabon froze. ¡°That¡¯s Sirrain,¡± Dabon whispered. ¡°Is he the fahr?¡± Sabba heard the awe in his own question, but there was even more in Dabon¡¯s answer. ¡°Jegoch.¡± Dabon said reverently. ¡°Jegoch-itza. Our name singer.¡± Jegoch-itza ¡°I know you,¡± the name singer said in a voice that echoed over the valley in the way of an early morning wind. There was a howl to the old stallion¡¯s tone, and it made both colts¡¯ pelts shiver. ¡°I am Dabon and this is¡ª¡± Dabon¡¯s voice cut out when Sirrain snorted and shook himself. ¡°Yes,¡± the stallion said. ¡°You are Muria¡¯s colt, and this one you bring is the orphan foal your mother found in the high finger of the Cleft. ¡°I am Sabba,¡± Sabba said. ¡°What is an orphan?¡± ¡°It means your mother¡¯s dead,¡± Dabbon said, looking sheepish only when the muddy-colored jegoch turned a sharp eye in his direction. ¡°I think.¡± ¡°It means you are welcome here,¡± Sirrain continued, you who I think may be from the southern grasses. Let me see... First comes the Baudi band in colors of the sun. Then Cawst and Loren, one by one.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Sabba pressed his ears forward from his neck as the stallion chanted. Something about the words felt heavy, as if they were much, much older than even the jegoch-itza. ¡°Is it a song?¡± ¡°All names are songs,¡± Sirrain said. ¡°But these are the names of Windsinger bands. The clans of our warriors who run from the border of the Cleft all the way south to the estuary which marks the beginning of the desert. You must have come from one of these, little Sabba. For your shape and your color mark you a plains horse as clearly as mine do.¡± ¡°What¡¯s an estuary?¡± Dabon asked, nudging forward and pressing Sabba closer to the lip of the ledge and a long drop down to the valley bottom. While the orphan colt jostled away from the precipice, Sirrain humored his companion. ¡°It is a place that is not quite yet the sea,¡± he said. ¡°A place that divides the clear waters of the plain from the bitter salts of the ocean.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen the sea from the cliffs,¡± Dabon said. ¡±It¡¯s bigger than the whole world.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense,¡± Sabba, who had finally found his way to the cliff wall and a measure of safety, felt compelled to argue. ¡°If the sea is part of the world, how could it be bigger than it?¡± ¡°Shush,¡± Dabon said. ¡°The jegoch-itza was chanting the clan names.¡± Sabba flattened his ears and lifted his upper lip, showing Dabon¡¯s rump his teeth. It had been Dabon who¡¯d changed the subject to begin with, and the injustice stung. Sabba was too eager to hear more of the old stallion¡¯s song, however, and he stopped short of arguing outright. ¡°After Loren comes those who share the wider plain,¡± Sirrain continued. ¡°They are Silan, Morad, and Turain.¡± The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Sabba¡¯s mind skittered over the unfamiliar names. Sirrain had said he came from one of these bands, but another word danced in the colt¡¯s memory, and it did not quite match. ¡°Then run the Howda who are mostly dun.¡± The jegoch finished and turned his round eye upon Sabba. ¡°You are neither dun nor copper,¡± he said. ¡°So I suspect your mother wandered quite far to give you life, little one. A pity her time was not sooner. Late season births are often tragic.¡± ¡°But Sabba lived,¡± Dabon said proudly, as if they victory was his own. ¡°He was sick, too. Full of fever madness.¡± ¡°I was not,¡± Sabba argued, even though he knew the daze had been upon him, had lost him things he should have held to, like his band¡¯s name. And his mother¡¯s. ¡°He is strong,¡± Sirrain said, and the praise in the stallion¡¯s tone killed any further argument Sabba might have made. ¡°And he is lucky. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll make a fine warrior.¡± ¡°And me too.¡± Dabon reared onto his hind legs and churned the icy air with his fore hooves. ¡°Yes, yes little one,¡± Sirrain said. ¡°But perhaps it would be best to save your dancing for safer terrain.¡± Sabba couldn¡¯t have agreed more. The height of the kinfe, and the view from the lip of the ledge it sat on, already made his stomach flutter. Sirrain continued, however, even before the colt had sensibly placed all four hooves back to earth. ¡°Perhaps I will sing your names in the future. When the list of battles is called, it would not surprise me in the least.¡± ¡°When will you sing it?¡± Sabba crept forward, as if the very idea of fighting made him braver. ¡°I want to see the battles.¡± ¡°And you will.¡± Sirrain chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that made his round barrel shudder. ¡°We all will.¡± ¡°When?¡± Dabon added his enthusiasm to Sabba¡¯s. ¡°As soon as the ice melts,¡± Sirrain said. ¡°When the world has thawed once more there will be games before the parting. There will be many bouts to win or lose, little colts. Spend your winters well, and you just might be ready for them.¡± ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± Dabon called in a shrill whinny. He rose again, but this time, the jegoch sidled in, quickly nudging the eager foal away form the edge. ¡°In the valley,¡± the old stallion said. ¡°Where the ground is solid and wide, and your mother will not have my tail should you slip and fall.¡± He waited for them both to agree, holding them to the promise with a stern look and a slow dragging of one hoof against the ledge. The colts, cowed into obedience, turned back the way they¡¯d come, taking to the ledge again and stepping with greater caution. At least so long as they were in sight of the kinfe. Once the leaning rocks and the influence of the jegoch-itza were behind them however, Dabon began to brag. ¡°I¡¯m going to beat all the weanlings come spring.¡± He danced a few steps until one of his hooves skittered, then slowed to a sensible walk again. ¡°Not if I beat you,¡± Sabba said. ¡°Naw,¡± Dabon tossed back. ¡°You¡¯re all weak from the fever.¡± ¡°Am not.¡± Sabba wanted to dance, but his view was far too wide, and the ledge on which they traveled much too narrow. He backed his words up with a flick of his scrub tail and muttered, ¡°You¡¯ll see.¡± Dabon ignored it, or perhaps he was only focused on his own steps. For a moment the only sound was the ringing of their small hooves upon the stone. Then, as if he¡¯d only just thought of it, the other colt said, ¡°We should train all winter.¡± Sabba could not help being drawn into the enthusiasm. ¡°And get stronger and stronger.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll be the best of them,¡± Dabon said. ¡°The winners,¡± Sabba added, and since this time Dabon had included him, he let his imagination run with it. He returned to the far end of the valley with his mind full of battle, with his heart ready to take on whatever challenger might face him. Distracted, and determined to spend the winter exactly as the jegoch-itza had suggested. For the duration of the long, cold months, Sabba and Dabon would train. The Thaw Sabba woke first, his velvet nostrils capturing something new in the air which filtered into their cave. His strong legs were restless, frustrated with the weeks of little use and even less distance. His ears turned forward and back, capturing the soft sound of Muria¡¯s sleep breath and the deeper, rougher snore of Dabon lying on the dried grass before him. There was something different today. Something Sabba had missed greatly. The scent drew him toward the cave mouth, but his adopted brother sprawled between the colt and his exit. Sabba placed one hoof at a time, stepping over and around the sleeping Dabon and then picking his way forward by hugging the cave wall so that the rough stone tickled his dense, winter coat. His pelt had grown more speckled with each passing week. As his legs thickened and his body filled out, his pattern had spread as if the snowflakes that fell upon him were absorbed and added to his coloring. Beneath the white blanket, pale spots began as shadows, darkening slowly one after the other until he was simultaneously, honey-tan, white, and black. Lifting his head higher and aiming both ears at the world outside, Sabba stepped into the light, knowing that his pelt blazed a wild contrast, that his coloring was flashy and not quite like any of the horses he had met inside the great Cleft. His pride had him prancing onto the low ledge in front of their winter den. Muria and Dabon''s home. His home now. Sabba raised his nose, lifted his rubbery upper lip, and let the scents of the morning wash over his nostrils and tongue. Green, the smells said. But everything the colt could see was blanketed in a thick white shawl. The snow had filled in the hard edges of the stones, muted the world and turned it harsh and unsavory. For the last week, they''d had no luck in pawing up food, finding only icy muck beneath the cold snow. They''d appeased their bellies by nibbling the dry grass upon which they slept the months away. But today the scent was there. Sabba stretched his neck long, strained his lip upward, and shuffled his hooves to the very lip of their ledge. Something crashed into him from the cave side. The impact rolled him over the edge and down. Tumbling, Sabba scrambled for purchase, slid into the thick snow at the valley''s bottom and continued to roll until his legs were beneath him. He staggered to his hooves to a chorus of Dabon''s laughter. "You left your flank unguarded," the other colt sang. "Wide open." "I thought you were asleep." Sabba shook himself, scattering snow and loose hair. Dabon leapt from the ledge, though it was barely a step down. He pranced, head high and angled in an arrogant expression. "How could anyone sleep with you tromping all over them." Dabon laughed again, as Sabba knew he would. He tossed his head merrily as he did, and his shaggy forelock fell across his near eye. Sabba, who had been waiting for just this opportunity, lunged. His shoulder slammed into the other colt''s belly, and Dabon went staggering away. Sabba pressed him, keeping his brother on the move while he sat back on his haunches and pawed a few solid blows against Dabon''s hindquarters. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. When Dabon spun back at him, Sabba dodged to one side, pivoting, and kicking out with both rear hooves. It was a move he favored to block a retreat, and Dabon was ready for it. He ducked the kick and pranced in a half circle around Sabba. They collected themselves, caught their breaths and faced off for another bout of sparring. Sabba lowered his head, tilting it to the side to keep his the ever-moving opponent out of his blind spot directly to the front. He snorted, stamped, and pawed at the snow while Dabon sized him up, searched for an opening through which to attack. Sometimes, Sabba gave him one just for sport. He might lure the other colt in and then lift and pummel him mid-charge. Sometimes, he pretended Dabon was much larger, imagined how he would defend if his brother were actually big enough to do him real damage. If they actually fought. It was training in its own way, a building of skill based on trial and error. The two colts had spent the hours when they were not wrestling watching the older horses. The yearling battles, much of which were spent standing on their rear legs, lashing at one another with teeth and forehooves. The adults rarely sparred, and Sabba could not decide if they no longer needed to practice or if they were simply reserving every ounce of energy for the long winter with sparse feedings. "You fight like a newborn," Dabon taunted. "Like a filly." Sabba had seen fillies battle as if they meant to actually draw blood. The taunt was not the insult Dabon intended. "At least I fight," Sabba tossed back. "Or do you intend to dance in a circle all morning?" It worked. Dabon struck, darting forward in a quick stutter of steps, teeth bared and ears flat. Sabba held his ground but swiveled just enough to allow Dabon''s strike to miss. He curved his neck, planted his forelegs, and clamped his teeth over his attacker''s crest. Dabon twisted, and Sabba bit down. "Ow. Ow, stop. Stop." "Uyu ield?" Sabba mumbled around a mouthful of his brother''s mane. "Yield, yikes. Yes." Sabba released him, shaking his head and rumbling a long, fluttering snort of victory. He danced away, tail high, lifting his knees up so that each step was a parade. "Look." Dabon''s voice was awe-touched. Warm pride flooded through Sabba. He tried to squeal like the stallions did, but it came out screeching and clumsy. "Look, idiot," Dabon said. This deflated Sabba''s bravado considerably. He stopped, splaying his ears and lifting his lip at the other colt... who was not watching him at all. Dabon stared at the battlefield. Their fight had lifted great gashes in the snow, exposing brown streaks and spattering their lower legs with muck. Now the other colt had lowered his nose to the scene of the crime, and his nostrils had stretched so wide Sabba could see red in them. He stopped his prancing and joined his brother, sniffing, blowing a snort when the fresh, green smell came to him again. Sure enough, when he lowered and looked as Dabon did, there were sparse, green strands folded beneath the brown. "Grass," he said. "Green grass." His belly rumbled. Dabon''s, too, made eager protest. Green grass beneath the snow. Not much, but enough to nibble if they just stretched out. "Find your own," Dabon butted him aside. "Sheesh." Sabba wasted no time shifting to a different spot. There, he had to dig a little, but where yesterday had brought only damp and dead, today he found bright green. He lipped aside the muck and carefully bit off a few fresh shoots. "Delicious." "It is," Dabon agreed. "But it''s even better than that." "Better?" Sabba had quickly swallowed the first shoots and eagerly hunted for another clump. "This means it''s almost time," Dabon said. "The first grass. The first green." Sabba drifted a step away. He''d spotted more green in another trench and was eager to reach it before Dabon noticed. "Time for what?" His neck stretched. His lips reached for the sweet grass. But when Dabon answered, he forgot it, let it lie and lifted his head, his ears, to hear. "Time for battle." Dabon said with a thick shiver of anticipation. "It''s almost time for the trials." The Bands The pathway cut a switchback zigzag into the Cleft wall. Red stone, worn smooth by generations of hoof treads, lay in a slick ramp beneath them. They climbed, and each step required attention, each distraction raised the risk of a slip or fall. One by one, the horses of the Nurani took to that path until they made a many-coated snake inching its way up the canyon wall. Back and forth, Sabba followed Dabon, who followed Muria. The snow had thinned rapidly over the last few days, each morning''s sun half again as strong as the day before. Now only a damp speckle of white lay over the valley bottom, a splatter of patches that reminded Sabba of a blanket pattern on some old mare. The sun had risen just enough to gild the stones pinkish gold, to highlight the waving bands of color in the cliffs, and to accent the coats of the Wind Singers as they left their winter shelter. "I bet the fahr is already fighting," Dabon had chattered about the battles for most of the climb. They were halfway up the switchback trail, and already he''d mentioned the fahr-itza at least a dozen times. "Jarof saw the battles last year and said the fahr always wins." "Jarof has rocks between his ears," Sabba said, looking quickly over his shoulder in case the yearling was in hearing range. "No one always wins." "But the fahr had to beat everyone to become fahr-itza," Dabon argued. "Sure," Sabba said. "I guess." He tried to imagine the battles Dabon described, but the other foal was relaying things he''d never actually seen, passing on stories he¡¯d heard from the yearlings who were likely too young to understand what they''d been watching the year before. Surely there could not be so many contenders as Dabon claimed. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Certainly, there would not be so much blood. One of the horses near the top of the trail snorted, and the rumble passed down the line. One after another of the Wind Singers blew out, rumbled their anxiousness and rattled their thin barrels. They looked forward to more than just the fights and the company. There would be grass above, more than the drowned pickings the snow had left behind at the cleft''s bottom. At their head, the jegoch-itza and the Nurani¡¯s lead mare had nearly reached the lip. When the echo of the collective rumbling died, a long, high-pitched stallion''s scream answered from somewhere beyond the Cleft. Sirrain immediately answered, and suddenly the band was singing again, piercing stallion''s cries, and low, eager whickering from the mares. The air rang with the voices of may horses, and Sabba wondered quickly if Dabon might have heard correctly about the numbers. Surely, it took all the horses in the world to make that much noise. The band''s leaders topped the rise, vanished over the canyon lip. The remaining horses on the trail sped their steps, risking a little more in their enthusiasm. Sabba struggled to watch both his feet and the approaching lip ahead and above them. Dabon risked a prance, skidded back so that his rump became another obstacle to avoid. They went, up and up, around and back. Then, all at once, the wall was gone. Muria and then Dabon vanished over the rim. Sabba crested the trail to find it continued sharply downslope on the other side. The others were trotting, now, moving away rapidly on the safer path. The plain stretched forever and a day away from the Cleft. It swept sound and east to the far horizon. To the west, there was a glimmer of something flat and sparkling. But ahead, directly ahead, the entire grasslands shifted and wheeled. The slope fell quickly to a flat land, studded with small ridges, and miniature canyons. Everywhere that was not rock moved as if he ground itself were a living creature. Band upon band of speckled horses drifted across the vista, eating, playing, fighting beneath the pale winter sun. There were hundreds of Wind Singers here, thousands, and Sabba felt his throat clench at the sight of them. His whole body shivered. Then Dabon''s voice called from somewhere below, sang his name to the sky, and Sabba answered. The colt leapt forward, trotting down the slope as fast as his hooves could move. He pranced out to the wide plain, out into the open, and straight into the crowded herd. The Battle A palomino with a white blanket barely darker than his ivory coat faced off against a speckled bay. The two yearlings looked as if they''d already battled. Their coats were tufted in places where the winter fur had fallen, or been torn, out. They were patchy, rangy, long-legged colts, and they stood half again as tall as Dabon and Sabba. Their muscles had long since begun to fill in, though they did not carry anything near their adult mass. They were strangers, Wind Singer warriors from two of the bands mingling on the winter plain. Beside Sabba, Dabon quivered with excitement. They''d drifted unsupervised through the morning, ducking in and around the older horses. They''d been jostled, nearly stepped on, kicked at, and faced a gauntlet of rude stares, rumbling snorts, and rough chastisement. It was the greatest day of Sabba''s life. Finally, they''d pushed their way close enough to witness a battle. The crowds of older horses knotted tightly around a tournament of impromptu sparring matches, and so far, the colts had only managed to hear the great thudding of bodies as they clashed together, the furious screams of stallions and mares locked in combat. Now, they would see it. The bay snorted defiantly, lowered his heavy head and sidestepped around his opponent. Sabba and Dabon watched from the front of the crowd, their view uninterrupted by other horses. They held their ground, even when a larger colt shouldered in beside them. The palomino pawed a foreleg against grass which had already been beaten flat by the previous contests. Sabba could smell sweat. He could feel the impact every time one of the horses stamped a hoof against the thawing ground. He leaned forward, raised his upper lip and sucked in the atmosphere as if it were cool water. Without warning, the bay lunged. He came at the other colt with his head low, neck outstretched and teeth bared. The rush was clearly meant to leverage surprise, to strike fast and first and throw the enemy off their guard. The palomino was not playing along. With a shriek of rage, he side-stepped the lunge, raking downward with his own teeth as the bay closed. It was this second attack which scored its mark, the ivory horse biting hard and deep just below the bay''s withers. The would-be attacker kicked out, struck weakly at the palomino with a rear hoof. There was little force to the blow, just enough to force a retreat, to earn a reprieve as they parted, circled again. Dabon blew out softly as the bay passed them. The yearling''s pelt was already slicked with sweat, frothy at the flank and chest. Now, a dark river flowed across his near shoulder. Ruby black liquid oozed from the wound at his withers, and a new scent reached Sabba''s nostrils. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Blood. The bay''s eyes glinted, furious. The palomino trumpeted and pawed at the ground again. Neither yearling taunted one another. Neither spoke at all. They were not playing. Sabba''s nostrils stretched wide. His eyes fixated on the fight, and his breath came shallow, nearly still in his lungs. The ivory horse feinted inward, attempting to draw out his opponent once more. The bay had learned his lesson, however. He kept his head, danced the circle and waited for an opening. The bay lifted his head now, rocked back on his hocks and lifted from the ground for a split second, a half-hearted rear accompanied by an answering trumpet. Challenge. He dared the palomino to come at him, and the paler horse was too proud not to answer. He, too, reared, and as his forelegs left the earth, the bay rushed in. Balanced on his hind legs, the palomino struck out with both forelegs. The bay rose to meet him, twisting so that the blows glanced harmlessly along his shoulder. His neck snaked out, and both horses grappled with one another, teeth bared and ears pinned flat to their skulls. They danced upright now, tangling forelegs and digging in with the rear. Once again, the bay lunged with his teeth, stretching his long neck to his advantage and scoring a bite on the palomino''s neck. Here, against that pale hide, the blood was scarlet. The bay held on, twisting his head to dig deeper, and the ivory coat was splattered red. The palomino did not flinch for his injury, however. He dug in, used his powerful hindquarters to press forward, to drive the bay a single, sliding step backwards. Then, with a defiant scream, he tore himself free of his foe''s teeth. More red. This time the splatter painted the bay, too, reached even the grass around the combatant''s hooves. As if he didn''t feel it, the palomino struck, bearing down again, this time sinking his teeth into the bay''s shoulder and holding there. His eyes rolled white at the edges. His lips pulled back into a grimace as the bay shrieked. Not a challenge. That sound was pure agony. Sabba watched as the palomino''s teeth turned red, as the bay writhed, and as the flesh tore free. His breath was no longer shallow. It raced, in an out, in time to his frantic heartbeat. This was no more sparring match. Not practice. Not play. The bay staggered away from his foe, limping, shoulder streaming blood, eyes glazing. The palomino did not press his advantage. He had already won. Sabba realized he was shaking. His nostrils had stretched to their full range, sucking in air while his ears shifted forward and back. Beside him Dabon had gone statue still. Was he afraid? Excited? Stunned? Sabba''s own thoughts swirled. His chest felt full, taut with new emotion. There was fear, yes, but also a thrilling, shivering heat. For the first time since the snows had fallen, Sabba longed for something, though he had no words to explain it. The palomino stood victorious in the center of his battleground. His sides heaved, and his breath was a ragged, rasping sound blown through red-rimmed nostrils. The ivory hide had darkened with sweat. It made a golden canvas for the rivulets of red, the splatters of blood from both his opponent and himself. On his shoulder, the muscles still twitched. Froth ringed his flank, pink and bloody. He was horrifying and glorious both, and something deep and steady, dark and wonderful stirred in Sabba at the sight of him. Around the colts, the crowd cheered. Across the plain, the battles raged. Inside Sabba''s heart, a warrior came to life. It was born in longing, in fear, and in a desperate fury to prove itself. The Lesson Sabba lowered his head, stretched his neck long, and bared his teeth. His opponent, a lean black colt with a jagged mane and no pattern whatsoever, squealed and stamped in reply. They fought to one side of the older horse''s battles, in a ring of other foals who had either finished their own challenges or were waiting for a chance to begin. The black looked mean. His skinny body showed rib, and the hollows behind his eyes were deeper than they should be. Everything about this colt suggested a hard life, and Sabba knew by the fire in his opponent''s eyes that this was no game. He flattened his ears and stepped sideways, keeping the black colt in his sights and waiting, despite the pattering of his heart, the blood pounding between his ears. Instinct wanted to lunge at his enemy, but intellect argued caution. Patience. Let the foe make the first move. Let the foe make the first mistake. Sabba could see the other colt''s impatience in the twitching of his black pelt, in the way his ears moved constantly as he pawed the ground. Another snort dared him to come on, but Sabba ignored it. He circled, and the black cold spun in place to match him. Dabon''s voice sang from the watchers, cheering him, distracting. He blocked it out, let the circle blur into the background, let his adopted brother fade into the unknown crowd. Only the fight mattered, and the black was already moving, easing toward Sabba as his urge to battle grew. When the colt attacked, Sabba was ready. He was moving, dodging and twisting long before the other colt''s teeth reached for him. Sabba swept past the colt''s side, raking his own teeth along the black barrel as they engaged. The bite scored only a mouthful of fur, shaggy winter pelt that had not properly finished shedding. He cleared his tongue with a shake of his head and found the other colt recovered, spinning round again and rising to his hind legs. The enemy''s forelegs churned near Sabba''s face, and he reeled back, squatting on his haunches and squealing fury. The black came on, walking forward on two legs. Sabba found himself on the defensive, creeping backwards to avoid those hooves and off-balance enough that he found no leverage to strike himself, no room to rear and fight back. The enemy was above him, had the advantage, and was happy to press it. Frustration swelled in Sabba''s belly. He needed room to move, to rise, and to strike. But the colt was everywhere above him, coming on, driving Sabba back farther onto his haunches. No room above. The crowd close behind his rump. Only one direction left to him. Sabba seized it, dropping suddenly and rolling to the side. It was a dangerous choice. Had the colt been prepared for it, he might have slammed down, landed with both hooves and his full weight on Sabba''s exposed belly. Instead, his momentum carried him forward, over the prone colt, and Sabba struck with his forelegs as he rolled away. The blow landed hard in the center of the black colt''s stomach. The enemy was knocked off balance, and Sabba scrambled back to his feet again as the other foal slammed back to all fours and staggered away. As the black colt recovered his breath, Sabba surged back to his feet. The move had worked, but it was too risky, could easily have ended the contest in the opponent''s favor. Rattled, he side-stepped again, putting distance between them and moving the fight back toward the center of the battlefield. The black colt spun toward him and launched forward at a gallop. There was no hesitation left to him, no strategy. He flew at Sabba with rage burning in his dark eyes. He''s angry. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Sabba lowered his head and waited. His enemy might let emotion lead him, but Sabba''s mind was clear and sharp. The fear he felt as the other colt charged could be set aside, brushed off like a fly''s bite. He''d faced the shadows on the plain already. He''d triumphed over those that strike to kill. Just as the colt reached him, Sabba wheeled and kicked. His right rear hoof landed against the colt''s chest, shoving him back and scoring a mark that scraped deeper than just the loose fur. The colt screamed, but to Sabba''s surprise, did not falter. He came on despite the wound, and a sharp heat bloomed on Sabba''s rump as his enemy''s teeth found a home in his flesh. He kicked again, but his rear hooves glanced off the attacker''s shoulder. The black twisted, and Sabba felt his pelt tear, his flesh give freely to the enemy''s bite. He twisted, squealing as the wound tore. He kicked, over and over. Eventually, his blows knocked the enemy free. The black snorted and danced back, and Sabba pivoted, feeling the warm flow of blood across his hip and down toward his hocks. The black was in no better shape. Blood marked his shoulder where Sabba''s kicks had found home. The sight of his dancing form ignited Sabba''s own fury. He let the anger steel his as he stepped, as each placing of a rear hoof inflamed the pain in his rump. Anger, a danger to be controlled, but perhaps also a tool to use. The black colt had taught him something as it weathered his beating. He could use his rage to overcome the pain, to strike through it, to overcome. When the black charged next, Sabba held his ground. Together they lifted onto their rear legs, crashing into one another in a flurry of flying hooves. Blows landed against Sabba''s chest and side and they grappled, and he ground his teeth against the urge to drop, to shy from the assault and the pain in his rump which demanded his attention. Instead, he leaned into the fight. His blows, too, found their mark. They scored victories against one another, locked in battle and each determined to come out on top. Sabba struck out for vengeance, releasing his pain by driving each hoof firmer and harder against the source of it. He struck for the vultures who had first scored his hide. He struck for the mother they had stolen. Slowly, he gained ground. The black colt shuffled one pace backwards. Then another. The opponent''s teeth flashed in and out of Sabba''s vision as their necks bent and dodged, simultaneously attempting to reach the other''s flesh and avoid being reached themselves. An ache grew in Sabba''s hindquarters, and he borrowed from it to fuel his advance. He pushed. He twisted. He came on with unrelenting determination. When the black colt missed a step, it was all over. Sabba lunged into that moment of recovery and bit down hard. He latched onto the other colt''s neck, biting just above the sloping shoulder and holding on, digging with his teeth, twisting and continuing to push forward. The colt went down to all fours. Even then, Sabba held on, falling with him and driving him back and back. The black stumbled. His haunches buckled beneath him and he rolled backwards over his tail. Sabba let go, dodging only briefly to the side before returning to lash out, to strike at the shoulder and then the belly of the floundering colt. The black''s screams were all pain now, suddenly sounding much younger. Fear, not anger, drove him to thrash and roll away from Sabba, and though the urge to continue boiled inside him, Sabba stopped. He had already won. The circle of foals howled his name. It registered slowly, as Sabba watched the black climb gingerly to his hooves again. The chant had, no doubt, been begun by Dabon, and now it echoed in a ring around the battlefield. Sabba let it lift him, raised his head, and blew out a long, rumbling snort of victory. In answer, the crowd cheered. In answer, the pain in Sabba''s rump swelled to the surface again. His body burned with it, scrapes and bruises, little tears and the large gash which he knew still bled. He''d felt none of it once his enemy had shown him the way through it, but now every blow echoed in his flesh and only his pride kept him on his feet. When the black colt stood once more, Sabba whickered at him, a respectful acknowledgement of a fight well managed. The other colt called back, but his voice was a ragged sound, and he limped when he took his first steps back toward the edge of the ring. Sabba vowed not to show his wounds. He took a long moment to steady himself before walking anywhere. In that time, he scanned the ring of horses, searching for Dabon among the others. When he found his brother, however, Sabba''s body tensed painfully. He pressed his ears forward, and looked, not to Dabon, but to the grown horses standing just behind the ring, standing and watching the fight as if it were one of the main battles. There had to be a dozen adult stallions at the fringe of their ring, and among them, Sabba recognized the jegoch-itza, Sirrain. The name singer had come to watch him fight, and who he''d brought with him, Sabba could only guess.