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?”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“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.