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.
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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.