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.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please 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.”