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.

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  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.