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.

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  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.