Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Gabbar wakes to teeth on his flank, quick quick quick nipping over his barrel and ribs to the thick meat of his shoulder and suddenly a hard bite to the flesh there, right at the top of his chest. His body lunges toward the attacker even before his eyes are open, front left hoof striking out as his mouth reaches instinctively for the closest part of his assailant’s body. His teeth close on empty air, and Gabbar opens his dark eyes to see Iftikhar a few feet away, ears back, head and tail high, imposing in the moonlight. He is disoriented and looks past her for the rest of the Arabian herd, but sees only the foreign territory he has claimed as his own. Gabbar’s eyes swing back to his mother, notes the disapproval in her eyes and knows he has shamed himself. A true soldier would not be caught unawares or sleeping— what if she had been the enemy?
“Benim vezir,” he says, deep voice low and reverent.
The red mare snorts. “Sesini kesmek, kurtçuk. Report.”
Gabbar’s accounting from the time he arrived on the Isles to now is concise and lacks inflection. Iftikhar scans the sands as he speaks, but he cannot begin to guess what she is watching for.
“You’ve been busy,” she says once he’s done. “Too busy.” She inhales, curls her lip. “You stink of ‘Teke.”
It is not a question or a demand, but the tone of the red mare’s voice leaves Gabbar no doubt that she expects a response. His gaze shifts to the sands behind her chestnut shoulder and he straightens his posture in response to Iftikhar’s authority. “My associations with Valve are necessary,” he says.
Iftikhar’s ears pin. “Are? Or were?”
“She’s an ally. This territory is mine now, won with her help.”
“She is a ‘Teke.”
Gabbar’s eyes drop to the sand at her feet before he raises them to meet hers, briefly. “Do we not affiliate ourselves with the Akhal-Tekes of our home, for the benefit of all?”
She is as fast as he remembers, and Gabbar grunts as Iftikhar holds his ear in her mouth, forcing him to bend his head in a futile attempt to ease the pressure from her teeth. Her grip tightens and she tugs abruptly before allowing him to jerk away. “You forget yourself, breeder. You belong to me, to my herd, and we do not associate with inferior beasts. The alliance you speak of is specific to our desert, necessary in our war against the blight in our sands. You defile the name of all of our ancestors by continuing that here, where there is no need for help from that ilk. You will not speak with her again unless I am present.”
The bay Arabian flicks his ear to test it for injury. It is sore, tender from Iftikhar’s assault, but he does not think it is permanently damaged.
“Why have you left the front lines?”
Gabbar draws in a deep breath. There are a thousand things he can say, but all will sound like excuses to the proud red warrior. He exhales, a slow sigh softer than the pre-dawn wind that teases the ends of his mane.
“I have a message for you and the High Seer,” he says, deciding in that moment that it will be wiser to include El Halin in this discussion than to let Iftikhar handle the information alone. It is dangerous to assume he has the authority to make such a decision, and he knows Iftikhar would lame him if she knew his thoughts. He’s seen it done before, heard her rebuking hiss as she renounced the honor of a traitor in their home— a horse she had been close to, once, one she crippled and abandoned to the scavengers. Iftikhar does not care for Gabbar. The Arabian breeder is more than aware of the red mare’s indignation that her first child was born a breeder, and not the warrior mare she had prayed for. Her disdain for him is well known among their herd, and rumored if not confirmed in the other Arabian herds. Gabbar had forgotten how bitter that tastes.
Iftikhar’s eyes narrow but she accepts his answer with a frown. “El Halin has infiltrated the herd that neighbors this territory. I will go speak with her. Keep watch for us, breeder, and maintain your vigilance. I will return.”
He watches her stride away and shakes out his dusty coat. He had intended to go visit the Desert to gather more information, but it seems pointless now. Iftikhar and El Halin are close by, and once his mother returns with the High Seer he can deliver his message from Rakkas and go home.
Gabbar crosses the Dunes, heading toward the ocean for a much needed wash. Ideally he would have been pristine before speaking with Iftikhar, but the red mare surprised him. He is determined not to be caught unawares and in such disarray again. The bay stallion considers the long journey home as he walks in the strengthening sunlight, and wonders if the two mares will accompany him or disregard his message and send him back alone.
The Arabian stallion is not so caught up in his thoughts that he is blind to the mare who stands just beyond the mouth of the river, so close to the ocean that he is certain she must be damp from the spray of the waves of the incoming tide. It is the flaxen chestnut mare. He is pleased to see her again, pleased that she has chosen to stay in the Dunes— but he wonders if she stands at the edge of the water now with the intent to plunge into the ocean and swim away. He will not intervene if that is the case: her life is her own, to navigate as she wills.
He trots closer. She had spoken fairly to him during their last encounter, and he hopes that will be the case again as he dares to venture into earshot. He feels scruffy and thoroughly rebuked, and his right ear smarts still from Iftikhar’s brutality, but he puts all this aside as he dips his dished nose in a silent greeting. The sound of the surf is loud but he gets used to it quickly, and when he speaks his voice is raised enough to be heard over the crashing waves.
“It is good to see you again,” he says, and, wary of giving offense, falls silent to gauge the warmth of her reply.
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