Maslakhat stood atop one of the largest dunes of the land, watchful and carefully poised, his head pointed toward the ocean as his narrow ears twisted forward. The winds were strong today, weaving between his slender legs, whipping his sparse black tail and lifting his mane off his muscular, dappled neck. He snorted as it whispered its tale of salt, sea and strangers. Precisely four of them, all Arabians.

It was true that the desert was a beacon for their kind—the heat drew them in like moths to a flame and invited them to dance in the light. Therefore the Akhal-Teke was not surprised to learn they had found their way to these shores. However, the sheer number of them and their collective arrival was suspect and absolutely warranted further investigation.

He descended the dune at a lofty gallop, his dark legs pushing and pulling the sand beneath with practiced precision. He kept his head high and pointed toward the source of their scent, and before long one of the strangers came into view. He slowed to a trot, his tail flagged and his amber eyes fixed upon the blue-black painted stallion.

“You must be the diplomat,” Maslakhat remarked once he was within speaking distance, making no secret that he was attentive enough to know the Arabian stallion had not come alone. “I am Maslakhat,” he continued and then motioned to the towering hills making up the walls of sand that loomed large on either side of them. “These are the Dunes.”


MASLAKHAT

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