Zahhāk trudged through the wiry grass of the meadow, the scent of the red mare hot in his wide, pink nostrils and his wounds raw from his altercation with the dark stallion. His ribs rippled under his skin with every step he took, and he kept his head low until the rushing of the distant waterfall roaring across the expanse reached his backward tilted ears.
The long grass turned short, flat and brown, dusty patches of old, melting snow littering the firm earth while the red mare’s scent grew stronger. He snorted loudly, something like stubborn determination rolling like a jagged rock in his shrunken belly. Finally he sighted her, accompanied by yet another dark stallion, this one even larger than the one he had recently battled.
He was in better shape this winter than the last, but Zahhāk was still outmatched by most anyone—his self-inflicted poor health his primary disadvantage. Still, he had seen his fair share of battles, and the reckless abandon he showed was reason enough for any of his opponents to be wary of him. He had not lost every fight, nor was he afraid to fight again. Pain was something he’d grown comfortable with, and he came to expect it as a constant companion.
The red mare, he could tell, was a puppeteer of such pain and so he pursued her. Having tasted the sweetness of blood between his teeth at her whims; thanks to her, he craved more.
He could hear the stallion speak now, his tone deep but tentative as he outstretched his nose to attempt to exchange breaths with her; Zahhāk slithered closer. The smoky black ‘Teke met his gaze as he looked straight at him, emerging from the shade.
“Careful now,” he muttered, then flicked his dark eyes over to the red woman, his heated gaze an unflinching challenge.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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