He held the reins in his right hand along with a tightly coiled leather whip. Since his youth he had known the use of only one arm, but he could do as much as anyone with two. Skill with the whip was just one of his many talents. But he saw no reason to use it now. His men carried lead shanks and ropes, which were all that would be necessary to capture the young black colt.

Ibn al Khaldun was a short man with tremendous shoulders and a bull neck. His face was round and deeply furrowed from having spent a lifetime beneath the hot desert sun. He did not like the cold mountain air but his discomfort was worth enduring, for he had found the black colt in the upper pastures rather than in the valley below.

He smiled, his mouth toothless, as he thought how easy Abu Já Kub ben Ishak had made it for him. It was only natural that the master at horse breeding would pasture his prized colts high in the mountains, where the air was cold and the ground steep, all in the hope of creating a more robust, better-legged horse. Khaldun was envious. Someday he wanted to have a mountain base too.

His small gray eyes squinted in the moonlight as he followed the black colt, who was attempting to get away from them. To take him meant that he would have a blood feud with Abu Já Kub ben Ishak for life. Unfortunate that the old herder, the legendary one, had been killed. Blood called for blood among their tribes, and death for death. Living as their forefathers did, it would be forever the same.

The old herder’s cry had not alerted Abu Ishak’s men down in the valley. Khaldun was thankful for that, at least. Nonetheless his raiders would need to be silent and quick.

Signaling his men, he changed the formation. Long limbs wrapped about the girths of their horses, the men now rode alongside each other, ten yards apart. Then in a wide line they moved forward, ignoring all the colts except the black one.

Shêtân had never seen mounted men in such numbers before. Instinct caused him to run as the others did, scattering to the far side of the pasture. As if intending to lead the mounted men away from his band, the black colt veered off by himself, his slender legs half on the earth, half in the air.

For so young an age he ran with fierce strides. Faster and faster he raced, his nostrils puffed out like those of an enraged older stallion in all his fury. Suddenly, for a reason only he knew, he swerved back toward the men, holding his long strides without a break. The colt was trying to frighten them!

Ibn al Khaldun raised an arm, bringing his men to an abrupt stop. The long line of mounted riders had little to fear from the oncoming young stallion, knowing he could do them little harm—and even, perhaps, make his capture that much easier. They readied their ropes and lead shanks.

Now the black colt was close enough for them to make out the fury in his eyes, and they had their first qualms about how easy his capture might be. The young stallion bore down upon them, his small ears pricked forward, then suddenly swept back flat against his head.

Ibn al Khaldun couldn’t believe his eyes at the colt’s fierceness. He was more elated than afraid of anything the colt might do to him or his men with such spindly, tiring legs. It was the fire that burned in the colt’s eyes that excited him most. In the name of the Holy Prophet, this colt might be all that was rumored about him! Ibn al Khaldun signaled his men to stay behind while he rode forward several strides to intercept the oncoming colt. He uncoiled his long whip and cracked it in the air.

The black colt came to a sudden stop, trembling and uncertain, for he had never known the threat of violence before.

Ibn al Khaldun saw the uncertainty as well as the fire in the colt’s large eyes.