He had come with the falling of the sun behind the walls of Azul Island. In the shadows, his massive body penetrated the darkness like a luminous thing. It was as though he belonged only to the night. He was as grotesquely ugly as the red stallion was beautiful. Thick-bodied, he stood still, waiting … waiting as he had done all through the fight of the other two stallions. Small, close-set eyes—one blue, the other a white wall-eye—gleamed from his large head, which was black except for the heavy blaze that descended over his wall-eye. His neck was thick and short, as was his body, and black too except for the ghostly streaks of white that ran through it. His mane and tail were white.

Arrogant and ruthless, fearing nothing, he moved toward the red stallion at a walk, hate gleaming in his beady eyes. His heavy ears were pulled back flat against his head, his teeth bared. Suddenly he stopped, with ears pitched forward, and screamed his challenge again. He was the embodiment of ugliness, of viciousness. Only the high crest upon his neck and the high set of his tail gave evidence of the Arabian blood in him.

Pitch turned to Steve and saw that the boy was intent upon the terrible drama unfolding before them. Seeing Steve’s grim, taut face, he remembered what the boy had said only a few hours before. Inbreeding is perfectly all right if the horses are of the purest blood and don’t have any bad traits or weaknesses; because if they do, the bad traits in both sire and dam show up in the foal worse than ever. And then Steve had added, But that hasn’t happened here.

But it has happened, Pitch thought, and that monstrosity is the result. Perhaps the same thing has happened before in all the years these horses have been here, but the monstrous ones have all been killed off. This time, it may be different—very different.

Steve said, “Pitch! Why did it have to happen now? He’s not ready to fight again. The Piebald will kill him.”

The Piebald. Pitch turned to look at him. So that’s what this horse with the weird black-and-white markings was called. The Piebald came closer, moving faster now, galloping, plunging heavily forward.

Steve watched Flame’s every move. His red coat, wet and dark from blood and sweat, was pitiful to see. A little unsteadily, Flame moved away from the dead stallion at his feet. Then he screamed and ran forward, his disheveled head held high, his large eyes blazing with hate.