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flown out of sight. She would just keep running, she swore to herself, and take her chances.
    The horses were standing together in the meadow, heads bent to graze the sweet new grass. The stallion flung up his head and stared at her, his ears laid flat against his skull, his eyes ringed with white. Then he trumpeted a warning, rearing up on his hind legs before galloping about the herd, biting one mare on the flank when she was too slow to react. Black wings snapped open and the herd leapt up into the air, neighing in alarm. The stallion leapt with them, his wings so vast they blotted out the sun.
    The girl flung up one pleading hand, calling silently, No, wait …
    One of the mares turned to look at her, even as it launched itself into the air, tucking its legs up under its chest and belly. The stallion had soared over the ridge and the sky was again full of light, so the girl could see the mare clearly. She was very tall but delicately made, with slender limbs and a small, proud head. The long, scrolled horns were opalescent blue, and more blue flashed at the tip of her sable wings.
    The girl dragged out the blowpipe and the pouch of barbs, her fingers shaking so much she sent a spray of thorns cascading out as she fumbled to fit one into the pipe. She lifted the blowpipe to her mouth, struggling to drag oxygen into her lungs. The mare rose into the golden air, black and uncanny as a raven, and the girl expelled the barb with a great rush of air. It sang out into the sunset wind. Then there was no sound but the strong beat of wings. She let her hand drop. Tears rushed down her face. Her chest heaved in a great sob.
    Then the surging movement of wing faltered. The mare dropped back down to the ground, the wings furling again along her side, her legs folding beneath her. She turned and collapsed to one side, her finely sculpted head drooping down to the ground. One-Horn’s daughter stood there for a moment, frozen between triumphant joy and dread, then ran over and flung herself down beside the mare. She ran her hands along the drooping neck, down the long slender legs with their feathery fetlocks, back to the mare’s soft velvety nose. The black skin was warm and silky; breath gusted out of the mare’s large, sensitive nostrils and her eye quivered behind the closed lid. Relief weakened the girl’s limbs so she could not move. She bent over the mare and laid her cheek against its soft skin. The horse’s breath was warm and smelt of grass.
    The girl did not linger long. Excitement filled her with new energy. She did not know how long the soporific would work. She covered the sleeping horse with her cloak, left her bow and quiver of arrows on the ground, and began to run back towards the valley. She did not need to go back to the camp. It was the saddlebags in the hollow log she wanted, packed with everything she thought she might need. Over the past two weeks she had prepared carefully, winning a new water-pouch, a whetting-stone and some tinder and flint in a gambling game. She had even challenged First-Male to a game of chance and for once had not allowed him to win, so that she could claim the brooch of the running horse that had belonged to her father. First-Male had been very affronted, for no-one ever let him lose, but One-Horn’s daughter had not cared.
    It did not take long to retrieve the saddle, bridle and bulging saddlebags but carrying them back through the forest, up the steep hills and over the ridge was an exhausting struggle. The boots were chafing her heels unbearably and her arms began to ache.
    Much to her relief, the winged mare still slept. It was fully dark now, and the arch of night sky was freshly dusted with stars. A new anxiety constricted her breathing. Soon the herd would notice she was gone. Would they wait till morning before they began to hunt, or would they start looking for her straightaway? Surely she had a few more hours before they began to track her? Would the horse wake before then,