KHAL KARSTARK

Who is the vampire? We ask ourselves. Then we ask our neighbor. Then we look to the Khal.

He does not look behind. The stallion leads the stampede to Execution Cliff. We follow, all we can do is follow and wonder who? Which amongst us is a blood-drinking parasite? Whoever, the vampire must be a fool indeed to run with the herd to certain death.

I am not a vampire. You are not a vampire. Who is the vampire? We toss our heads as the wind races over the sweat on our fur, courses through our manes. We are the Cinnamon Khalasar. How stupid the vampire must be to infiltrate our herd!

Elephantoidea? We trample carnivores. Artiodactyla? We gore predators. Perissodactyla? We lure predators in for a chase and then kick the skull right off their spine.

A daughter looks to her father. Who is the vampire?

He does not answer. She knows who is the vampire. 

We follow the Khal, and he leads us to Execution Cliff.

The Khal slows. We slow. He trots over the red rocks and sparse cacti. He stops at the cliff. With a swish of his tail, he turns. A baleful eye finds his son.

“Step forward, vampire, and I will grant you a swift execution.”

We slip away from the predator. His own daughter steps behind him, staying in stride with the herd to block his escape. Our hooves dig at the dirt. Stones rattle.

The vampire stands alone. He is the Khal’s son. He is a zorse, caught between his father’s monotone and his daughter’s stripes. He is a scout. No, he was all that before. Now, the vampire is the enemy.

The vampire walks forward.

He bows. He bows so low, his head touches the clay.

Khal Edd Karstark squints at his son. “Any last words?”

“Give me the peace I’m too cowardly to give myself.”

The Khal snorts in approval. He rears. Sunlight flashes off his black hooves.

The Khal crushes the vampire’s skull. Blood seeps into the clay. Brain squelches as the Khal steps off the vampire’s caved-in head. He kicks his front hooves one at a time. Pink clumps and red drops fall into the canyon.

Khal Edd Karstark jumps over his son’s corpse.

Then, he walks along our ranks. He grins. His grin is an unhappy sort of smile, but there is a mad light in his black eyes.

Khal Edd Karstark tosses his head with a snicker. He stops. “The Cinnamon Khalasar will no longer take chances on vegan vampires—” His lips curl at the memory, for that had been what Alexandre Roux had called xemself when he joined the Cinnamon Khalasar. “—or any other predator.”

The white stallion tosses his mane. “Carnivores know their lifestyle depends on slaughter. Vampires know their lifestyle depends on non-consensual violence.” He snorts. “They feed on us. They need us. They’re not predators, they’re parasites!”

Then, he kicks his rear legs to send the corpse tumbling down Execution Cliff.

The vampire disappears. The fall is too long and too far for us to hear the impact. But even if we could?

We lift our heads and neigh.

Khal Edd Karstark stomps his hooves. “We are the herd! We run as one! We are the Cinnamon Khalasar!”

We stamp our hooves. We take up the cheer. When the Khal rears with a laugh? When he runs into the prairie? We follow the Khal.