Night was falling in the Eastemnet. Shadows were stretching broad fingers across the rippling plains. The curlews were calling, their long haunting notes filling the evening sky. The horses were quiet. Some lay in sheltering hollows amid the long grass, others stood, blowing warm breaths in calm contemplation of the coming darkness. They had run far, driven southwards in the annual muster of the Mark. In two days they would be at Edoras, where the best of the young new stock would be cut out from the herd for the king’s men.

  A little apart had run the mearas, the dozen or so mares and their young that were born in the direct line from Felaróf, the father of horses who had been tamed by Eorl the Young. They were not of the herd, but rarely strayed far out of reach, for they counted the lesser horses as their kin. Not driven by the riders of the Mark, they came of their own accord, out of interest and perhaps loyalty. They would come to Edoras with the rest, but would not enter the muster field, nor permit any men to handle them save a chosen few. The whole town would turn out just for the chance to set eyes on them. Their leader was Feste, a great grey mare with a fine head and wise face. She was ageing and had delivered her last foal. She would carry no more. The colt was a yearling now and his dark coat was already beginning to lighten. One day it would match his dam’s and carry the light of the moon into battle. Three offspring Feste had born to her mate, Freolic. Since his untimely death, the eldest had run alone on the plains, taking up the mantle of his sires. Already his size and stature marked him out and no other stallion would best him, though a few had tried. Men called him Shadowfax and unseen he moved through the darkness; bonded now with Thengel, like his sire before him and ready to come at the king’s call. The youngest Feste kept close by her and her neck gleamed silver in the moonlight as she nuzzled his marbled coat.

  All of the direct line of Felaróf were born dark, to turn hoarfrost silver by maturity. All except one. Feste’s second foal had stayed black. At five summers old, he ran with the mares, lately uncertain of his position, neither colt nor yet quite grown. His flanks had not born the tell tale flecks of grey at his birth, and it was said that he was a throwback to the days when Felaróf himself was seen on the plains and had taken a black mare as his favourite.