To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion Read Online Free PDF Page A

rotting meat and urine-soaked straw choked this route to the armory, for it was flanked by Nineveh’s zoo. Past the high walls he caught glimpses of the strangest animals: bulging-eyed birds standing twice as tall as him, white-faced monkeys reaching toward him with their almost human fingers, creatures with black twisted horns or curving yellow fangs. The strange howls and grunts made the back of his neck tingle. But there was one sound he dreaded more than any other, and he shuddered each time he heard it: the unmistakable thunder of a lion. Once, he saw a thick-maned lion being hauled forth in a paneled wooden crate so small that the creature had to crouch. It took four strong men leaning into ropes to drag the snarling lion away. Soulai wondered about the animal’s fate.
    The instant the chestnut was delivered to the armory, Soulai raced back to the stable. Mousidnou was in full swing, barking out more orders. As fast as he could, Soulai tacked up another horse and returned to the armory. By the time Shamash blazed high in the sky, Soulai was still bridling and unbridling and leading sweat-soaked, blowing horses to the watering trough.
    The order for Ti to be readied came late in the day, and, as Soulai bent over to fasten the girth, the muscles in his back clenched with pain. To make matters worse, Ti bit him. Soulai jumped aside with a cry. Rubbing the welt, he looked tearfully at the gold-and-silver stallion. It was the insult, more than the injury, that hurt. He’d placed all his hopes in the horse, done everything he could to befriend him. But after three weeks, what was the use?
    That night, curled on his mat, Soulai counted in small groans the bruises and cuts that another day’s labors had branded into him. As usual, his thoughts wandered to Ti. He shut them off. The horse’s indifference cut him more painfully than did any of his visible injuries.
    Reaching for a happier time, he tried to recall the different horses he had sculpted from clay. But he couldn’t picture any of them. He opened his eyes to the darkness and touched the tips of his fingers together. There had been a creative fire there once, he was sure of it. He had been able to pick up a lump of clay and create life from it. Now there was nothing.
    When the next day dawned, Soulai climbed to his feet more lifeless than ever. He plodded through the routine, fell onto his mat at night, and began the next day in the same way. And then the one after that and the one after that. The days of his slavery became linked in an endless chain of dust and sun and sweat.
    Until one hot morning in the month of Ab. He had completed the graining and, as usual, was lingering beside Ti. He never heard them coming; he saw Ti jerk his head up in alarm and in the next instant found himself backed against the trough. Two mastiffs, one liver-colored, one silver, were suddenly probing Soulai’s body with their dripping noses. Ti shook his head in annoyance, then returned to eating. Soulai shrank back and held his breath.
    â€œYou!” An unfamiliar voice pulled his attention away from the dogs. Still clutching onto the stone trough, he looked up to see a smooth-skinned boy about his own age draped in a long, richly embroidered blue-and-white tunic. The boy pointed a finger at him. “Set a rug on this horse here and another on one for yourself.” When he turned to speak to two men carrying bows, the mastiffs abandoned Soulai to romp in the aisle.
    Soulai exhaled. He shook his head to clear the dizziness. Ready two horses? It was too early for training at the armory and, well, he was supposed to ride? He’d have to speak up. “The horses,” he began, “they haven’t had their hay. And they need water.”
    The boy spun, the silky fringe on his tunic swirling about his ankles. He appeared to grow taller at will. “Who are you to speak thus to me?”
    A small alarm sounded in Soulai’s head.
    â€œAnswer