To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion by Diane Lee Wilson Read Free Book Online

cloth. He began to remember the slave woman who had treated him. She had tended him with few words, for she spoke a language he didn’t understand. The woman had splashed his raw wounds with water, then wrapped them in cotton bandages. It was she who had held a ladle of dark syrup to his lips, a liquid that barely disguised its bitter root. After that he remembered nothing.
    As Soulai shook off the drugged stupor, bloody images began to emerge from his mind. He remembered Habasle and the hunt—if you could call it that. He remembered the lion. And Ti. Soulai bolted upright. He had to get to the stable.
    Clenching his teeth so hard that the ache in his jaws battled the throbbing in his head, Soulai climbed to his feet and managed to hobble to the door before crying out. He didn’t dare sit down, for he knew he wouldn’t get up. Nausea prickled his insides, yet he leaned into the door and pushed it open. He stumbled through it and over to a low wall. One hand gripped the warm bricks, the other hovered protectively over his bandaged thigh. Vaguely aware that people stared, he continued weaving his way toward the stable.
    By the time he reached it, Soulai was drenched in sweat. One glance told him it was the afternoon feeding. As he turned down the aisle stabling his ten horses, he discovered Mousidnou. The man’s usual scowl had been replaced with a somber expression that bordered on sadness. He was holding a knife in one hand and a ragged piece of golden hide in the other. Soulai panicked. His eyes darted over the rumps, counting, searching. A blessed relief washed over him as he found the silvery hindquarters. Ti was alive.
    The sweat cooled, chilling him, as he hobbled toward the stable master.
    â€œAll day and that damned asu still hasn’t shown himself,” Mousidnou muttered to no one in particular. He lifted the limp skin and made a face. “Seems like the thing to do—it’s no use now.” Looking up and down the aisle, past the labors of his stableboys, Mousidnou suddenly seemed to realize Soulai’s presence. With a brusque nod toward the bandaged leg, he asked, “How is it?”
    But Soulai was intent on reaching Ti. Ignoring his own pain, he slipped in beside the stallion, tugged on the tether, and lowered his face to the drooping head. No response, not even a nip. He cradled the white jowl in his hand, shuddered at its lifeless cold. The gold eye and the blue eye, each half-lidded, stared dully. The wide nostrils fluttered with rapid, shallow breaths.
    â€œHabasle’s been here,” Mousidnou said louder.
    â€œHe’s a cur,” Soulai spat.
    The stable master’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s your owner, boy. Watch he doesn’t bite.” He wiped the bloody blade of the knife on his tunic and resheathed it.
    â€œHabasle was near pissed as you when I told him the asu hadn’t come—stomped off to find the man himself. Said he’d bring an ashipu as well, though I don’t know that he’ll see to an animal.”
    Soulai ducked beneath Ti’s neck. He cringed at the raw flesh bubbling a yellow ooze. Flies waded through the stuff and he waved them away, but they returned in force to settle into the hairless folds and crevices. Seeing the strands of mane stuck to the pink flesh, he gently tried to pull them out. Ti grunted weakly, then let out a long breath and dropped his head lower.
    Soulai gasped. “Can’t you do something?” he begged Mousidnou.
    â€œHuh,” the stable master snorted. “I’ve been to the battle more than a few times. Killed my share of men and cleaned up my share of horses.” He glanced at the flap of skin still dangling from his fist. “But when the demons come for what’s theirs…” He shook his head. “I don’t meddle with Nergal’s underworld.”
    Voices sounded from down the aisle and the two looked up to see Habasle and a smallish, bald man