To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (12 page)

A Sharqi

Yellow flames leaped up to lick the meat strips dangling from the green branch spit. Fat bubbled and dripped, causing the fire to flatten, then hiss and spring twice as high. The carcasses of the two boars lay humped where they had fallen. Their flanks had been hacked open to the bone, attracting masses of black flies.

Habasle tended to the spit; Soulai sat at his side. It was Soulai who rocked back and forth now, for his entire arm throbbed with the pain of his gashed hand. He had wrapped it tightly in a rag torn from the hem of his tunic and he'd tried to cradle it close to his stomach, which ached as well—from the huge amount of food he had devoured. But in a bizarre way, Soulai felt better than he had in days.

Ti was hobbled on the edge of the clearing, away from the smoke. He stood slack-hipped, dozing. Soulai wanted to know what had happened, why Ti had been accused of running away, but Habasle just sat staring into the fire as he had since they'd finished eating. He didn't even turn his head when the smoke drifted into his face. Trying to forget his pain, Soulai focused his hearing on the river birds' cries of coming twilight, on the occasional splash and ensuing ripple against the shore, on the fire's vibrant crackle.

Dusk had started to close in when Habasle lifted his reddened eyes and spoke.

“I've been thinking on it all day…and I still don't understand,” he said in a cracked voice. “It's one death. I've watched countless dogs go down in the hunt. Why am I crying over this one?”

Soulai didn't know how to answer, wasn't sure if he even needed to. Habasle seemed to be talking to himself as much as anyone.

“When Annakum was born,” he continued quietly, “the keeper of the hounds told me he was a runt, that he was too weak to live, and he threw him out under the sun. I happened across him later—blind, whimpering—but”—he shrugged—“with this dumb courage he was dragging his body, one step at a time, to—I don't know—someplace, someplace other than an empty death.” He heaved a sigh. “I knew that day that he had something to prove and that he had the strength to do it, so I set about giving him more. There was a tame lioness in the zoo and I suckled him on her teats. And he grew bigger and fatter and stronger than any of his brothers.” His shoulders shook as he fought to control the sobs. “But he's just a dog. There's a hundred more back at the kennel. So why am I crying?” His pleading look begged a response from Soulai.

“Because he saved you,” Soulai offered tentatively. It didn't matter if the mastiff had been mad or sick or whatever. Soulai had been there; he'd witnessed the animal's bravery. “He gave his life for yours,” he added. “So he wouldn't die an empty death.” Such talk made him uncomfortable and he cast his eyes to the ground.

He waited for Habasle's scornful laughter, but when there was only silence, he cautiously lifted his eyes. His glance was met by a somber face. “I think you're right,” Habasle said. “And I think, maybe, I'll be joining him soon. Maybe we'll hunt together in the underworld.”

The weak smile couldn't water down the horror of his words. Soulai's eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

Habasle shrugged again and sighed. He dropped his hands to his lap, then raised them and began counting on his fingers. “The ashipu is trying to kill me.” He folded his thumb. “There is a hole in my side that worms use for their comings and goings.” He folded his index finger. “An uridimmu may still be tracking me.” He looked at Soulai. “I guess it's possible that the uridimmu may have taken Annakum's form, but that doesn't mean it's dead. The amulet still lies in my pouch.”

“Then let's throw it in the river,” Soulai exclaimed. “Let's be rid of it.”

Habasle shook his head. “It will have other uses.” He folded his middle finger. “My horse, the gift of the god Ninurta, has failed me.” Another finger went down. “And you,” he looked directly at Soulai, “I imagine you would not hesitate to lift a knife to my back, would you?” Holding Soulai's stunned gaze, he bent his little finger.

“Now,” he stated in a tired yet matter-of-fact manner, “we'll stay with Annakum for three days until his spirit has found its way to the underworld. Elul is almost over, but Tisri is still a good month to begin a battle, so I'll return to Dur Sharrukin and plan my fate. Annakum shall not be alone in his honor.”

Habasle set to work on his dagger then, rubbing the blade in slow circles in the gritty earth and periodically wiping it clean on his tunic. He continued the silent, ritual polishing for three days. The few times he stopped were to direct Soulai to wrap the cooked meat in palm leaves and pack as much of it as possible in his two pouches, though he himself refused to eat. When Habasle was tired, he lay with his head on a folded arm, eyes open, staring into the fire. Whether Habasle slept, Soulai couldn't say, for each morning when Soulai awakened, Habasle was already sitting up, polishing his knife.

The three carcasses rotted quickly in the jungle's heat. The stench was noxious at first, but by the third day, when a worm dropped out of Annakum's nose, Soulai hardly noticed it. Habasle stared at the wriggling white creature for a moment; he seemed to be settling something in his mind. Then he stood. “Let's go,” he said quietly.

Their trek out of the jungle seemed to go faster than their journey into it, and by midafternoon they were plodding up the grassy rise toward Dur Sharrukin. The sky, which usually shone a brilliant blue, burned deadly white. The heads of the grasses bowed before a hot wind that rushed out of the south. Habasle was hunched atop Ti, and Soulai walked in the lee shelter of Ti's left haunch. Halfway up the hill, a sudden whirlwind stung Soulai with sand and bits of rock, nearly knocking him off his feet. In the next breath the plain fell eerily silent. Soulai glanced up, hoping to see Dur Sharrukin's walls, but another strong gust blinded him. More dust and sand and bits of leaves pelted him until the air itself became something palpable, a swirling gray curtain that closed around them. Soulai feared that they were traveling in circles. The veiled sun blazed orange briefly, then was snuffed from sight. The sky darkened and the dust-filled air glowed a coppery hue. It shifted and swirled about them until Soulai lost sense of land or sky, day or night.

Habasle finally pulled Ti to a halt and slid from his back. “It's no use,” he shouted against the whistling gale. “It's a sharqi, a black wind. We'll have to wait it out.” He jerked his thumb at Ti, who curved his head around as if listening to the plan. “Make him lie down.”

Soulai hesitated, reluctant to make Ti serve as a windbreak, but Habasle had already begun yanking on the bit and shouting at the stallion, who braced his neck in confusion. So Soulai worked his way around, against the wind, bent over, and lifted Ti's right foreleg. As he had learned in the palace stable, he tucked it high, close to the shoulder. Then he reached over the withers and, clumsily tightening the rein with his bandaged hand, began pulling the horse's nose around. Giving in to the pressure, Ti stretched his muzzle closer and closer to his left flank until he became so unbalanced on three legs that he collapsed onto the ground with a grunting thud.

“Get out of my way,” Habasle said as he yanked his robe from Ti's back. He wrapped it around his head and shoulders and took shelter beside Ti's belly. “At least he's good for something,” he muttered.

As Soulai settled himself beside Ti's neck he glared at Habasle. He coaxed the horse's head around, tucked the reins under his elbow, and caressed the dust-covered forehead apologetically. Ti nickered softly.

After a while, Habasle curled onto his side, his back to Ti. Though blowing sand stung Soulai's neck and ears, he remained upright, cradling the massive head in his lap. The wind's relentless onslaught, its monotonous wail, finally numbed him into a drowsy half-sleep.

It was the silence that awakened him. That and a clamping chill. When Soulai opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that Ti no longer rested his head in his lap, but instead stared expectantly into the twilight. Soulai's heart thudded. What was out there? Rubbing the grit from his eyes, he scanned the horizon. To his surprise, Dur Sharrukin's walls loomed no farther than the flight of two arrows. They had been so close.

Ti abruptly lunged to his feet and shook, though his brilliant gold-and-white markings remained covered with dust. Jostled awake, Habasle rolled onto his knees. A film of dirt coated his face as well, and he opened and closed his mouth as if tasting something awful.

“Look,” Soulai said, pointing to Dur Sharrukin.

Habasle barely glanced up, then struggled to his feet and moved around Ti. “The ashipu is gaining power,” he mumbled. He slapped at Ti's shoulder, brushing away the dirt that concealed the hawklike marking. “Even over Ninurta!”

“Let's get inside Dur Sharrukin,” Soulai said. But Habasle was watching the huge moon, partially concealed by silver-yellow clouds, rise from the horizon.

“When the rising moon is half-hidden by clouds,” he recited, “so that only the lower half is visible, Assyria will be invaded by an enemy. And there will be great mourning for a prince.” He leaned against Ti, his jaw tense. His hand found its way to his side and he slumped a little. “I don't feel right,” he murmured. “I think maybe the worm has returned…or the ashipu's curse…Annakum's sickness. I feel the drool building in my throat.” He opened and closed his mouth several more times.

When he looked at Soulai, the fever once again showed itself in his eyes. And this time a look of desperation accompanied it. “I can't do this alone,” he said. “You have to ride for help.”

Soulai was stunned. “Me?”

For a moment Habasle seemed to want to take back his words, but then he slowly nodded. “Yes. It's your duty.”

But in the black eyes Soulai detected an anxiousness that lay behind the command. This boy who was his master was even more ill than he let on, and he knew in that instant that they both sensed the balance of power tipping.

“There's enough moonlight,” Habasle said, mustering his composure. “Take the horse and ride back to Nineveh. I'm commanding you,” he reminded Soulai. “Find Naboushoumidin, the royal scribe. He can consult his tablets. There must be some help for me.”

Up along Dur Sharrukin's walls, the jackals howled, sending a tickle of fear through Soulai. He suddenly wanted no part of his new role. “I don't know the way,” he protested. “And…and how can
I
enter the palace, alone and at night?”

Habasle tugged the hammered silver bracelet from his wrist and extended it to Soulai. With resignation in his voice, he said, “Take it.” Then he pulled the robe from his shoulders. “Put this on, too.”

Soulai took the items but stood dumbly.

“Others have said we resemble one another.” Habasle's words came clipped and matter-of-fact as he removed his personal cylinder seal, which was elegantly carved from blue chalcedony. He tentatively offered it to Soulai, changed his mind, and pulled it back. For a long time he studied the necklace. Finally he heaved a long sigh and extended his arm again. “My identity,” he said, looking directly into Soulai's face. “And with it, my life.”

Soulai hesitated. Slowly he removed the tag that marked him a slave and exchanged it for the cylinder seal. With his heart pounding in his ears, he placed the new necklace over his head. A vigorous sense of power surged within him and he couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face, though he tried to squelch it when he read the uneasy look on Habasle's.

“Don't crow yet. The ashipu is not my only enemy.”

“Do you really think I can get to Naboushoumidin?” The idea of galloping Ti for help so enthralled Soulai that he ignored Habasle's warning. He fitted the silver bracelet onto his right forearm, just as Habasle wore it, then slipped into the warm robe, luxuriously soft and weighty. “I might be able to get inside the city, but the palace guards will look closer.”

“Hmm.” Habasle frowned. He counted on his fingers. “Tomorrow is the first of the week. In the afternoon Naboushoumidin tells his stories beneath the lamassu of the palace's west gate. There will be a great crowd. Make your way to the front and tell him—and only him—of my condition, and command his help.”

Soulai looked down the grassy slope at the black ribbon of trees that hid the river—the river where he'd almost drowned. His excitement vanished. “Why don't we ride back to Nineveh together?” he proposed suddenly. “Ti can carry both of us. Or you can ride and I'll walk.”

Habasle shook his head. “I fear I won't be riding for a long time…if ever again. The ashipu's power is stronger than I thought, though I do possess something that he badly needs.” He patted the smaller pouch.

“What will you do?”

“I'll crawl inside Dur Sharrukin—a little worm myself—and wait. I have my dagger to fight off the vultures…or anyone who turns on me.” His hollow grin couldn't hide his worry. Soulai started to turn away, but Habasle had one more order. “Whatever happens,” he said solemnly, “don't let the ashipu get his hands on this horse.”

Soulai shook his head. No one would steal the stallion from him. “Are you sure you don't want to ride Ti at least up to Dur Sharrukin's gates?”

“I'm dying as we speak,” Habasle said heavily as he lowered himself to the ground. “Don't argue the details.” With an all-out effort he waved his arms in the air. “Go on! Ride!”

Excitement poured through his veins as Soulai turned and gathered the reins on Ti's withers. Unable to use his injured hand to support a leap, he jumped high enough to get himself across the horse's back, then pulled his leg over. The stallion sprang forward, making Soulai gasp and snatch the reins tighter. What if I can't stay on? he worried suddenly. What if he throws me out there in the middle of nowhere? Adjusting the reins and settling his seat seemed to calm Ti. Still, the stallion pranced in place with such awesome power that Soulai was at a loss for words. How could Habasle think this most magnificent of horses had failed him?