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

bellies of the horses that rode over them. So while the battleground was cluttered with human remains, Soulai noted that scores of horses flailed there as well. His throat tightened as he saw the eyes bulging in pain, the mouths gaping midscream. One horse stumbled on three legs with a broken spear embedded in its chest. Soulai searched the panel for the rider, but could not find him. With a rapid heartbeat he remembered how Habasle had abandoned Ti the instant he was injured. Obviously it was the same in battle. The horse was just another tool, no better than an arrow or a spear, to be flung at the enemy and forgotten.
    â€œWhat do you wish to know? Only but ask. Only ask. What is it?”
    A brisk voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find an old man, woolly gray head bound in a silver-embroidered band, clasping his hands to his chest and smiling a toothy grin.
    â€œI am Naboushoumidin,” the man said, “chief scribe to King Ashurbanipal and keeper of the royal tablets. I will search for your answer if you will only tell me the question. Any question.” He twisted his hands in fidgety enthusiasm as he smiled. Soulai guessed by the man’s flat nose and ample lips that he, too, came from somewhere else, and he was sorry to dampen the enthusiasm in the striking blue eyes. “I was brought here,” he said, “Habasle sent for me.” The scribe’s smile disappeared. “Habasle is here again? Not with his dogs!” The fringe of his yellow robe swirled about his ankles as he pivoted and plunged into the shadows of the arching entry. “No, no, no, no, no.” Soulai heard him chattering over and over like an angry ground squirrel. “He’s not to bring those slobbering beasts into my library.”
    Rather than continuing to wait, Soulai ducked his head beneath the stony glares of the lamassu and followed. Inside it was one narrow room after another. The flickering oil lamps revealed thousands of clay tablets spilling from every corner. Some were as small as his palm, others as broad as a soldier’s shield. Two of the larger rooms contained ornately carved tablets at which young scribes sat, surrounded by hills of still more tablets. Soulai saw that they patiently copied the wedge-shaped marks of the baked tablets onto the moist clay of others. His fingers tingled at the sight, but he hurried after Naboushoumidin. Close on the man’s heels, Soulai traveled the maze until they came to a small, unlit room. The rumbling growl of a large dog halted his steps.
    The old scribe extended a protective arm across Soulai and they stood motionless until their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually Soulai made out Habasle crouched in the corner, one hand on the collar of a drooling mastiff.
    Naboushoumidin cleared his throat. “We’ve been through this,” he began somewhat hesitantly. “You know I cannot—I simply will not—tolerate beasts in my library. These tablets are much too rare. What if one broke? The loss: unimaginable, irreparable, irretrievable! Your father has gone to great lengths to—” He screwed up his face and thrust out a hand. “Give me the dog.”
    Soulai watched in astonishment as Habasle climbed to his feet and marched the huge animal, hair abristle on its neck and still growling, straight toward the old man. He feared the worst, but Naboushoumidin didn’t flinch, just resolutely wrapped his finger around the studded collar, backed out of the room, and, with his arm stiffly extended, said, “I will return him to the keeper of the hounds.”
    â€œYou will hold him for me at the library’s entrance,” Habasle ordered.
    â€œAs you wish,” the scribe murmured without pause.
    Habasle snickered as the awkward pair moved away, each equally suspicious of the other. “Naboushoumidin won’t dare to breathe for fear Annakum will devour him.”
    Soulai looked at this boy whom he hated.