Free The Black Stallion and the Lost City by Steve Farley Page B

charge at the invader to his realm. The Black stepped forward to meet him, his fury mounting as he rose up on his hind legs, lashing the air with his hooves, then bringing them crashing to the ground. The lead shank dangling from his halter whipped snakelike around his head.
    The two horses faced off for a brief moment, and the mountain air rang with their war cries. Then the young gray bravely reared and lunged at the larger, older stallion, his teeth seeking the Black’s neck. But the gray was not quick enough, and one of the Black’s forehooves caught him squarely in the shoulder. The blow staggered the young stallion. Moving steadily closer, the giant black horse took the offensive and rose up again, his ears pinned, his mane waving about his fine, small head like a black flag.
    There were more squeals and the sounds of hooves battering flesh. Overpowering his attacker with cunning and experience, the black stallion landed blow after blow. And then the fight was decided, over almost as quickly as it started. The gray cried out in defeat and wheeled to get away. The Black chased him, but his intention was not to kill but only to frighten.To kill one so young and inexperienced would prove nothing.
    The gray scampered off across the pasture on the far side of the pool, calling for the mares to follow him as he fled. Frightened by the battle, the band had scattered but now regrouped to follow after their defeated leader. All but one.
    The black stallion watched the mares run off and knew he could have taken them, but he let them go. He turned his attention to the one who remained. The one who had so captivated his imagination since he first saw her. The whitest of the white would now reckon with the blackest of the black. Surely she would accept him, even praise him in his triumph.
    The mare stood in the streambed watching him approach, still unafraid, her ruby-tinted eyes holding him in their powerful gaze. Never had the stallion beheld such a horse. She was beautiful but somehow repulsive at the same time, unimaginably different from the rest of his kind. Almost imperceptible in the scent around her was something frightening, something that spoke of wolf or some other predator.
    The Black slowed to stop and then stepped forward to meet her. She whinnied and tossed her head, as if to welcome him. Then, like a great white bird that had been driven from its perch, the mare spun around and bounded away. For a moment it looked as if shemight turn back, but then she kept going. The stallion broke after her, but his hesitation had cost him. It would have been easy to catch her in the open, but the stallion knew that once she reached the trees, it would be different. This was her turf, not his. There among the unknown trails of this strange mountain forest, he would be at a disadvantage.
    The mare reached the trees and slipped into the shadows. The Black raced in behind her. He had to slow almost to a stop to let his eyes adjust to the dark forest again. Even as he waited, the sound of the mare’s hooves ahead told him where to go. Soon he was plunging through the mottled tunnel as fast as he dared.
    He broke into a clearing again and searched for some sign of the mare. It was as if she had vanished completely. He frantically scented the wind for some hint as to where she had gone. Her scent was there, but his nostrils caught fresh smells, too, and his pricked ears could hear the sounds of voices, the sounds of people. The wind filled his nostrils again, and then, very clearly, he scented one person in particular, his partner, the boy who was his friend. With a fierce snort, he wheeled around to follow the trail upwind.

Acropolis
    It was the sound of his horse’s cry that brought Alec Ramsay back to consciousness. He lay on the muddy ground, trying to remember where he was and how he got there. Then came the whistle again, loud and clear, a sound unlike any other—the war cry of a stallion. It was the Black. Pulling himself to