As I led the mare up the dirt path to my big wooden hut, I saw my little brothers and sisters playing in the garden. My oldest sister, Mon, was pulling weeds and watching my littlest siblings play. My two older brothers, Tylan and Yale, were chopping up the ground further down for the cabbages, and my mother, Maya, was standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron and watching her children with a smile.
She had raised us mostly by herself—only me and Mon and Tylan and Yale remembered our father, Oranus. We were foreigners from the warrior citadel of Thraynor, far across the sea. My father and mother had been snatched from the borders of our beautiful city by enemy spies and taken back to this filthy place of lies and evil. My father had been the best warrior in Thraynor and had lost none of his skills in the torturous journey from his native land to this place. So he had quickly dominated the brutal gladiator matches that male slaves were forced into, rising as the glorified champion. He had spat upon this title and hated to be a source of pleasure to the scrabbling crowds. The king had tried to force him into being his personal bodyguard with wiles and pieces of gold. Instead, my father broke his neck.
Now his body lay deep in the king’s enemy lake, full of the feathered arrows of the King’s archers.
My mother turned her head, and saw me.
“Shimiya!” My name burst from her lips as she stared at me. “What—where did you get that horse?”
My sister stood up, and my brothers came closer, dropping their tools and gawking. I gave an inward groan. This would be hard.
“Ye Gods, Shimiya,” Tylan said. “What have you done?”
“I…I was watching a temple worship,” I said slowly. “They were going to sacrifice her, Mother. I had to rescue her.”
My sister came forward to stand beside Tylan and placed her hands on her hips. “And what was your method of saving her?”
I watched the horse. She appeared to be calming down and whuffled softly. I wished that she could explain things for me.
“I jumped down from the balcony, got on her back and rode her out,” I said as quickly and casually as I could.
“Oh, Shimiya,” my mother moaned. “You stole a sacrifice to a god?”
“I didn’t steal her because she didn’t belong to them!” I said furiously. “They had stolen her from the wild, had ripped her from her home. I rescued her.”
“Shim, you’re not very smart,” Yale said methodically.
“More like insane, little sister,” Tylan said.
“All right, Shim,” my mother said, sighing. “Go put her in the stables. Then come inside, and we’ll talk about it.”
**********
Later, when the mare was safely resting in a stall, I was sitting on one of the wooden chairs inside the house, explaining every detail.
My mother sat beside me, watching the fire crackle on the hearthstones. Yale and Tylan leaned against the wall trying to look like my father would. They weren’t succeeding very well. I knew that my father would be laughing if he were here. I shut off the memories of my beloved father with a click and finished the story.
Finally my mother spoke.
“Shimiya, you heedless girl,” she said, “you shouldn’t have endangered yourself like that. You endangered all of us. The guards could’ve followed you all the way here and we could’ve been imprisoned. We could have been cut into pieces or skinned.”
Tylan and Yale’s jaws tightened. My mother raised her head and stared at me with her hollow, dark gaze. “How could you do such a thing to us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It happened so fast. I forgot about everything but the horse. I had no intention of selfishness towards you. I’m sorry.”
Firelight flickered on my mother’s face, highlighting the sharp bones of her face and the deep shadows under her eyes.
“If you were to choose between your family’s safety and the skinning of that white horse, which would you choose, Shim?” she asked.
My stomach twisted as I replied, “I would choose you. I love her already, but no amount of her suffering would cause me to betray any one of you. I would not dishonor my father with such a choice. But Mother, please let me keep her. We’re all safe.”
A faint smile crossed my mother’s face, and relief washed across me.
“You can’t very well return the horse, I suppose,” Tylan said.
I smiled. “Ha…I don’t think so.”
“Shim,” my mother sighed, “we don’t have the money to keep a horse. She’d eat up what little money we have.”
“But, Mother,” I said, leaning forward, “it’s spring. Grass is everywhere. She doesn’t need anything but grass and water. We don’t have to spend a coin on her. And I’d ride her; I’d keep her company—”
“I know you would,” Mother interrupted. “I’m not worried about that. But Shim, what about in the fall and winter? All the grass would be dead and there’d be nothing for her to eat. Then we’d have to buy hay, and that’s four coppers a bale. Grain is ten coppers a barrel. We can’t spare that money.”
“Mother, I could earn the money myself,” I said desperately. “I could work in for a vendor, or in a bar—”
“No,” Mother said coldly. “I can’t really see myself letting my daughter work in a bar.”
“Then Farmer Mannos, over in the valley. He’d pay me a few coppers for a good day’s work. Mother, I love her already. I could earn the money to keep her; you wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Please, Mother, let me keep her.”
Mother sighed, hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Keep your horse. But never endanger us like that again.”
And in my heart, I knew that I wouldn’t.

My mare, Wingfoot, and I became the best of friends. I would ride her through the woods, over the plains, and back again, with only a halter and a blanket, or bareback. Sometimes I would let my brothers and sisters ride her, but she responded best to me. I wonder if she knew that I had saved her life. I was daring and unconquerable when I was with Wingfoot. And she loved me too; she would whinny late at night and not stop until I had reassured her of my presence. She would dance in circles when she saw me coming and sleep with her bony head across my shoulder.
And then early one morning I went out to the stable, the dewy grass brushing across my feet. I slid back the bolt on the stable door and entered.
My horse was gone.
An arm strong as steel encircled my neck. I inhaled the scent of leather and sweat as I felt the cold point of a knife prick my neck.
“So this is the little horsethief,” a husky voice whispered in my ear. “The High Priest requests an audience with you.”
My stomach jolted in fear and I twisted my shoulders around to stare into the dark face of my captor. Deep, watchful eyes stared back into my own from the depths of a hard Southern face. He was one of the prized Scorpions, the elite legions of Southern kings. They were captured like game from the shifting sands of that hot land to serve as bounty hunters. Unable to return across the sea to their sunstruck, sandy home, they served the barbarian kings of this northern darkness until their death.
His grip on my shoulder suddenly tightened when he saw me. “A child?” he hissed. “It’s a girl I’m to take to die?”
“Where’s my horse?” I whispered. He didn’t answer, and his wary eyes darted toward the house. Suddenly the terror of my situation struck me and I drew in breath to scream.
Quicker than a striking serpent, he slammed his fist into my stomach. I collapsed, my mouth opening and closing as I fought to draw in air. My lungs felt like they had collapsed. I was completely unable to scream.
He knelt down to my level and twisted his hand into my hair, dragging my face toward his. His long, dark hair brushed my cheekbones as he hissed, “Keep your worthy mouth closed, my lady.”
I struggled to stand. He lifted me up against his chest and stood up. I was powerless to fight, but my terror grew as he strode around behind the barn. Then I saw Wingfoot—she was tied to a tree, snorting in the cold morning air. It was to her that my captor carried me. I put up a feeble struggle when he pulled a piece of rope from his cloak, but his arms clenched me tighter against his chest, making my bruised stomach ache.
He lifted me up onto the horse and got up in front of me, twisting around to tie my hands with the coarse rope. Then he pulled my arms around his waist and tied the rope in a double knot, securing my arms around him. I struggled to pull back and he suddenly shifted forward, bringing me against him again and slamming my head against his back. My teeth clacked together hard.
Unused to the burden of two riders, Wingfoot danced and snorted as he gathered her halter rope into his hands. I knew I had no chance of escape. The harsh rope bit into my wrists.
He kicked Wingfoot roughly and she bolted. He jerked her head to the right and she ran towards the city.
My eyes slid closed as I tried to comprehend my fate. The rough threads of his cloak grated against my cheek.
Everybody at home would think that I had gone riding. They wouldn’t be worried for hours upon end.
Would the Priest use me as the sacrifice instead?
**********
Wingfoot started to shy when we neared the gateway. I opened my eyes and my stomach turned as I gazed upon the bodies hanging from the top of the gate. My captor kicked her hard and urged her through the gate. Dread grew in my heart as we rode to the temple, and inside it.
The priest stood at the altar. A smile curved across his dark face when he saw me, and he ran his fingers down the blade of the knife.
The doors boomed shut behind us. Silence fell. My heart pounded. This must be an evil dream. I could not believe I was about to die.
My captor cut the rope and slid off the horse. Bruised and aching from the rough ride, I fell forward on her neck. His hands were almost gentle as he pulled me off and set my shaking feet on the ground.
Wingfoot pulled back on her halter and gave a deep, confused nicker. She remembered this place.
The Ranger jerked hard on the rope and, reluctantly, she followed us down to the altar.
“Your time has come. Hien Gala’s anger toward you is to be fulfilled,” the priest said, his voice echoing in the temple. “My people’s curses on you will carry you through to the deep underworld where your soul will be in torment for eternity. Never again will you dare to steal one of our sacred sacrifices.”
No. I knew where my soul was going and I did not believe his blathering. But I stared at his twisted, evil face with fear, feeling the hundreds of worshipers’ eyes on me.
“Bring her up, Ram Akota.”
Ram Akota. My captor.
So I would be killed as a sacrifice. What would happen to my family? Would they ever find out who had killed me?
At least I had Wingfoot with me. I would die with her. But this did little to staunch my fear.
The rabble of worshipers pushed forward as Ram Akota pushed me down the aisle. They clawed and spat upon me as my weary legs forced a way through. They shrieked curses upon my soul and tore at my hair. Never had I been so terrified.
Ram Akota kicked savagely at them and trod hard on the hand of one who was crawling toward me. No good in spoiling the sacrifice before its time.
The priest pushed me down onto the altar. I lay there, watching the priest chant over his knife. Sudden tears pricked my eyes. I felt like a brown mouse dropped into the very pit of hell.

The priest’s eyes captured mine. He wore a deer’s head as a headdress, the eyes gutted out and the mouth twisted as if in agony. The priests of this type of worship underwent various rituals before they were accepted. Such as disemboweling live cats and children. Tears of fear started in my eyes. I had never felt such horror as I did now in the presence of such a man. I longed for help, for somebody to break in through the door brandishing a sword to rescue me. This must be an evil dream.
The priest raised his knife over my neck. I’m going to die.
A heavy boot tread sounded on the altar. A hand shot out and grabbed the priest’s wrist just as the knife was about to come down. What was this? Some devilry they had planned to trick me?
My eyes flicked to the side. It was Ram Akota. Time seemed to slow as he drew a blackened sword from a sheath at his side.
“You—traitor,” the priest hissed. “Release me!”
“She doesn’t deserve it,” Ram Akota said softly. “You do.”
He sank his sword deep into the belly of the priest. Choking and gagging, blood streaming from his mouth, the priest fell back in a whirl of his bloodstained robes. Ram Akota turned back and pulled me to my feet. “Go back to your family,” he said, his voice steady as he swept the heads off two shrieking worshippers who were coming toward us. “Run far from this place, my lady.”
I grabbed Wingfoot’s lead rope and swung up on her back. Two guards ran forward, but Ram Akota felled one with a hook kick and the other with a blow to the temple. But then the side doors opened, and dozens of temple guards poured in. My rescuer was going to die. The Southern Ranger who hadn’t forgotten the fierce pride and honor of his homeland.
“Go!” he shouted. His eyes met mine for one flaming moment. “Remember me.”
I nodded and clasped his hand for a phenomenal second and then I was halfway to the door. Wingfoot had never run so fast. The rabble shrieked and darted at me. She trampled them under her hooves and they fell back. The door guards scattered as she charged at them. I leapt down and wrenched the doors open.
I looked back one time before I rode away. Ram Akota was fighting the temple guards. I saw more coming.
I swung up onto Wingfoot’s back and rode out of the city as the one worthy man in it fell to the swords of his enemies.
**********
My family left the accursed place behind forever and journeyed to the West, far away from Nalarag. There we built a new life among the goatherders and mages of the untamed mountains. We were safe, after so long. My horse would never be in danger again.
But sometimes in the evening, when the sun was sinking and the chill night air was playing with Wingfoot’s mane, I would ride to a high cliff and look toward the lonely South. There with my faithful friend beside me, I would whisper my thanks to the Ranger.