The Black Stallion and the Lost City

THE BLACK STALLION SERIES

By Walter Farley

The Black Stallion

The Black Stallion Returns

Son of the Black Stallion

The Island Stallion

The Black Stallion and Satan

The Black Stallion’s Blood Bay Colt

The Island Stallion’s Fury

The Black Stallion’s Filly

The Black Stallion Revolts

The Black Stallion’s Sulky Colt

The Island Stallion Races

The Black Stallion’s Courage

The Black Stallion Mystery

The Horse-Tamer

The Black Stallion and Flame

Man o’ War

The Black Stallion Challenged!

The Black Stallion’s Ghost

The Black Stallion and the Girl

The Black Stallion Legend

By Walter Farley and Steven Farley

The Young Black Stallion

By Steven Farley

The Black Stallion’s Shadow

The Black Stallion’s Steeplechaser

The Black Stallion and the Shape-shifter

To my family
and my animals

Hollywood had come
to the Balkans. Fresh off his latest sensational blockbuster, acclaimed director Stiv Bateman had set his sights on ancient Greece, Thrace and the story of the young king Alexander the Great. It was an extravagant picture with an extravagant budget, a cast of thousands and big-name stars. It also included the participation of Alec Ramsay—who many horse-racing fans considered to be a real-life young Alexander—and his horse, a real-life Bucephalus, a stallion known only as the Black.

Anyone who followed horse racing had heard about the mysterious Black, a horse as notorious for his personal history as for winning races. The Black’s hatred of the whip was legendary in track lore. Rumors hinted the midnight-black stallion had even killed his previous owner, an Arabian tribal sheik, in revenge for mistreating him with a whip. And, as was fabled of the legendary Greek king Alexander and his black stallion
Bucephalus, it was said that no one but Alec Ramsay could ride the Black.

From his hilltop vantage point, Alec looked out over a wide valley crowded with horses, men and machines. They were high in the Rhodope Mountains of Bulgaria in a location that had been chosen just for this scene. It was in a seldom-visited part of Thrace, almost a day’s drive from the production headquarters in the city of Xanthi, across the border in Greece. Before them, a thousand actors were taking their places on a prepared battlefield. The small army that was the film crew hung back along the sidelines among towers of lights and camera cranes.

Alec kept an eye on the Black, who nibbled at some grass as they waited together outside the wardrobe and makeup trailers. The stallion was carefully groomed and tacked up in a specially designed saddle, bridle and light armor. Flashes of sunlight danced off a polished copper breastplate lying against his coal-black chest. His ebony mane fringed the contours of his fine head and long, powerful neck, and his silky tail rose and fell behind him like the crest of a black wave.

Alec tried to hold the stallion steady as Leigh, a production assistant from the film’s wardrobe department, crouched beside Alec’s leg. She fiddled with the hem of his costume, a plain toga of fine linen.

“Keep still, please,” she said through a mouthful of safety pins.

Alec did his best not to move, then closed his eyes as Harv, the makeup guy, dusted his face with powder. Through the lead line, he could feel the Black move his head beside him.

“Guess this has been pretty crazy for you,” Harv said.

Alec popped open his eyes and blinked. “I’m not used to it,” he said, “but it’s been fun, really exciting. Who wouldn’t want to be part of something like this?”

That was certainly true enough, Alec thought. How often do you get a chance to be in the movies? Even his parents and Henry Dailey had thought it was a great idea. “Take the money and run.” Wasn’t that what everyone had said he should do? It still amazed Alec that the film’s publicity people had asked him to stand in as Alexander in a few scenes and had been willing to spend so much money to make it happen. Just for starters, his airfare over here with the Black must have cost thousands of dollars. Certainly it was the Black they really wanted, more than Alec himself. Few horses in the world could project his strength and beauty. It made Alec proud to think other people recognized this fact too.

Harv chuckled and gave Alec another swipe with the powder brush. Alec closed his eyes again and took
a deep breath. No matter how well he and the Black were being treated, somehow he still couldn’t help but ask himself what he was doing there—though it was a little late to be wondering about that now. He knew before he took this job that it wouldn’t be as simple as everyone made it out to be.

Sure, he thought, everyone was nice, and the food and accommodations were first-rate, but all the waiting around was driving him crazy. As the producer had promised, Alec didn’t really have to do much acting; he just had to show up for some riding scenes and a few stand-in shots like this one. So far, all Alec and the Black had done was some close-up work with the Black and an interview with Alec for a supplemental behind-the-scenes feature.

This time Alec and the Black were doubling for Alexander and Bucephalus in a shot that would lead up to one of the battle scenes. Bateman said he wanted a look that only the Black could give him.

A young woman carrying a clipboard walked toward them. “They want you on the set, Alec, whenever you’re ready.”

Harv handed Alec his bronze helmet and helped him get it centered and adjusted on his head and around his face.

Five minutes later, Alec and the Black were down on the set. Spread out before them were many, many
actors and extras costumed as ancient Greek soldiers and armed with shields and spears. Some were assembled into blocks of infantry so tightly grouped together that they functioned as a single weapon, like a human tank bristling with spears. Behind the porcupine-like phalanxes of warriors stood hundreds of horses and riders, everyone waiting for the fanfare that was the signal to begin.

Marshals in golf carts shuttled between the different groups of infantry and riders, doing crowd control. Muscle-bound actors with long hair roping out from under their helmets argued and laughed. Sour-faced old guys watched the clock. Photographers’ lights flashed as the actors and extras posed in the warrior outfits, everyone standing around, everyone passing time, waiting, waiting, waiting, everyone finding it almost impossible to stay busy. These were moments of patience for some, moments of nervousness for newcomers and a traffic jam of anticipation for everyone.

Alec’s attention gravitated to the horses. He marveled at how many breeds were represented here. There were Arabians with flowing manes and tails, compact Andalusians and statuesque white Lipizzans. All were decked out in plumes, skirts of armor and breast and head plates, some with unicorn spikes, all meant to recall warhorses from ancient times.

Positioned along the edges of the battlefield, technicians were making last-minute adjustments. Some wore headphones and fiddled with soundboards. Others were hunched over consoles lined with blinking meters and dials. To one side, crane trucks with hydraulic lifts hoisted camera operators in baskets up into the air.

Alec took it all in, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He recognized the producer Freddy Roth in his sport jacket and jeans, arms folded across his chest, eyes focused, apparently deep in thought. On the other side of the field, he saw Karst Balastritis standing with his sixteen-year-old son, Matt, and thirteen-year-old daughter, Xeena. The three were working for the production team, Karst as a top trainer and Matt and Xeena as wranglers and assistants. Matt and Xeena were doubling as extras and stunt riders too.

Karst was one of the first people Alec had met when he arrived in Xanthi almost a week ago. He was a proud native of this land, a big, gregarious man with dark hair and olive skin. Karst and his kids reminded Alec of a close-knit circus family—athletic, hardworking and full of energy.