Alethea lay on the grass, her side was no longer hurting, as her brain took over from the pain and allowed shock and the numbness to creep through her body. She attempted to sit up, but the poles of the chariot had broken, and now lay across her chest in such a manner that she was imprisoned within their embrace. Alethea sighed a deep breath of air, letting the pain from the wound shudder from within her, as she stretched her legs out and flipped onto her side. She screamed as the broken haft of the spear, puncturing her side, caught on one of the poles, and then slipped into unconsciousness, whilst the sun in all its glory, also lost the day and started to set behind the hills to the east.

The day had started well, with the handlers dressing the ponygirls in their finery, their strapping and then their full war costumes. Alethea was the ponygirl for the chariot of Tarle, the war leader of the tribe of Telot, and as such she shone in her body armour. The brass lightweight greaves extended down her shins from her knees to her feet, fully encased in her war hoof boots, with steel horseshoes and sharpened toes. The matching cuisses for her thighs were surmounted by the poleyns, adequate protection, yet still allowing her to run and build up charging speed quickly at the hand of her driver. Her torso was covered with a leather jerkin, with long sleeves, terminating in hand gloves that would wrap around the poles of the chariot, thus allowing her full control of the hold. In turn, her jerkin was over covered with a breast plate of the finest brass and bronze configuration, the size of the cups sufficient to hold the large firm and proud breasts of this ponygirl, as were all the breast plates, for each ponygirl had her own individually designed and fitted set of armour. The breast plate was polished to its finest hues, the bells fixed to the nipple point rang with the sweetest of notes, and like the armour, the bells were of different pitches for each and every one of the ponygirls. And, as they marched, walked or charged, the song of the bells was an accompaniment to the screams and the war cries of the drivers and the chariot masters.

The spear had punctured her side on the first charge of the ponygirl chariots, and as she was travelling at full speed when the spear came, she travelled on for some many feet before she stopped and fell to her knees, not realising that the clash between her chariot and the enemies had resulted in the destruction of both chariots and sent their respective drivers and masters to their own feet. Alethea did not see Tarle come to stand first, did not see him with murder in his eye, stride across to where the enemy charioteer was rising, and with one swing of his curved blade, decapitate his enemy. Nor did she see him repeat the action with the other driver, for not only did he remove his head from his body, but also with a continuance of the stroke, he came around and gutted him wide open like a fish. Tarle had no time to consider his fallen driver, for immediately the battle had been reduced to skirmishes on foot, and Tarle was fighting for his life amongst the enemies of the Telot, the Karzen. And it was these Karzen warriors that Telot was determined to see routed, determined to see removed from the plains, for it was these rowdy tribesmen that continued to raid lesser tribes, stealing their food, their provisions and their ponygirls.

As her handler was dressing Alethea, she stood tall and proud, for she was the war leader's pony, and she knew her place and her position. The handler placed the armour upon a strong, tall and valiant pony, for she had fought in many campaigns, and she had become a strength amongst the other ponygirls to look up to. Alethea’s body was muscular, brought about by long periods of training where under normal circumstances, her naked body encased in her normal strapping and harness, would be put through the paces of running, jumping and deportment. This allowed for the ponies to strive for themselves to be better, performing against each other and against the measure of their trainers. Becoming leaner and fitter, their bodies developed, until in almost all circumstances a naked ponygirl could stand tall as the embodiment of beauty and dignity of a woman, combined with the strengths and the poise of the horse. Alethea’s tail was fitted into her body and she stamped her hooves at the anal intrusion, yet knowing that the long flowing dark red hair of her tail, was a perfect match for her mane, flowing from the helmet now placed over her face for protection. The handler settled the mask over the shorn sides of her head allowing the mane through the top opening, checking to ensure the nose piece fitted firmly on the bridge of her nose and that the eye openings were perfectly aligned for her to see through. When he was sure of her comfort, he fitted the bit in her mouth, taking the straps around behind her head, and buckling the bit in place. Then by attaching a lead rope to the bit he lead her away to the chariot area, where she would be fitted into the poles and made ready.

As Alethea arose from the depths of her pain-ridden nightmare, she could still hear the noise of the battle as it waged around her, could hear the clash of the swords, the cacophony of the cries, the screams of the wounded. She twisted again and managed to raise herself to her knees, and then in a blinding flash of agony she stood. This action alone threatened to return her to unconsciousness, and as she faltered on the brink, she straightened to view the combat and it’s resulting field of debris. There were bodies everywhere, some of the Telot, a lot of the Karzen, and amongst it all, broken and smashed chariots, and broken and smashed ponygirls. Alethea mused on the death, and reminded herself that it had always been this way, the charge, the smashing headlong of the ponygirls and the chariots, the resulting hand to hand fighting of the drivers and the chariot masters. She had been lucky to survive so far to this time, for she had become the forerunner of many battles, as was her position as Tarle’s ponygirl, and chariot runner. Her mind drifted to home, her village, where as his ponygirl she was treated with respect by the tribesman, and not one dared to touch her but him and the handler. It was to him however that she gave her love, her body, for it was Tarle that had caught her wild on the steppes as she ran with the herd. And it was Tarle that had first captured her and brought her to his tent as a wild filly, and had then continued and trained her as his ponygirl, training her in the arts of war, the arts of deportment, and finally when he was happy with her achievements, he had trained her in the arts of love. No other ponygirl belonged to Tarle, and the link between them was special, the link of love and obedience, of protection and devotion. She staggered there looking across the fields of bloodshed for her Master.

Tarle was fighting valiantly. Numerous cuts and abrasions crossed his naked chest, for whilst the men cared for their ponygirls with elaborate and beautiful armour, the men fought stripped to the waist with only their colours showing on their armbands and headpieces. His sword rose and dropped, cutting and slashing his way through the enemy, blood spurting, sweat dripping and time a-passing. The battle raged on, men and ponygirls dying around the living, and as time marched on, the edge of success leant towards Tarle and his people, and the tide changed direction, with the enemy beginning to realise they had lost this battle and field. A brief uprising of determined Karzen warriors, threw themselves at Tarle and his valiant companions, the fighting reached intense proportions as the Karzen in berserker mode charged and attacked. Swords flashed and bodies died, friends and foes perished as they fought the mêlée to end the battle. In the thick of the fighting, Tarle heard a tinkling of bells, a warning neigh from behind him, and recognising his beloved Alethea’s cry, he spun to watch as in slow motion she interceded her body between his and that of an attacking Karzen. This Karzen was their leader, and his thrusting sword point came out below her breasts, tearing its way through the leather jerkin, and as she fell she dragged the sword down with her. Tarle swung his sword around and two handed drove the blade into the shoulder of his enemy, driving and cleaving the man to his waist, thus avenging the cowardly attack from the rear.

The battle in an instance had swung their way, the other leader was seen to fall, in the last glimmers of the fading sun, and the remaining Karzen turned and ran from the field of mayhem. Tarle dropped to his knee before his ponygirl, for the first time realising the depth of the spear thrust that had befallen her, and now the cruel and savage attack from the sword that was draining her life before his very eyes. Alethea looked up at her master, her lord, her charioteer, her driver, her trainer, and her lover. She gazed into the distance as flashing remembrances went before her, and then in a final effort she focused on his face, looking into tear ridden eyes as she saw, and he knew, that in this fading light, that this was their last moment together. It is rare for a ponygirl to smile, for as their nature is defined, they are no longer women, but beasts for labours and for wars, however as Alethea breathed her last past her bloodied lips and her war bit, a smile crossed her lips, and in this way and with that last look from her eyes into his, she imparted within Tarle her love for him.

Epilogue

Eight years have passed since that fatal day, many battles, skirmishes and even a war had been fought across the plains and steppes of this vast land. Times change, as do people, and now Tarle was recognised as a true leader taking up the kingship of the land, his first decree being that ponygirls were no longer to be trained as pullers of chariots, and if wars were to be fought in the future, it would be man against man, and no other way.

Tarle stood thinking of the passing of the years, standing alongside the cairn that he had raised single handed over the fallen body of his dearly loved, he thought of the times he had spent with Alethea, his commitment to her and her loyalty to him, and he thought about what was to come, the changes from ponygirls to women, the acceptance now of his two daughters by Alethea, and his recognition that they would never be placed in a harness. Along with his two girls, hand in hand, he descended from the hill returning to their home on the plain.