Chapter Three – A trap is sprung

Sarak had spent the day walking around and around the campsite he had come across, as he travelled ahead of the Masan and the ponygirl caravan. He had walked the width and the breadth of the area, memorising as much as he could, so that when he sprung his trap he would be able to flee the Masan and know where he was heading. The pool at the centre of the stand of trees was about waist deep throughout, arriving by means of a small stream from the north, fresh from the mountains and dark and cold at the centre of the pool, but during the day was warm and golden with the sun coming through the trees and reflecting off the sand at the bottom. Sarak had walked the few just recognisable pathways through the trees, had sat upon the sandbank and the grass bank surrounding the pool and formulated his plan. He knew that he was not as heavy, nor as strong as the Masan, but he believed he was quicker, and it was his speed and dexterity that he was hoping would allow him to defeat the Masan.

On one of the paths he had found, he came across an overgrown area, where a bush had grown partly across the path before the path took a turn to the left, going around a tall tree trunk. It was here that Sarak had fixed his spear, driving the butt end into a crack in the bark, the point at waist height held by the branches of the bush. It was his plan to annoy the Masan, get him to chase him, and then whilst he supposedly fell beneath the bush the Masan would push through and impale himself upon the spear. The plan was flawed, as he knew, but he had to try it, for he could think of no other way he could overcome the bulk and the strength of his opponent. And then with his revenge for himself complete, he could rescue the ponygirls and claim them for himself. The day drifted into afternoon and Sarak fed on two birds he had knocked down from the trees and spit roasted over an open fire, gorging himself upon the sweet flesh, and throwing the bones back into the coals. Sarak wanted the Masan to find the dying warm fire when he arrived here, wanted him to know that there was someone around, wanting to put the Masan on edge and wary of something.

The afternoon drifted on and Sarak went to the edge of the stand of trees and arranged a mess of leaves and broken sticks to be his hide as the caravan approached. He had filled himself with the birds and drunk the water from the pool, and sitting there with his back to a tree he drifted off into a small and restful nap.

Then, he heard the crack of the whip and the cry of the Masan, and looking up he could see the caravan not more than 100 metres from where he sat, but luckily for him the Masan was more concerned at this stage with the extremely tired and travel weary ponygirls. For he was shouting and cursing as they struggled to keep moving, each pace it seemed, driven on by the touch and feel of the tip of the whip across exposed buttock. Sweat poured from the upturned faces of the girls, running across their cheeks, dripping and mixing with more sweat across their breasts. Lines of sweat had travelled down their sand covered bodies leaving lines of clean against the stain of the sand. The ponies in such obvious distress with their soiled and stained bodies, continually rubbing against their confining straps, and all carrying loaded backpacks, staggered on under the curses and lashes from the Masan. Sarak drew the wolf skin over his head and shoulders and slipped into his hide, watching as the caravan limped past and into the cover of the trees. He then heard the girls walking down the path towards the pool, and listened, imagining in his mind what he could not see. He reckoned the Masan had tied up the ponies, then discovering the remains of the meal and the fire, the Masan had done but a brief search to ensure no one was also present there with him. The copse of trees became quiet, and after some time to allow the Masan to settle, Sarak began to creep from his hide and slink like the wolf through the undergrowth towards where he thought the Masan would have pitched his camp for the night.

Slipping through some tufts of grass, Sarak could see the ponygirls were kneeling bunched together around a sack strewn upon the ground, and realised the Masan had just thrown this feed down, for the girls bent at the waist and gathered what they could of the feed around their mouth bits and reins, for the Masan had done nothing for them. The ponygirls were starving for they had been on short rations for a long time, and the Masan believed in only just keeping his animals alive, feeding and watering only when necessary. These ponygirls, all seven of them, were the Masan’s property, and he treated them as he felt fit, for to him they were pack animals, something to carry his trading wares around for him, and sometimes he would take and abuse one for his own pleasures. Sarak watched as he went to each girl in turn, and dragging them by the rein brought them to their feet, pulling them towards the pool, where with sheer ferocity he kicked each one behind the knees, forcing them to drop into the wet sand at the waters edge, before allowing them to drink. Having watered the ponies, fed them the mixture of dried fruit and grains in the sack, he tied each one up to the halter rope he had set, and then with a deliberate act of cruelty he literally ripped the butt plugs from each one, throwing the plug with attached mane to the grass before them. No thought did he give to their arms tied behind, the chaffing of any of the belts and straps that formed the outfit each wore, nor the bits in their mouths, nor their pains and the hurts gained from the considerable journey they had come. The Masan walked off leaving them to drop to the ground and sleep as they saw fit, he walked off, discarding his clothes and stepping into the water for his own bath.

Sarak put his plan into action, creeping around so that he was closer to the ponies, waiting until one saw his timely arrival dressed as he was still as a wolf. The third in line saw him first, stamping her hoof to warn the others, she lifted her head and nodded up and down, her breasts jiggling, and her bells ringing. Two others took up the dance, their eyes wide and open as they all now were staring at the wolf creeping through the grass towards them. Panic set in amongst the ponies, they nudged each other and strained against their tethers, pulling back away from the halter rope as they stamped their feet, and made loud noises of terror and alarm at the sight of the wolf before them. Sarak had stopped and was now content to look through the prancing legs of the ponies, and gaze across the sward to where the Masan could be seen with just his head above the water line, staring intensely in his direction. The Masan was looking for the source of the ponygirls fear, and Sarak was almost staring into those piercing eyes as the Masan scanned the surroundings. The ponygirls were beginning to settle so Sarak moved again, startling them into a renewed effort to escape, the girls lifted their legs and stamped hard to the ground, their bells crying out in a renewed effort of noise.

Movement through those legs caught the eye of Sarak, and as he refocused he saw the Masan stand up in the water, saw him rise with a sheath of six knives strapped to his chest and watched as the Masan threw the first knife straight at him. The knife seemed to travel in slow motion, seemed to take forever to cross the distance between the two play makers, and Sarak knew he was about to be hit by that knife when a ponygirl leg interceded. The knife hit the muscle at the back of her shin and she fell, dropping to the ground before Sarak, her eyes wide with fear and pain, not knowing what had happened, not realising her predicament, for although the knife had felled her, she saw a wolf before her. Sarak’s eyes clashed with hers, realising that the knife meant for him had struck this ponygirl instead, and that should he remain there would be another knife aimed for him, and that the remaining six girls were in the way. In the split second that this registered to the ponygirl on the ground and the idea of fleeing crossed his mind, Sarak was on the move. However not quick enough for the Masan, who was already making his way out of the water, following the second knife that he had thrown, which again as he had no care for his charges, hit a second ponygirl in the thigh, and she tumbled to the ground also as Sarak leapt for the undergrowth and the supposed protection of the screening.

Sarak had dropped his cloak of wolf skin, and he was off running down the path, his heart hammering from his own fear, and from the result of his plan, that had seen two of the ponygirls hurt. He paused in his flight, to see whether the Masan followed him, and accelerated quickly on hearing the Masan just a few steps behind him, leapt along the path looking for his bush and the spear planted at waist height for the Masan to run upon. Sarak almost missed the place to trip and fall, and as he fell knowing the Masan was just steps behind him, his forehead actually clipped the bush, the branch and the spear, causing a deep cut to his forehead, and a scream of pain from his lips as he tumbled over beneath the bush. The Masan heard the scream and leapt through the undergrowth, pushing the bush aside, but not far enough, for the spear tip entered his left side, puncturing the flesh before tearing through stomach and organs, and exiting through his back on the other side. The force of the spear penetrating his body stopped the Masan in his tracks, and through the growing pain he looked down at the spear entering his side, looked past this to see Sarak on his back beneath him, at the man who had dealt him this injury. The Masan slowly, through his fog of pain, reached up and drew another knife, lifting it up to throw it through his tormentor beneath him, and as he raised his arms Sarak kicked out at the spear, snapping it between the tree and the Masan, forcing the Masan to spin as he loosed the knife.

The knife travelled on however, hitting Sarak in his left shoulder, just under the collarbone and penetrating to the hilt, such was the power behind the throw. A throw driven by Sarak’s kick, spinning the Masan, and the Masan’s own weight as he lost balance falling to earth alongside Sarak. The Masan lay still, winded by his fall and the pain through his body. Sarak lay still, shocked by his success and the pain in his shoulder, and gasping at air to fill his panicked lungs. He lunged forward and away from the Masan, turning to look him in the eye, eyes filled with hatred and a longing to rise up and kill Sarak. The Masan seemed to slump and fall in on himself as the severity of the wound caught up with him, and he realised his impending death, brought about by the man before him. His eyes closed and gasp of exhaled air signalled to Sarak the passing of the Masan, and Sarak turned and made his way slowly back to the area where the ponygirls were tied and still distressed. The knife in his shoulder no longer pained him, for the shock had taken over, releasing him from the agony, as he walked the path to the clearing

Five ponygirls stood staring at their two fallen companions, breasts heaving as they drew air to compensate for their fear and their emotions. The two on the ground were not so active, the first was now sitting with legs folded under, the knife still protruding from her lower limb, a trail of blood slipping down her leg to her hoof boot. The second was kneeling, her head bowed as she looked down at the pool of blood between her legs, for she was in deep distress, as the knife had penetrated her thigh, and on falling had torn itself loose, creating a huge wound, so deep that her life force, her blood, was pumping it’s last few drops from the severed artery. Sarak walked over and knelt before this stricken ponygirl, realising that there was nothing he could do to save this poor pony, realising that he had been the cause of this terrible wounding. The ponygirl below him looked up into his eyes, saw his face streaked from his own blood from the cut to his forehead, and as the two communed in silence, the thoughts passing from the ponygirl to Sarak seemed to suggest her forgiveness and her thanks at the rescue effected by him, and further the relief from the pains and tortures inflicted upon her by the Masan. Her eyes were full of sorrow and regret, pain now long forgotten as her life-force slipped away, her eyes once so bright and wide now glazing, as a tear escaped and slipped her eyelid to slide down across her cheek.

A movement across Sarak’s shoulder caught her fading eye, which changed to horror, and Sarak twisted away from her to see what she had seen, and as he twisted a knife crossed his shoulder, hitting the ponygirl in the centre of her chest, driving the last of her life from her in a thump, as the knife buried itself, and a last gasp of expelled air crossed her lips. Sarak was in motion, leaping from the ground, taking a last glance at the now dead ponygirl as she fell to ground, as he exploded from his feet towards the mortally wounded Masan, standing inexplicably at the other side of the clearing. As he rose from his squatting position, Sarak reached across to the knife buried still within his shoulder, watching as the Masan drew his fifth knife from the sheath across his bloody chest, as he started his run towards Sarak. Sarak pulled at the hilt of the knife buried in his own shoulder and drew the knife from its bloody hole. The Masan was dying on his feet, determined to kill the man before him, as he accelerated towards Sarak, the two meeting in a clash of titans as Sarak stabbed and the Masan slashed. Sarak’s blade took the Masan in the side, beneath his heart, not a deadly blow but enough to force the Masan to stagger in his run and fall past Sarak, landing beneath the terrified feet of the remaining ponygirls. The Masan’s slash cut the shirt from Sarak’s chest, as the Masan’s fist drove the knife towards his throat, and yet the force of the swing allowed the blow to drive Sarak up and away from the edge of the blade, to be tossed over and over as he rolled across the grass.

Winded, Sarak raised himself to his knees, shaking his head to clear himself, desperately trying to turn towards the noise behind him, aware that the Masan was there amongst the ponygirls, aware that he could be causing more injury to them, and aware that they could not defend themselves. Short seconds passed as he stood and turned, wiping the blood from his dripping forehead and clearing his eyes, and stood in awe at the sight before him, for five scared and very determined ponygirls were having their revenge upon the Masan. Kicks from heavily shod hoof boots rained down upon him, breaking ribs, teeth and other bones as in turn, they kicked the remaining life from the Masan. Sarak slipped to his knees, continuing to watch as the kicks turned the Masan, from a demanding and fearful caravan Master, into a red, wet mess of broken flesh and bone, and finally the girls stopped, for they realised that their revenge had driven all life from the man they so hated, yet could not escape.

The ponies had settled, they are at rest. The evening darkens as the sun wanes, and the wind drops. Sarak had moved the ponies from the bloodied ground, and sat waist deep in the water, washing his hands, forehead and the wound in his shoulder, that still pains him, yet bleeds little. Sarak had bandaged the leg of the pony, after removing the knife, and realising that with care she would be able to walk again. He had also removed the body of the dead pony to a clear area and covered her with his own wolf skin. Sarak had gone onto removing all the tack from the ponies, all the straps, all the tail plugs, and they now stood or lay upon the grass, their only restraints their bits and reins connected to the new halter rope. They felt strange in their release from bindings for the night, even their arms were loose and at their sides, and yet there was no thought of escape, no thought of running, for these were born and bred ponygirls. They knew no other existence than to serve their Master, serve him as a beast of burden, or serve him as a place to deposit his seed, and in later years, in another place they would bear their Master some young, which in turn would become as they were. The six ponygirls had changed their Master, and to them the outcome would be the same, they would be his ponies, and he would care for them. And yet, as the death of their last Master had released them from some pain and hurt, what would this new Master bring them? Would he bring his whip? Would he berate them at all times? As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, those last ponies still awake, looked upon Sarak with these questioning thoughts as he himself drifted off to sleep beside the warm fire.