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The deer flicked it's ears, once, twice, and darted off through the trees. The stallion swore silently under his breath, the words coming out as a halo of steam in the cold Spring morning. He had been so close...

He was not done yet though. This young stallion was made from determined stock . His mother had called him stubborn, on the many occasions she had had to punish him for wilfully disobeying her orders. He took his punishment stoically, before returning to do the exact same thing again. Wisdom comes hard to a young colt of the herds.

Now a warrior, and a stallion, he was no closer to wisdom, though he was beyond his mother's ability to punish at least. Even the sister of the Head stallion had limits to her power.

He followed, as quiet as a big palomino stallion could, bow in his hands but no arrow cocked yet. Twigs cracked and he cringed, cursing his hooves for their clumsiness. The buck darted forward, a diamond tail flashing white as it bounded through the trees, and he lowered his head and followed as quiet and fast as he could. He was determined he would not return to their camp empty handed.

Forest Song...it was all her fault. The young stallion had boasted to her that he could bring back a buck single handed, and she had smiled so warmly and kissed him on the cheek. His cheek still burned at the memory of her touch. He was young, really too young for warriorhood, let alone mating, but he wanted all the same, and his body wanted more. Late at night in his tent, when his mother slept, he would grasp his burgeoning stallionhood and clamp a hand over his muzzle to stifle the cries and pretend he was buried inside the welcoming depths of Forest Song's sex, the beautiful Appaloosa mare crying out her pleasure as he rutted her like a feral stallion of the plains. It was all he had, until he was allowed to mate, and it burned inside him like fire.

He told himself that if he brought back the buck, the herd stallion and her father would have to agree to let them be together, whatever his age. He was a warrior, victor in battle, brave and skilled, not some clumsy colt as likely to shoot himself as an enemy. Except, in a deep place inside, he knew that wasn't far from the truth either.

As he trotted through the forest, he recognised the trees, and the pattern of the hills in the distance. He was close to where it happened, the day he became a warrior though only fifteen summers old. They had come to learn to hunt, late in spring, a pair of experienced warriors and a pair of young colts. They were learning to stalk game when an altogether different prey appeared, a small scouting band from their mortal enemies, herd Takan from beyond the river. They had whooped and yelled, steadying their horses from a gallop as they came upon the small group, easy meat or so they thought.

They had not counted on the colt though. He had been sent into a tree to seek out any game from a distance, the senior warrior realising his sight was the keenest, even if his work with a bow would make a yearling blush. As the warriors mounted on their horses charged his friends still rooted to the spot on the ground, the colt suddenly felt a rush of something inside him, something angry, and he leaped with dagger held tight on the nearest enemy, the suddenness of his onslaught completely catching the Takan warrior unawares.

His dagger sunk deep into flesh, and the colt and his enemy fell from the horse while the other attackers checked their charge in confusion. It was enough time for the earthbound equines to arm themselves, and for the attacking group to think twice about their intentions. Turning and letting out a cry, they galloped off, retreat covered by the taut bows of two experienced warriors, the shaking bow of one terrified colt, and a second colt lying heaving his guts over the body of his foe, dazedly watching the blood trickle down his golden buff coat.

From that day, the colt had become a warrior, one of the youngest ever, and he had a new name. Flying Eagle, in honour of his attack from the heavens to turn the day in favour of his herdmates.

Now as the miles passed under his hooves, he felt his mane tingle again, realising he was encroaching on the no-horses-land between their herds. Even the forest seemed to sense it; there was no birdsong, no noise. A haunting, deep silence.

Had he been a more experienced hunter, he might have recognised it for what it was. Unfortunately for Flying Eagle, courage and luck may make a colt into a warrior and a stallion, but it does not gift him the hard won experience of a graymane.

As he came into a small clearing, searching for the elusive buck, he spied instead a feral horse, with saddle and reins, tied to a tree across the clearing. The chestnut stopped its current activity, which happened to be sampling some deliciously sweet grass, raised its head and stared, ears twitching, two equines facing off over a short distance, neither moving.

A cracking sound to the left heralded the arrival of an altogether more serious threat; a colt from the Takan herd, his novice's loincloth embroidered with the sun symbol of Flying Eagle's mortal enemies. The stallion raised his bow, bringing an arrow to the string and pointing it at the chest of his foe. Something stopped him, something he could not explain. The colt stared at him, wide blue eyes startling against a shiny black face of an Arabian, not daring to move, and not reaching for his knife belt yet.

Flying Eagle breathed deep, trying to conquer fear or whatever it was had stilled his hand. He had improved, at least a little, with the bow, though the dagger was his far surer weapon. Either way, he knew he could take the colt, but he could not bring himself to do it. His arm dropped, bow forgotten by his side, and he took a single step back.

A twig cracked behind him, and it took him a fraction of a second too long to realise the twig was not under his own hoof. He turned quickly but not enough, and only had a brief glimpse of a heavy branch swinging towards his head before his world exploded in pain and he saw no more.

*****

He awoke, with the worst headache in his short life, in the clearing. There were four of them, he realised now; the colt, and three warriors. One of them noticed he was awake, and kicked a hoof into his hip, rolling him a little sideways closer to a camp fire that crackled into the night. He felt strangely cold, for this close to the fire, and his head swam.

The largest stallion, a big chestnut, stared at him a moment before speaking in a low rumbling voice. Flying Eagle recognised a couple of words, the standard insults flung between enemies, but most of the speech eluded him. He shook his head, and the stallion looked disgusted, turning to spit on the youngster's coat before returning to the fire.

He lay there on his front for a long time while his enemies talked amongst themselves, strength returning to his body. He tested his condition, and found his situation appeared hopeless; they had bound his wrists together behind his back, and his fetlocks were also joined by a short length of rope. If he managed somehow to get to his hooves, he could only trot slowly and awkwardly with the amount of rope they had given him. He was effectively hobbled.

The leader of his captors grunted by the fire, talking to his companions. He stood, and Flying Eagle watched him come with eyes he tried desperately to clear of the fear that was engulfing him. The look in his enemy's face filled him with dread.

For Wind Runner, the leader of a scouting party of the Takan, this was a notable victory. A captive of the hated Lorakh, one he could bring back captive to their encampment. He was looking forward to the victory celebration, and the admiring glances of his contemporaries. It was rare to take a captive, even rarer to get one back in one piece. Most chose death over the alternatives. With four to one though, he felt confident they could bring the youngster to the field by the river, and he could bathe in the adulation before enjoying the chance to lead the ritual death of their foe.

And so the spirit of his enemy would become his, making him even more powerful.

The Head Stallion of the Takan was weak, and his family weaker. One day...one day Wind Runner would issue the challenge, and they would all go down. He would enjoy their death songs, almost as much as he would enjoy the screams of this young stallion. He snorted; the youngster was barely more than a colt.

He rose from his squatting position and walked to the side of his enemy. The Lorakh watched him, and he could see the fear though the stallion tried to keep it hidden.

"Well you should fear youngster. You will regret your life soon enough."

He kicked the palomino in the side and the young stallion groaned but did not flinch. He was stronger than he looked.

"I wonder that one as young as you should wear a warrior's loincloth though. What did you do, bring down a sparrow with that pathetic arrow of yours? Wrestle a squirrel?"

His companions were laughing, enjoying the taunts. He felt a surge of strength, and kicked the youngster again hard. This time he was rewarded with a loud shout of pain, and a reflexive jerk of the stallion's body. He saw something glint amongst the braided lengths of the youngster's mane, as the last jerk of his head caused it to fall into view. He bent forward for a closer look.

Amongst his mane, the Lorakh had a small silver medallion tied in leather to his hair. A medallion of the paw of a wolf, with a length of brown mane dangling from the silver, contrast to the colt's own golden locks.

He let out a wild whinny and reached for his dagger, slicing the medallion from his enemy and clutching it in his hands in front of his eyes. He could not believe, and yet, the evidence of his eyes told him it was true.

"What is it Wind Runner?"

His friend Arrow Head stood, ears flicking in alarm as he watched his leader react in this strange way. The other two were also concerned, half sitting half standing, reaching for weapons as if expecting an invading army at any time.

"It is him. The one who came out of the sky to kill my brother. The killer of my Wolf Rider; he bears my brother's name amulet in his mane as a trophy; this is the one."

The others nickered in astonishment as their leader knelt over the fallen foe. His chest heaved as emotions flooded his body, nostrils flared and eyes wide in anger. He felt the knife in his hand cutting into flesh he was gripping so tightly, and he brought the tip to the back of the youngster's neck. His foe gave a sudden start, unsure why there had been a sudden change, but aware his fate hung by a thread. He closed his eyes and Wind Runner could hear the soft sound of a death chant coming from his lips as the stallion prepared for his end.

"That is too good for you colt...too good for you..."

He dragged the tip of his knife along the soft coat of his enemy, down the length of his spine as the terrified youngster shuddered but kept otherwise still, his death chant becoming ragged but continuing. The knife reached the belt holding his loincloth then played with a long golden tail.

One sudden move, and Wind Runner cut the leather of Flying eagle's belt, pulling his loincloth free and tossing it into the fire.

"You do not deserve that youngster, no warrior's loincloth for you. You killed my brother without honour, leaping from the sky to knife his back."

His anger began to change into something else, something hotter as he watched the now naked young stallion shaking on the grass. He knelt between his foe's legs, spreading them with his knees as he ran the tip of his knife across the soft skin of his taint, enjoying the stifled gasp as he pressed the tip in midway between the colt's anus and his scrotum, releasing a trickle of blood down the velvet smooth path of his perineum.

"Arrow Head, hold his shoulders. You two, hold his hooves apart. I have some unfinished business with this one."

"But...."

He looked at his friend, who seemed about to protest.

"What?"

"He...belongs to the herd. You cannot do this."

"Part of him belongs to me. Part of him holds my brother's spirit, and I will take that part now in payment of my due. Will you do what I say?"

The stallion nodded, and knelt on the terrified captive's shoulders, pinning him to the grass. The other two followed reluctantly. They knew they should not be doing this, but neither was willing to defy Wind Runner in this mood.

Linstennis shook as he took his place at the fallen palomino's left hoof. The young Arabian colt had nothing against his enemy, and he realised his fellow youngster, who was probably the same age, had chosen to save his life when he had him at his mercy. Nonetheless he gripped the muscled ankle, feeling the golden feathering in his hands as the palomino struggled. He wanted to become a warrior, and take a warrior's name, and a mate one day. Defying Wind Runner would not make that happen. It would probably get him killed.

It took all his strength to hold the ankle, but between then they had him and the fight began to leave the young palomino just as Wind Runner thrust his loincloth aside to free his lengthening cock.

"Will you scream for me little Lorakh mare? Will you whinny out your pleasure for the forest to hear I wonder?"

Flying eagle knew what the enemy warrior was intending, but he was powerless to stop the violation, his only course of action being to grit his muzzle and endure. He tried to lay his tail down in his crevice, willing the ordeal to end, but the chestnut gripped his tail and pulled up roughly, stretching his bleeding perineum and making him gasp. He bit his lip hard in a vain attempt to avoid screaming and giving his enemy that satisfaction. He could not understand the words of the big chestnut, but he could tell the meaning in the hot huffing breaths, the low grumble in his enemy's chest, and the feel of a wide flare sliding up his perineum.

The pain of penetration proved too much for the helpless young stallion, and his muzzle dripped blood as he bit down hard to stifle his cries but failed, instead opening his muzzle in a wild screaming whinny of pain and loss as his delicate tailhole felt the harsh rasp of a thick flare spreading and invading for the first time, and the sharp stabbing ache as his enemy drove in deep without waiting for him to recover, tearing his hole as he conquered fresh territory in his foe's ass. He felt a fresh pain as the chestnut bit down hard on his neck in a wild feral mating bite and pulled back before bucking his hips and burying his shaft to the hilt in struggling colt and Flying eagle gave one more loud screaming whinny before he felt his conqueror rest inside him, muzzle huffing warm panting breaths into his soft ear.

"Such a good tight mare...I should take a Lorakh mare every night...you are tighter than a Takan mare. And you scream so beautifully..."

Wind Runner felt the incredible tight hot depths of the Lorakh around his cock and knew he could not last long. The pleasure, as much as the sheer heat of taking his brother's killer and reducing him to a whimpering mare, was too much. He bit down again, hard, drawing blood that tasted sweet in his muzzle as he humped his length without mercy into the stallion, feeling the body under him spasm and convulse with the pain and shame of his violation. The ravished anus tried to clench and repel his invasion but failed, and he laughed into the palomino's soft ear and licked teasingly along his eartips as he rutted with wild feral stallion urgency until he felt the stirrings of orgasm and redoubled the power of his fuck.

Flying eagle could not make a sound as the rape continued, the wild hard lunges of the chestnut against his body had forced the air from his lungs. He could only open his muzzle in a silent scream as the pounding in his tailhole intensified, and open his eyes wide at the new sensations as a thick stallion flare rasped over his prostate for the first time, drawing new and appalling sensations from his body. He felt his cock begin to stir in spite of his terror and pain, the blood coursing into his stallionhood as it spread from his sheath. He almost couldn't feel the next hard bite on his neck he was so distracted by the conflicting sensations in his ass, and the mocking laughter made him close his eyes in shame. The Takan must know...he must feel my shameful pleasure he thought. He began to cry, and his tears proved the final arousal for Wind Runner who let out his own whinny of triumph as he filled the virgin's depths with a flood of warm stallion seed.

Flying eagle lay motionless, still crying, his cock still disobedient and hard under his belly as the bigger chestnut lay on top of him. He felt a muzzle on his neck, and the Takan warrior gave him along sloppy lick, tasting his fur and the sweat on the nape of his neck.

Wind Runner rested for a moment inside his foe. He could feel the abused anus of the enemy twitching deliciously around his cock. It had been too long since he had another male, and he had almost forgotten how good it could feel. This one was especially good, his struggles and cute cries and tight probably virgin tailhole making the experience incredibly enjoyable. He looked up to see his compatriots, all now dropped and hard, their cocks poking past their loincloths with swollen flares dripping seed.

"Who else wants a turn?"

The remaining three hesitated though. One by one they shook their heads, even as their cocks showed their need. He snorted in contempt; superstitious fools. If they chose to forfeit this prize though, that was their own choice. He saw no reason to let rules he didn't believe in bind his actions, especially with his brother's killer at his mercy.

He slid out a little, almost in leisurely fashion, and used his hips to tease the youngster with his flare, ramming the soft nut he could feel trembling deep inside. The Lorakh gave a gasp and a moan, and another when he rubbed his flare back and forward over the nub of flesh and he felt the hot ass around his cock suddenly give a jerk.

"You like this youngster. A born mare. I will enjoy taking your stones before I slit your throat...and taking my time doing it..."

This time Wind Runner made it last, a long almost loving fuck like he shared with his mate just before he left on this raid. She had begged and pleaded for more, her body on fire as he plowed her sex. Now he plowed a very different furrow, a battered Lorakh stallion ass, and it felt even better, especially when one hard thrust against the spongy nut caused the young stallion to cry out and shudder and he smelt the scent of seed in his nostrils.

He bent over the prone captive now and nibbled his ears like a lover as he whispered his appreciation for the heat of his broken ass. The Lorakh would not understand the words, but he would still understand the shame, and the contempt. He felt it in the way the youngster's body shook and the tears that flowed from his eyes.

Arrow Head watched the erotic sight and could not resist. He pulled his loincloth to the side and began slowly jacking his length. His flare pulsed with need as he watched his friend claim the enemy's ass, and when he saw the Lorakh shudder in release and smelt seed in his nostrils, he knew he needed more.

The prone muzzle was so close, just under his groin as he pinned those beautiful buff shoulders down with his knees. He could feel the hot exhalations of the stallion tickle his scrotum as the harsh thrusts of his leader forced the panting youngster to breathe in time to his fucking. As the big chestnut plundered his ass, Arrow Head decided on his own celebration, taking the palomino's golden mane in his hands and pulling the warm muzzle to his length.

Flying eagle was in another world, one where his body was not his own. The shaft filling his tailhole drove him into wild shudders of pain and pleasure, and he closed his eyes against the world, muzzle open and panting, tongue extended. He felt something warm, something soft on his tongue, and tasted something sweet...hands yanked his mane, painfully, and he gasped and suddenly his muzzle was filled and he had to fight hard not to choke.

It only took a few thrusts into that hot muzzle before Arrow Head unloaded his burden into the captive's throat, just as Wind Runner flagged his tail hard and unleashed his own second orgasm into the mortified Lorakh stallion. Flying eagle was too busy enduring his second forced ejaculation to notice, his cock spurting a thick coat of seed onto this belly and the grass under him while he struggled to swallow the flood of thick sperm in his throat. He failed, coughing up most of it as the stallion at his head pulled him off and shot the last of his load onto Flying Eagle's face.

He lay there with the scent of seed filling his nostrils and its taste filling his muzzle, pained and ashamed, while the big chestnut held him almost like a lover. His last sensation was of a hand pulling his muzzle sideways into a passionate kiss, before unconsciousness claimed him again far far too late.

*****

It took the party two days and nights to return to the encampment, partly due to their captive. The young Lorakh warrior moved as if in a daze, his eyes shadowed, his body aching. They tied a collar round his neck, and attached it to Wind Runner's horse, and he trotted behind them slowly as the foraged on their way back. There was no opposition, and precious little game. The wolf packs of the mountains had seen to that; the equine's life was becoming harder every season.

The other reason for their slow progress was Wind Runner. Whenever they stopped, he felt the stirring in his loins, and the need to further defile his enemy. Four more times they halted, and four more times he had them hold the young stallion down while he vented his anger and his need on a well ravished Lorakh anus until the youngster was dripping seed with every step towards his doom.

At the great river near their encampment, they stopped for a while. The other three tended to their captive while Wind Runner watched, fondling his rampant cock while he eyed up his prisoner. They washed his coat, and cleaned his pained tailhole until it no longer dripped, and braided his mane and wrapped his tail in fresh scarlet cloth. They wanted to return his medallion, but Wind Runner threatened to kill any who tried to take it off him.

Arrow Head gave the young Lorakh his spare loincloth, and they fastened his knife scabbard to it again. The Lorakh's knife, shining bright in the sun, would be returned to him just before he died, then given to his conqueror as a trophy, one that Wind Runner was looking forward to claiming almost as much as he looked forward to feeling the stallion's last breath when he used it to slit his throat. The knife that killed his brother, taken from the colt who did it. A fitting trophy, and a way to honour his dead brother and bring peace to his restless shade.

He watched the palomino as he was cared for by his companions. The glory of your enemy reflected on the glory of your triumph. The herd would see a young and beautiful stallion, strong, proud, virile, now broken by a Takan warrior. And they would see his conqueror, and know that Wind Runner was a force to be reckoned with.

"He looks pretty, doesn't he."

Arrow Head grunted an affirmation.

"Very. He would be popular with the mares."

"Pity his days of mounting mares are over."

"I doubt he has yet. No mating token around his neck. He is probably too young to be given a mate yet. Another young stallion forced to wait." The bitterness flowed from Arrow Head's muzzle. Wind Runner grinned at his friend, enjoying his discomfort.

"I'm sure the head stallion will let you take a mare soon my friend. Till then, there is always your hand. Or a willing colt; have you asked young Listennis here, I hear he is accommodating."

The lithe Arabian gave a nicker of anger but kept on his task, binding the captive's tail. He burned to think that Wind Runner knew of his cravings though, and also at the thought of having the big chestnut use him like he had the Lorakh stud. His nights ended with his cock in his fist, replaying the hard rutting in his mind, the gasps, the screaming whinnies, the scent of seed. He ached; and he needed much to his shame.

"I am surprised you didn't use his tailhole Arrow Head. Better than your fist. Better than one of the colts, even Listennis."

The big shire grunted. "No, I am not the rebel you are my friend. The Shaman may have plans for our friend here; if she asks, I want to be able to say honestly that I kept to my vows. He is given to the herd to use unblemished; or at least unblemished by me."

"Oh? I seem to remember your seed in his muzzle; that's what it tasted like when I kissed him."

The shire blushed and threw a stone into the river.

"I know, and I hope that will not earn the wrath of the spirits. But you my friend...you should beware."

"Ptha!"

The big chestnut spat into the river. He did not believe. Such stories were told to scare foals, not a warrior who had killed several of his enemies in single combat. He had taken what was his by right; and that would be the end to it, Shaman or no Shaman.

So it was that they arrived back at their encampment late on the third night, with a captive pulled along behind their leader's horse, his spirits almost broken though his body appeared in the glow of virile strength, with a triumphant Wind Runner leading the procession wearing a wide grin that hid a worm of unease as he faced the Head Stallion and the Shaman mare whose impassive eyes seemed to bore into his skull even as she took in the sight of their captive.

Finally the Shaman spoke, and the herd fell silent.

"The Prophecy! I tell you, he is the one!"

The worm of unease grew into a boulder, but for Wind Runner, it was too late now. He could only grin and bow.