Graceless and Hopeless could not have maneuvered a loose horse like this, but warsteed mares were quite used to handling herd-studs this way when they got out of hand. This was the way they kept their would-be mates in line when they weren't in season or didn't particularly care for their hopeful mate. This was just as well, given the training that warsteeds had in combat. If they hadn't been able to handle unwanted mates in a nonviolent manner, there would be serious damage done every spring.
This was what Graceless and Hopeless had been trained to do with a harnessed horse. They themselves were of Shin'a'in breeding, but from a small herd dedicated to producing working farm horses, a herd carefully preserved as one of the warsteed foundation lines. When problems showed up in a warsteed breeding herd, the stallion was put to one of these mares, and the resulting offspring bred back into the warsteed herd. They weren't as intelligent as the warsteeds, and certainly not as surefooted and quick, but by keeping this herd of foundation- stock intact, the Shin'a'in prevented some of the problems that came with heavy inbreeding.
When the gelding found himself wedged between the mares, he was astonished. How did this happen? said his ears and head. What's going on here? I'm a Stud! And he tried to struggle loose.
Ironheart flipped an ear. Oh, really? said her attitude, and just as Graceless and Hopeless had done earlier, she and Hellsbane leaned toward each other.
But they were not just trying to immobilize this importunate young fellow, they were going to teach him a lesson. They squashed him between them so hard he couldn't move at all.
Not that he didn't try, every hair on his body erect with indignation. You can't do this to me! I'm a Stud! I'm your Master! You were born to serve me!
Hellsbane twitched her nose. I don't think so, said her ears and tail, and she leaned harder.
In short order, the warsteeds had the gelding squashed so firmly between them that they had shoved all the breath out of him, his eyes bulged like a fat frog's, and his hooves no longer quite touched the ground. They let him hang there for a moment, then took some of their weight off him, allowing him to drop down between them.
He stood there, panting, his head drooping, and quite clearly trying to figure out what had gone wrong. By now the yard was ringed with spectators, all of them holding their breath to see what would happen next.
The gelding tried to get away twice more; twice more the warsteeds squashed all the air out of him. Finally, he gave up, and stood between the mares with his head dropped down to his knees. Now it was Tarma's move.
She approached him with a bridle and bit in her hands; when he saw the hated bridle, his head came up and he tried to rear.
But the mares wouldn't let him. Once again they closed in on him, not leaning, not yet, but making it very clear that if he acted in a way they didn't approve of, they would.
Tarma approached his head with the bridle. He tossed his head out of the way. The mares leaned, just a little, then let their weight off him. Tarma tried again, patiently, until once again, he gave up, and she was able to get the bit between his teeth and the bridle on him.
Now was the trickiest part; getting the harness on. She went back to the railing of the yard and collected it, then gave Hellsbane a handsignal. The mare moved out of the way, and the gelding eyed Tarma warily, but with new respect. It was evident now to him that Tarma was a member of the herd, not just one of those annoying two- legs. More than that, by the way that the others were obeying her and cooperating with her, she must be the lead-mare! This was a concept that left his poor head spinning.
Tarma walked calmly up to him, and laid the harness on his back, just as Beaker had done with the younger gelding. He, of course, immediately shook it off. She did it again, he shook it off again. She put it back on for a third time, and his head snaked around to snap at her.
Tried, rather, because before he could move, Ironheart had the back of his neck in her strong, yellow teeth, and gave him a good, hard bite. He squealed and tried to kick, but Hellsbane nipped his rump first.
He was every bit as intelligent as Lord Kemoc had claimed for the breed; this time, he didn't try to bolt, or bite -- he stood there, shivering and thinking.
Tarma laid the harness over his back; he left it there. She buckled it up; he let her.
And now she did something he would never have expected; she praised him, got out a soft cloth and wiped him down, scratched all the places where sweat had collected and dried, and which were itching him like the sting of a horsefly. Had he ever been praised and petted before?
Probably not, she decided, judging by the way he started and jumped, then rolled back his eye to look at her with utter bewilderment. But he liked it, oh my yes! He liked it a very great deal, leaning into her scratches, and even rubbing his nose against her tunic.
