I was led to two pillars of wood and tied to them, either side of my head. A large man, probably in his middle ages, came over with a pair of clippers and examined me. He smelt like the one in charge of the ranch, and I wondered if they were related closely. He had the same broad hands and heavy grip that I dreaded and an aura that almost glowed "respect me".

I tensed as he grabbed my mane, and I half attempted to nip him, but I knew better, it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Vain as it seems, part of me died when I saw my creamy mane fall to the floor in clumps, and I knew he was cutting it short. He tried the same with my tail, but was less successful on the shortening, but managed to trim the ends so that they were level. Next he picked up my hooves one by one, and scratched at them to remove the dirt.

He left for a few minutes, and seemed to be holding something over a fire. I shuddered. I hated fire, the heat, the smell, the sound, all of it. Nothing terrified me more. He emerged with four arcs of metal, just the right size for my hooves. He held one of my feet up again, place an iron shoe on it, and started hammering a nail into me! The nails themselves didn't hurt me, but the jarring of my joints each time the hammer came down on them, that was the real pain.

Once he had finished that leg he allowed me to drop my hoof. It felt strangely heavy, like I was standing in tar, being pulled down. He worked on the other three for ten minutes then went back towards the fire. Some horses tethered nearby whinnied to me, as if a warning. Sure enough he re-emerged with a red hot stick of metal, with some sort of symbol on it. Up until now I had been very obedient, but this was a violation of my free will! No-one, no-one, will ever have the right to imprint me with their logo!

When he neared me, I reared, kicking out with my front legs. The young man who had stood next to me ran faster than a hare away from me. I managed to snap the ropes connecting me to the poles, and ran from the scene. They caught me, eventually, in a corner of the vast camp. But they didn't even bother branding me, they wouldn't risk the fuss. So, I was led to the stables where I would spend my nights from then on.

When I entered the other horses had back away a little, wondering how I would react to them. I just stood there, my head hanging, and wandered over to the far corner. It was the first time I'd been among so many horses since I left home, and I wanted to be alone again, solitary, where no-one could break my barriers. If I was alone the memories wouldn't flood in, and I would be safe.

After a few hours I was approached by the leader of the men, the one who had bargained with the other humans for rights to my ownership. I eyed him cautiously. He held a whip in his right hand and had a pose of confidence. No doubt that he had heard of my little escape earlier on, and he was as wary of me as I was of him. He just stood there for an age, gazing at me. I tried not to meet his eye, in fear that his stare would burn me. Eventually, he slowly opened the door and entered.

I shied away a fraction, keeping my eyes on his crop constantly, so that if he raised it I could run. He surprised me. He let it drop to the floor. I raised my head slightly. He called to two other men. One of them hurried off and the other tied a new piece of rope to my halter. I was led back outside where the sunlight blinded me briefly after the heavy shade of the barn. I was trapped inside a tiny enclosure while a saddle and bridle were fitted onto me. I felt the weight of the man on my back just before the gate was opened.

I remembered my father talking about how he had experienced something like this. How he had thrown every single rider off his back, and got the men to fear him. But there was some part of the story that I had forgotten. My father always told his tales to me in a nagging sense, and I hardly listened. Now, though, I wished that I had paid more attention.

I recalled how he had fought for his freedom, and not let a soul ride him, except for one. But I had already been trained to obey my rider, to respect him, and to some extent - fear him. Yet this man on my back had left his crop in the stables, and was not wearing spurs. I realised that he was trusting me. I was being given an opportunity to have freedoms, maybe not the freedoms I wanted, but liberty none the less. If I took advantage of his offer, I would have to endure months, maybe even years of hard going before I was allowed to prove myself again.

And still the temptation lingered. He squeezed my sides and I began to walk around the edge of the arena, my thoughts churning inside my head. I could taste the harsh tang of the bit in my mouth, the choking grip of the girth, the ache in the back of my neck from holding it up as I went. I could go home, never be ridden again, never have to obey a human being at all.

My mind traced back my steps to how I had got there. Through the gates, across the desert, through the forests, until I came to the ranch. My memories of the past months were beginning to fade from this point. Which way was home? How far? How would I survive? None of those questions had answers any more. But one image stuck in my head. Tammy. Her last foal had been sold to the military, a colt. It was certainly possible that he was here; the men seemed to know one another well enough.

I was pushed into a canter. We went through a tidy routine of dressage moves: circles, pirouettes, everything. The army wouldn't do that on the battle field, I knew that, but he was testing my footing, my pace and stamina too. Once he was happy with me, he dismounted and barked some orders to the others.

I was led back to the stables, but not to the same hut as before. Instead, I was placed in a shady corner of the base. There was a log cabin nearby, and a back gate. I assumed that it was for supplies from the south, since there were carts of grain, hay, barrels of water, and a great range of other foods that I assumed the humans ate. At least it gave me a rough idea of which way was which. The stall was on the east side overlooking the south. It was obvious because the sun hid behind the vast wall most of the day. South.

As I was untied I began mulling over the presence of the south gate. They would need supplies regularly, and the exit was smaller to prevent an ambush. Maybe that was my key to escape. But like the rest of the camp, it was heavily guarded. Still, their primary concern was fighting the enemy, not baby-sitting the horses, so maybe I was in for a chance.

I noticed that I was not alone in the hut. A stocky, dark sorrel stallion stood in the corner, glaring at me. I stayed at my end, head down in submission, and he stayed at his, head high in pride. His ears were flat back; he was trying to make me fear him. I simply turned my back on him. I heard a snort of surprise; he obviously didn't expect me to be so rude, not to his royal highness! Looking back, it must have been a funny sight for anyone watching, a young mare getting the better of an older stallion. I heard him turn too, so we were both facing away from each other. Even stranger.

I woke gently the next morning. The dull shafts of sunlight leaked through to my mind and my eyes slowly opened. The word shocked is not enough to describe how I reacted when the stallion who I was sharing the stall with was standing right in front of me. Again, his ears were back and he eyed me suspiciously. He demanded to know what I was playing at and how come I was invading his private hut. It was no way to talk to a lady.

I said that the humans put me there, he told me to stop blaming others. He accused me of sucking up the colonel so that I got the cushy life he was used to. My mind clicked into place. He thought I was one of the horses from the other barns, who had seen his home and wanted it myself, so when the opportunity had arisen, I was on my best behaviour for the man. I shook my head and told him he was wrong.

He snapped at me, he didn't touch me, or scare me, I simply snapped back. He stared at me, almost terrified, like he did not believe I could boss him about. Then, tail flicking around his legs; he grumped off once more to the other end of the stable.

Later on, he was taken out and ridden in a formation around the arena. That man was on him, the colonel as the stallion had called him. I watched with a sense of both awe and dread. That would be me soon. Just another war horse, just another number in a long, long line. No identity, no difference. I shook my neck in aggravation. Without my mane my neck had no barrier against the never ending flies.

Throughout the day I carefully watched the south gate. It only opened twice, once in the morning and again in the early evening. Four guards would help the cart through and unload it, then finally shut the gate. The cart would only leave when the other returned. There was little chance that both the opportunity to be out of a paddock or stable would arise at the same time as the gates were open, plus the fact that they were closed as soon as the cart was through, so it was likely that I would be staying put for a while. Since I wasn't going anywhere, I decided it would be best to make friends instead of enemies, starting with the stallion. Besides, it could lead to some useful information.

When he returned from his work I was busy drinking at the trough. He looked so thirsty, so I moved off and let him have a gulp. I also pushed some hay towards him. He muttered something about his figure and left it, so I started to munch away at it instead. It was the first time I had the chance to properly view him. He was a dark sorrel, with a gingery flaxen mane and tail, and his eyes were hazel. Burnt into his hide was a mark. I