Previously: Harkut’s Honor
But, before we arrive there, hear tell of the drama that played out in Harkut’s absence, no less a feast for the eyes, ears and nose than any bout that old bastard fought himself...
* * *
High Magistrate Megart had had enough. Long had his feud with Master Fehrso persisted, festering beneath the city’s glittering, gore-flecked skin, yet Arak-Hed and its countless arenas remained (despite Megart’s best and seemingly endless efforts) the pitmaster’s plaything; worse, Fehrso chose, of all possible times, the very instant the magistrate’s hand-plotted vengeance bore gruesome fruit—Harkut’s self-splayed guts—to drive home that well-honed point, and to boot, added the disgraced, disemboweled wreck of a man to his menagerie!
“It is all too much,” Megart could be found muttering in the nights that followed, wringing his hands raw.
No longer was it merely a matter of balancing Raklun’s death with Harkut’s; indeed, though he could never admit such a cruel truth, the magistrate hadn’t loved his son, not really—whatever heights he set the lad to, whatever favors he showered him with, had been in service purely to his own position, tenuous though it now was. Summoning, if only momentarily, a gladiator’s fearlessness, Megart even entertained crude notions of killing Fehrso himself; that, of course, would end all too swiftly and brutally, for the magistrate was a brittle old twig of a man, tall like his boy had been yet bent as a bowing willow, if nowhere near as pliant.
Then it came to him: he’d challenge Fehrso to a duel, all right, but of a different sort. By Hedlish law (he knew well how to wield that particular blade, if none else) any man of sound body and mind must, if so challenged, enter single combat to the death—quite an old rule, the oldest in fact, if one little invoked anymore; but, if either combatant were not sound, then a champion of his choosing could stand in his place. So Megart, not a week after Harkut’s display, ordered Fehrso to battle... and, for his champion, chose so capable a foe that even the likes of the pitmaster—an expert swordsman, one who’d personally put to death, in his time, a thousand men or more—would struggle hard to hold his life steady against!
Fehrso knew not what lay in store for him—only that his rival Megart, ever a thorn in his side, had summoned him to the sand. Being no fool, he did not expect to face the magistrate himself (picture that: one of Arak-Hed’s highest, stripped of his station’s robes—of all modesty, in fact, save the spare bit of cloth afforded fighting men—hunched, sweating, sword-armed...) But if not him, who would fight, die, in his stead? Make no mistake: old Fehrso, being the consummate professional he was, prepared himself that morn—as any gladiator must—to kill or perish. The Bloody Bear, as they had called him at the height of his fighting career, did not imagine himself invincible anymore; aye, all it took was one good thrust or unexpected swipe, and he’d be beaten, offering his life for entertainment—that was the trade, after all. He didn’t fear it, far from it; the prospect of death, same as any good swordsman, excited him, and more fully at that than whatever pleasure else the world offered!
All the same, High Magistrate Megart would not have gone to such dramatic lengths, he guessed, unless he thought the pitmaster’s public defeat assured—meaning this champion, whoever he should prove to be, ought to make for very grim prey...
It felt good, setting huge, hairy foot in King’s End for the first time in ages. So long of late had Fehrso gone about town in the fine sandals of a businessman, his soles bore no longer the thick calluses of his youth; tender again, they suffered badly in the sun-bright sand—but the good sort of suffering, the teasing, tantalizing sort men tolerate or even seek, for it proves they yet live. For a sword, he selected his best old blade: simple, short, with a chipped wood hilt that had always afforded him balance. No elaborate loincloth did he sport—no, the plain white garment of common arena-fodder did he wear, the better to soak up the blood what was sure to spill. Best of all, he chose to expose today, on the occasion of what might be his last bout, his great, round gut, the proud, furry physique for which he was rightly famous. No hiding it behind that leather belt now; no, let the crowd bear glorious witness to his full, virile girth, he’d decided... and his viscera too, should fate demand it—though it would take a strong arm and a steady will indeed, he thought, grinning broadly as he strode, to snatch that prize!
As it happened, the law asked that both parties enter the pit, and so the magistrate (albeit unarmed, shod, and dressed in finery) set foot himself in the arena, far from the action and nearer the high wall which divided the savage from the civilized. At his side was a servant boy, or so he seemed at first: fair, slight of frame, not more than twenty summers. Megart was known to be a frequent patron of the fleshmarkets; Fehrso, seeing the special beauty of the lad, rightly assumed him the man’s latest conquest. Only there was something odd about him, this slave—his skin too sleek and finely oiled, his flaxen hair overly long, almost regal. Moreover, like a prisoner of the arena, he was naked at the waist, and even the most intimate of personal attendants hid their cocks in public... but, just then, another man’s arrival interrupted this train of thought. Here came the powerful champion Fehrso expected: a great, bald bull of a man, stone-faced and muscled with alabaster, so giant even the big Bloody Bear himself was dwarfed.
“Good day, milord,” growled Master Fehrso, bowing slightly to the magistrate; the crowd laughed. “I take it this pale beast is standing in your place?”
Megart sneered. “I present to you Alaghos Thesc, a captured king of the cold north,” he said—“and his devoted ermhos, Roghodt.”
The Bear squinted. “What trickery is this, Megart?” he growled. Though no magistrate, he understood the rules of dueling well enough to know it wasn’t permitted to put two champions forth—no, Megart must’ve found some obscure loophole, he figured, and a grave old hole it might prove to be! Best a scrawny lad? Simple. Best an over-muscled brute? Simple too, that, if not near as. But both at once? Distraction could kill, and fighting a war on two fronts was a deathly proposition...
“Is that great belly of yours,” spat Megart, “not great enough to bear a pair of thrust swords? You fool no one, my friend,” he said, gripping the firm, oiled shoulder of the handsome youth beside him—“such an end would bring you even greater glory, and you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Fehrso smiled a little. “Maybe.”
“Then fight—and perish, should it suit you—or defeat my champions, if you are powerful enough. I should say champion, singular; even our southern laws long ago deemed alaghos and ermhos, king and blood-sworn companion, to be but two sides of one human coin, a person complete. Does not the ermhos turn the blade upon his own waist when his lord falls, like that pitiful animal did the other day?” The Bear’s eyes narrowed, but Megart kept speaking, countering his stare with bitter facts: “See you their fetters? Besides blood and seed, they are bound too by iron, and will battle you as a single, joined being. Carefully crafted it may be, I do admit, but my argument is, ultimately, logical; you have no room to complain.”
“S’pose not.”
“Then let out bout begin,” Megart declared, even as he backed off.
Meanwhile, the slender lad stepped forward. Sure enough, a length of clanking chain connected him to his big friend, and attached at the ankle thus, they’d be hard-pressed to divide and conquer their opponent—or, Fehrso realized, the opposite perhaps. This young man was that giant bastard’s ermhos, apparently, sworn to fight and die on his sire’s behalf, amongst other acts; if they truly had achieved such an unholy union of mind and body, being bound could only aid them—and, as the Bear knew too well, any object introduced to the arena, however simple on the face of it, became a weapon in the right hands: this chain might soon prove yet another length of iron for the gladiators’ wielding!
There were two possible solutions to this bloody puzzle, or so thought Fehrso. One: kill little lover-boy, the king’s companion, and thereby drive that royal beast into a mindless rage. Two: kill the king himself, at which point ermhos would be all but obliged to end his own life then and there, baring his pretty “honor” for the crowd—like Kert had, meeting Harkut. That first option, albeit easier at first blush, could backfire badly—the kid’s death, rather than rendering the brute vulnerable, might only fuel his rage, making him harder to off. Aye, difficult as it might appear, there was no better choice than to fell the big one first—a daunting task, especially with the little one nipping at his heels, but Fehrso was up for it.
“Come then, king,” cried the bear, waving him forward, “or do you fear the killing thrust?”
The tribe-king understood, it seemed, their southern speech—enough, at least, to feel the barb’s sting. His gladius looked toylike in his huge fist; all the same, one mighty swipe of it was all it’d take to claim his head or cleave his belly open, Fehrso understood—so when it swung wide, twice in quick succession and intending to do both, the man was ready for it, leaping nimbly aside. He ducked, plunged; steel entered midriff dutifully, only when he tried withdrawing with a twist (the better to gut the brute), the Bear found his weapon unable to budge, as though it were too-firmly fixed in the enemy’s abdomen—indeed, ’twas just as if the muscle there, dead-set on guarding his royal guts, only gripped the blade tighter in reflex, preventing it entry or exit!
“Grrraghhh,” growled Fehrso, both hands planted on the hilt and wrenching hard. Sweat trickled down his furrowed brow, his bulging neck and broad chest; sucking in his girth, he put his all into what ought to be, ’gainst any reasonable man, a disemboweling blow... to no avail. The brute, amused, dealt a powerful punch to the pitmaster’s face, and blood poured at once from his nose; eyes crossed, he stumbled backward, dazed, his sword stuck firm in his opponent’s rock-hard stomach and his own unguarded torso open to attack—
Thlickt-splutch!
Fehrso fell on his back. His breath had left him; chin to chest, gasping, he took in the sight of himself, and his eyes grew wide: the tribe-king, powerful indeed, had dealt a grave slash, opening him shoulder to hip. There was so much red, the old bear thought at first that he’d been beaten outright; as it turned out, he had the stoutness of his bulbous paunch and meaty pectorals to thank, for soon enough it came clear he had suffered but a flesh wound, if an awful, bloody one. He was slow to his feet, though; in the meantime, the bull, grinning, strode to him, straddled and loomed, his shiny bald head blocking out the sun. He spat on the former gladiator—right in his eye, in fact; dangled (for he wore no clothing, same as any northern prisoner in those sands) his tremendous cock, which had been lengthening and thickening throughout their bout. A trickle of eager seed sprang from it (the greater portion held in reserve for the win, of course) and this too Fehrso took in the face. But he laughed; in his fighting years, such taunts were common, and he’d suffered worse. Gripping the hilt of the weapon still stuck in his waist, the king drew it out, and in its wake a long bolt of blood graced his pale belly. He tossed the sword to the sand, allowed Fehrso to grip it again.
“Show us your khos,” came a voice from behind; it belonged to the king’s lithe, youthful friend, who now stood at his head. Of all northern words, Fehrso knew this one: “intestines,” those which slithered from an opened belly, likewise those which indicated fortitude. Did the boy mean it literally? It mattered not, for to these folk there was no distinction. Fehrso’s bravery would come apparent by the eagerness with which he risked his guts, to their eye—and, being a gladiator through and through, he didn’t disagree. Only at this point, he discovered to his great dismay that he was caught in the men’s chains, tangled in the iron web of their queer union. Belly bared, barely able to move, Fehrso came to terms then with the weighty likelihood, more apparent by the moment, of his long-sought demise...
It was then, at that gravest of instants, that he stumbled on the very key to victory.
This so-called “captured king of the cold north,” looming before him now, bore not the unearthly aura his slim companion did, that oddness he had noticed earlier; instead, his huge limbs showed the selfsame ebon bands of servitude which Kert wore. At first glance, Fehrso guessed they indicated royalty; now, knowing his mistake too late, he set about his work. Plunging backward and upward, he pierced the lad’s waist with a twist, and Alaghos Thesc (for he was the true king!) screamed as the loops of his pink vitals popped out, sliding down his pale crotch. The smell of it, that unmistakable odor of virility tested, made the Bear’s manhood swell, even as he wriggled from out his binds; now, he had but to watch from afar, as the bout found its own gruesome end...
Just as Fehrso guessed, the young king’s mighty ermhos, Roghodt, was bound by honor to follow his liege-lover in defeat. Clutching slain Thesc’s split waist, he touched the greasy viscera erupting from it, and his brow creased; perhaps, Fehrso guessed, his resolve only grew, now the warmth of his lord’s very bowel—indeed, his courage—was at hand. Right then and there, straddling his slain king, Roghodt gutted himself. It was a fine sight—no real man can help but be moved by such a scene, and Fehrso, tugging down his crimson-painted loincloth, let his girth escape and gripped it in his hands, pleasing himself. The brute died well, and entertainingly at that: back arched and massive breast spread wide, he unleashed a great groan, one of satisfaction more than pain—for, as he pressed his chin into his chest and gazed down, all his entrails started to unfurl between his naked hips. Amidst it, the ruby crown of his clublike cock rose, rigid and proud; it loosed, as the audience cheered, a truly tremendous measure of semen, that great white mess all the more copious against the blood-black canvas of the death-sands.
Only, nearly climax, Fehrso realized he ought to save his seed for something better yet—his true win!
“No,” Megart sputtered, clawing at the walls which jailed him—“no, no, no!”
The Bear got to his feet, approached. “Disrobe, now. Shoes too, all but your underclothes.”
“On what grounds?”
Fehrso’s breast swelled. “I am master of this pit, and all such fighting-grounds of Arak-Hed. Your champions lie butchered; there is no protection for your belly now. It is the law, no? Even you, a high magistrate—especially you, sir—must see the logic of my argument.”
Trembling, he conceded. Megart was a man, after all, and a stickler for southern convention; much as he feared the pain to come, there was honor in it, and a special symmetry with his son’s death, to boot—he could still smell the stink, see the glint, of his child’s guts as they graced the dirt, and now he’d see and smell his own. Setting bare foot to sand, he stepped out of his robes, showed his thin, naked waist (already awash with sweat) to the blade—and the Bear did not hesitate to plunge. Slicing downward, a slit was produced for the old man’s intestines to bulge from, and bulge they did: slowly, a little at first, which he caught in his hands, but then too much, the whole malodorous mess of himself swinging between his knees like a sack of well-earned coin. Fehrso took a step backward, admired his handiwork; the sight of it alone, his longtime enemy defeated, caused him to ejaculate. Did Megart too, overcome with his own demise, add his seed into the bargain? One could but speculate.
The Bloody Bear was wounded, dripping in the sand; all the same, he had proved to himself that his best days might not be behind him after all, but ahead of him yet!