First and Last

’Twas by the so-called “First Rites” that the men of Thorg proclaimed their virtue in the sight of all, not least the Everdying Autarch. In the old days, every southern citizen survived the ritual, but lately it was only would-be gladiators or aspirants to the Deadguard who endured its punishments—in other words, the ones who’d planned already on a life, however brief, of blades and blood. The possibility—indeed, the likelihood—of being butchered outright drew as many brave boys to the Bloodpit’s gates as it did viewers eager for a glimpse at the event. Each year, a veritable horde of youngsters—sixteen, seventeen, not quite mature enough to test—were turned away, the law preventing them from joining or observing what went on within; and then there were the poor fools, barely twenty-one years old, who had, for all their overbrimming strength and youth, already missed their chance, must sell themselves as common soldiers if they yearned so badly for a man’s end—yet, although a battle-death they’d gain, beneath the eyes of gods they’d never be true men, real warriors.

The lads fought naked like a pack of swordslaves: tall, short, lean or stocky, muscular and skinny. They were eighteen, nineteen, sometimes twenty years of age, the older fellows no more confident than any; to a one they shone with fresh sweat, glistening and dripping, not from heat alone (although it would’ve been enough) but in anticipation of the bout, by which they’d lose their lives or enter them anew. The swords they held, they’d shortly use to stab and gut each other—though, in theory anyhow, they didn’t fear this fate: “I’m ready,” one boy said beneath his breath, palms moist upon the hilt. “Me too,” declared another, facing him... and then the strangers stepped forth, started on a path of no return. Their dance was tame at first, but deadly by its sudden end—“Hlurghk” spluttered one of them, the younger, slimmer kid. He reached down, felt with fingers first before he saw it with his eyes: steel penetrated him between his cock and navel, savaging his vitals. “Oh, my guts!” he sang out, wide-eyed, fascinated more than frightened. “Die well,” ordered his attacker—then, with savage curiosity, he worked the blade inside the boy’s waist till, at last, intestines burst loose, hooking on his sizable erection. This proved but the first evisceration of the day; scores more would follow...

Thacro, who had come of fighting age not two weeks earlier, was stunned by such a sight. He’d seen guts, naturally—he was the Autarch Tholoc’s son and heir, it happened, and his father was a connoisseur of men’s bowels, putting servants to the sword each morning, noon and night for entertainment—but the boy, athletic though he was and practiced with a blade to boot, had led a sheltered life; to see his own spill now became an all-too-real possibility. Yet it was thrilling too, the fact that he was here in secret—and unrecognized, at that!—still more exciting. By tradition, autarchs’ sons forwent the Rites entirely, their suitability for combat being inborn; Thacro, though, had wanted this since he was swaddled in the crib—he’d claim his manhood, same as any lad!

“You’re muscular,” a young man opposite him managed, staring at his stomach. He was short, thin, common; dark hair sprouted from his gut and groin, the lone sign of his readiness. The fool’s untrained, thought Thacro, capable of recognizing skill and skill’s lack; Tholoc taught him how to size a body up, if nothing else.

“I am,” said Thacro. From around them, cries rose: fresh pairs formed and started dueling, putting steel through each other’s waists, the violence spreading like a fever. “You would penetrate that muscle, eh?”

“If I am worthy...”

“You are not.”

The youth had swung already; ducking, Thacro pierced his tender underbelly, pushing hilt-deep. Ropes of entrail slithered as he pulled free, which the fool embraced as though a god’s gift: “Ahhh!” he sighed, surprised, elated even. So he’s dreamt of it, this death, the noble lad thought, smirking—I will give it to them all!

The next foe was a mighty fellow, taller even than himself, and beefy too, his brown trunk thick as any tree’s. “I’m not afraid to die,” the boy said. He was deep-voiced, manhood resonating from his chest... and from his loins, saw Thacro, glancing downward: an enormous, slick cock sprouted there. He felt his own swell; naked like the rest of them, he’d near forgot his nudity and theirs until this moment, seeing how the stout opponent’s penis jutted, sword-like.

“I, too, seek death,” Thacro answered, realizing as he spoke these words that they were true. All men of Thorg were taught—all noble men, at least—that perishing in single combat was the highest honor. Live, die, all that mattered was he give his body over to urge he felt, this ultimate extreme, which made his loins taut and his belly ripple with desire for the coming thrust...

The big lad grinned. They rushed for one another—

Skwutch!

Thlickt!

Hugging tight, they gasped into each other’s gaped mouths. Blood and semen scattered at their toes like precious pearls and rubies—there it was, the true coin of the realm! The fighter’s huge arm wrapped around young Thacro’s slickened torso, groping for support; a strange sound, deep and whistling at once, escaped his lips. Hot loops of butchered bowel spilt—Mine, or his? he wondered, for amidst the overwhelming ecstasy and pain—the ecstasy of pain, that awful, beautiful amalgam swordslaves knew—he truly couldn’t tell. But as the enemy fell backward and his innards outward, splatting in the sand, he learnt the answer. All the same, he’d taken steel in the belly. How his heart swelled as he gazed upon the wound, his first and maybe last: a bit of gut stuck out, a fat pink knot. He pushed it back in, realizing it would not take much for it to wriggle out again. How proud would father be, thought Thacro then—no, merely one more youth to perish for his daily pleasure...

Could the Autach see him there, from on high? Glancing up, he squinted, searching for his sire midst the roiling crowd—and aye, there sat the bastard, robed in gold, so tiny at a distance that the boy imagined he was nothing—just a man now, no more.

Splutch-thuckt!

Hurnghk—

Young Thacro’s eyes returned to the arena: either side of him, a sword-armed kid had stabbed him at the hip. Steel seared his innards; pinned between them, he was at their mercy, and they knew it. Joining forces, even for a moment, was a rare thing in the free-for-all that was the First Rites; nonetheless, the two collaborated, carving Thacro’s waist until their blades met. Back arched, pressing chin to hairy, sweaty chest, the slain heir stared; his eyes bulged, and a whimper slithered from his throat—a moan of agony, of deep embarrassament and brutal disappointment: he’d been gut-slit, and his small intestine wreathed his penis like a bloody garland. Spurred by instinct, Thacro’s loins thrust; he ejaculated wildly, thick, milky semen splattering his fallen organ, fallen in the dirt, like all the rest...

The last words he would ever hear came from his killers:

“What a fine sight, eh?”

“Indeed—and you’re next, friend!”