And live he did. By stroke of luck, his vitals had been left intact, yet Hambra didn’t feel lucky. There was little work back home for men of good build, and bereft of name and coin, two choices waited for him: laborer, or gladiator. You can guess which route the man took—and why wouldn’t he? Young Hambra liked that feeling still, despite it all: sweat dripping, steel clattering, the fact he might not make it through the day a secret, special thrill. Don’t be mistaken, though—the civilized arenas of the Northlands were a far cry from those famous southern pits. For one, the men fought armored: helmets, pauldrons, leather belly-guards to keep the guts intact, or leastwise stop them falling out. ’Twas naught but theater, of course; to die was rare, defeat symbolic only, for the most part. Hard work, aye, but not of the athletic sort—and so the lad grew fat, for he was feted nightly, fed and wined far better than he’d ever been. In bed, each win he took, a different woman lay awaiting his arrival, pleased him copiously, if indifferently. It was a good life.
Well, a sort of good, at least—the boring sort.
He wanted more; he wanted meaning, anything that mattered. Death did, he recalled; one bout, his last in those lands, he grew overzealous, bested his opponent outright with a low thrust, low in every sense. Wide-eyed, the victim watched as Hambra’s blade punched through the barrier of boiled hide which hid his waist and pierced his belly-muscle. In his haste and foolishly to boot, the stabbed man stripped his broad belt, bared his reddened midriff: ripe, pink loops of innard bulged before their audience. They got an eyeful then of what they never had before: the fruits of real battle, true aggression. Though the victim lived, the fighter’s new career did not—and, banished, Hambra fled south, where the sun burned bright and blood poured all too freely...
* * *
Hot sand greeted Hambra’s bare soles as he entered the arena. In the North, they’d fought near fully clothed, whilst southmen liked a nude fight; sandals, loincloths—even simple articles as these were frowned upon. A naked belly was essential. In the land of Thorg, ’twas said a man’s waist held his worth; in their odd, ancient tongue, the words for “strength,” “soul,” “courage” and “intestines” were the same! To die guts-out, by one’s own hand or elsewise, was the highest honor, and the job of gladiator sacred—swordslaves they were called here, living chattel rather than performers. Death, not simply promised, was a longed-for thing, a ripener of fame, and even the most skilled or celebrated spilt their entrails after only several years; in fact, at twenty-four, our Hambra was considered past his prime by some, the greater portion of his fellow fighters barely fresh-scarred by the rites of age.
Young Tuktu, one of these, still bore the stitches from his proud ascension: he’d been cut bad, ribs to hip, a long, diagonal attack that no doubt left him hanging open—only somehow he’d survived it, claimed hs manhood in the process. Wound apart, he was the finest looking youth the northman ever planted eyes upon: tanned, golden skin, a chiseled, lean physique, black hair that hung behind him like a horse’s mane. He glistened—both did, it was customary that a fighter oil himself before a bout—and just the sight of him was blinding, let alone his beauty. Naked as his nameday, Hambra couldn’t help but feel intimidated; he was fit enough, a stout young lad indeed but stouter than he would’ve liked, a belt of white flab saddling his waist. And when it came to cocks, well... let us say that Tuktu bested him in this regard, too: his erection, rigid as a blade, shone bright, whilst Hambra hung limp. Spilling seed at fight’s end was a southern custom; whether he could manage it, he knew not. Then again, the war had taught him that to kill or die urged soldiers’ bodies to bizarre extremes—he’d give his load up, no doubt, sure as Hambra or his enemy would spill intestine!
Tuktu strode with confidence toward the center of the pit, cock swinging, balls full. Nigh a thousand viewers filled the packed stands—Hambra’s best guess, leastwise; they were noisy, crude, a far cry from the sort of audience he’d been accustomed to. They entered speaking distance, and the northerner addressed his slim opponent: “Nasty cut you’ve got there, eh?”
“My guts emerged,” said Tuktu, each word swollen up with pride.
“They put ’em back, I hope? I aim to make ’em exit you again.”
The kid laughed. “Foolish northman—it is your bowel that the crowd shall see today!”
“Then come, boy,” Hambra told him, drawing back his weapon—“disembowel me, if you think you’re tough enough!”
They battled long and hard, produced a good sweat; perspiration mingled with the rose oil they had rubbed their bodies with, lent hints of iron to their flowery bouquet—a scent like blood, in fact. Indeed, the blood flowed; Hambra hollered as his foe’s blade jabbed him in the back and flank, his thigh was slashed, and soon enough the sand grew crimson underneath him, bright gore dripping as he went. The southman, nimble on his feet, remained unharmed... until, enraged, the doughy gladiator drove his back against the stone wall ringing the arena. Tuktu raised his arm to swing; the swordslave grabbed it, pinned him by the wrist above his head. Now, spine arched, stitched-up middle stretched, he had him where he wanted him—the kid would die, and Hambra’d claim the win!
Infuriated, Tuktu gazed down: Hambra, jabbing with his weapon, teased the very seams that kept him whole. He didn’t fear to die—that much, he’d made plain—but to perish mere days after having earned his place was difficult, no doubt, and offering his tripes up to a ruddy northman that much worse! Still, death excited him—his manhood, rock-hard, prodded Hambra’s navel like a slick knife, ripe to spurt the moment he was bested. Hambra snorted... then he realized his own prick, stiffened by their battle, dripped with seed. He held it back; it wouldn’t do to give it up so quick, he knew, and there was much to come.
“You hesitate,” said Tuktu, shivering. When Hambra shut his eyes, and saw the pink guts of his northern gladiator victim, whose defeat had sent him on the path to exile; heard again, with frighteninig fidelity, the death-cries of his slaughtered countrymen. No better than that bastard Zlatyr now, he thought, and felt a deep disgust at where his life had led him...
“Gut me!”
But he threw his sword down—he would battle no more, let alone eviscerate his beaten enemy. “I can’t—won’t.”
Tuktu, wild-eyed, stepped forward, fell upon his knees. He held his sword out, turned the honed point inward. All the audience fell silent; bowel must flow, they knew, one fine man’s or another’s—they would get their coin’s worth! More than that, though, offering intestine was a sacred act, and one which brave young Tuktu, as a proper Thorgan, was prepared to carry out. It didn’t take much; tender as the wound was, he had but to trace its length with blade’s tip for the dam to burst. He leaned forth, sighed through gritted teeth whilst Hambra watched a fat snake slither out of him: his whole intestine, dutifully coiling on the dirt. He climaxed, writhing; thick white ropes of jism streaked his fallen insides. Hambra’d heard the rumors, but reality proved stranger—truly mad, these southerners, who gave themselves so wantonly and fully!
...And yet, even as he watched, his own spunk splattered him across the belly—he’d ejaculated.