It took place by light of full moon, as one might guess, in the palace courtyard; no observers would be suffered (though the autarch, being as a god to them, could not be challenged if he wished to watch, and most years he took special pleasure in the act). First came libations—drink flowed freely once the sun fell, bitter bloodwine, the fermented dregs of butchered gladiator corpses. If a man stood sober ’neath the moon’s gaze, they would pour more down his craven throat, until at last he belched and belted ancient lyrics with the rest of his dread brethren, blade drawn, unsteady on his feet: “D’runkht hworghun,” they would holler, “skheen thoon,” eyes shut, shiny faces lifted to the night-lord—Rise, Moon, raise your naked sword!
And then the offering stepped forth.
He’d volunteered, this victim, though that isn’t quite the right word; never was it forced upon him, what befell him. Old, young, novice guard or veteran, he’d stumble toward the middle of their circle, unclothed (as was only proper), often drunker than the rest. His penis, standing taller likely than it ever had before, gleamed at its tip, a load of stout seed eager to eject itself and sanctify their games. This time, the willing warrior was only nineteen; he had come of age not one year earlier, yet so full-throated was his fervor for the order that he yearned to spill his very life’s blood... even so, the gift he offered this night, graver still than he could understand, would prove most difficult to give.
Let us describe this boy. Hand-chosen by the autarch, Lundr was a very thin lad—strong, aye, yet his slender body scant reflected this: a soft gut, hollow nearly in its sheer concavity; a breast so bony you could spy the quiver of his proud heart beating in its cage. He bore a gangly look, long limbs but large hands, big bare hairy-knuckled feet. One pictures members of the Deadguard burly, over-muscled; Lundr, neither, nonetheless had bested some two-dozen fighting slaves in single combat, slitting guts with no less ease than any of his bigger brothers. He was nimble on his toes, quick-witted; ugly, yes, but little did it matter in their shadowed order, where a thing like face-fame held still less worth than a grain of sand. A man, that’s what he was, with balls near ripe to burst with spunk and hairy underarms awash with ripe sweat, good as any!
Nipples stiffening, he swelled his bare chest. Little hair grew there; his gut, though, bore a thin brown trail, the soft curls clinging to his damp waist. Kneeling down, he spread his thighs wide, laid his blade’s length ’cross his lap: the sword’s edge, sharpened to a hair’s breadth, would make quick work surely of whatever came across its path... but this night, it would lay its owner’s body open, none else. Lundr trembled slightly, and he swayed a little, owning to the wine—but let none say, despite his senses being dulled, that he mistook his task: “O Father Moon,” he spake, in solemn, holy tones, “I hereby offer up mine bowel, that thine bright eye might deem this blood and semen worthy!”
One wet, shaking hand upon the hilt, the other near the blade’s tip to ensure its path, the young man put the swordpoint to the pale stretch beneath his navel. Back arched, leaning forward slightly, he inserted steel—“Huphft”—the barest hint at first, but then a whole inch, two, three inches, and the more he gave the more his belly seemed to beg. Through gritted teeth, he hissed—a long, low whistle, naught more, all the agony what racked him hidden best he could. His fellows—and the autarch—watched with lurid fascination: one day they too, to a man, would give intestine to the cause, by enemy attack or by their own hand. Each one, wide-eyed, stiffened by the heady stink of blood, wished badly to have been in Lundr’s place... who presently, and with enthusiasm, thrust his skinny pierced waist forth, pulled down the blade—“Nguhhh...!”—and bared the fat, pink organ he had promised.
“Brother!” cried one drunken guardsman, middle clutched; the sight so moved him that, without so much as one stroke, he began ejaculating. Several such men stood amongst the dozens gathered, and their cream soon slicked the floor beneath their soles, devotion’s sticky proof.
But it was Lundr’s seed, his blood, that truly mattered. As he suffered in near silence, small bowel sliding dutifully outward, the devotion he had pent up swelled and fountained, running down the stone-hard, gore-red shaft so copiously that it seemed a miracle. The newfound mix of fresh blood, sperm and gut-grease, taken up by two strong champions—Gedair and Druce, the candidates this year—was shortly smeared across their bulging, furry breasts and thick, stout stomachs, signaling the bout to come... at which point Lundr, having sanctified thereby their brutal duel, expired, innards wreathed around his gentials.
On to the fight, if one could call it such.
The first, Gedair, was powerful of build, to put it spare. At fifty-two, he was the eldest of the bunch, a famous gladiator in his youth. His scars were many; often had he spilt his guts, in fact, then been stitched whole again, a better swordsman for the agony of it. He shaved his head bald—but his chest, as hairy as a northern bear’s, displayed a veritable pelt of curly white fur, and his waist too, wet and matted down now with the holy offering. His cock stuck out—a short one, aye, but thick around as any, and it fair shone with the gleaming promise of his seed. One wide blue eye observed the grim world splayed before him; he had lost the other, given it to combat.
“Druce,” he spat as if it were a curse, blade cradled in his big hands.
“Stretch that fat old belly wide,” the other brute announced—“I aim to gut you!”
Druce was beautiful and sleek, despite his forty-some years: long, black, braided hair, a thick beard. Deeply tanned, and more obscenely muscular than his opponent, oft had he imagined gaining leadership, yet only this year entered. Glady would he give his viscera in the attempt, display his entrails for the vaunted Deadguard... still, to kill Gedair and win the seat himself would be the best, and to this ever-lofty goal he set himself that night, prepared to die. He rubbed his battle-hardened belly with the stuff that Lundr left and, greased thus, posed before his sworn foe: back stiff, slender cock still stiffer, sword drawn back and ready to attend the task.
“I’ll gut you first,” Gedair exclaimed—“you know this to be true, friend!”
“Hmph!”
It started swiftly, ended no less quickly: each man hollered, rushed, and—Skwutch! Thuckt!—plunged his deathly length into the other’s midriff, heedless of his own destruction. Pinned like this, the grim pair set about to carving...
“Hrnghf—”
“Gragkh—”
...till between them a tremendous, pulsing mass of purple-gray gut rudely burst forth. Difficult to tell what stuff was whose, as often happened when two men entangled on the battlefield; that said, who had won and who lost soon became apparent. Druce stepped backward, loops of bowel unfurling from his red waist; old Gedair, however, gaping ribs to crotch, had given wholly of himself, the full mess dropping slowly to the floor. His toes curled; chin to chest, his one good eye beheld with strange pride what his aging body had become. He knelt ’midst crimson, laid his sword down. With a grim nod, he conceded victory—thwickt—whereupon his head fell, lopped off by the newfound leader as a demonstration of his graciousness and generosity. Bereft of crown, that brute frame nonetheless ejaculated—longer, harder even than most living pricks!
Druce smiled broadly, even as the weapon left his fingers. Swaying, blood and worse beneath his bare heels, he was overtaken by the sudden urge to clutch himself tight, hold the wound closed—and it’s good he did, for all at once the greater portion of his gleaming vitals slipped their flesh-cage, sliding down his bare thigh, threatening to hit the floor. He offered seed—“Hanghf!”—and the white pearls scattered at his feet.
“A healer!” ordered Autarch Tholoc, desperate to perserve a life so fine as his... but, though they’d put his guts back, stitch that handsome belly whole again, apply the proper salves and magicks, none knew whether Druce would last to glimpse the dawn. It didn’t matter, in the end—alive or slain like Lundr or Gedair, he’d seen his manly duty done!