You might think that a mountain man would miss his furs, but Kruun took quickly to the blazing southern sun; the northmen—real northmen, cavemen, Kruun’s kin, not those lily-livered prettyboys who ruled his land in name alone—enjoyed a nude fight no less than the Thorgans did, in fact. Instead of flower-oil, they would rub their full frames slick with bear fat, grunt and glisten in the cavernfire’s light, good, jagged blades of blackglass gripped, till finally the gore and gut-stench struck the eyes and noses of the watching elders and the boys both. How he missed those days... but now, stripped bare and glistening again, that joy returned. His breast swelled, massive, bristling with gray-black fur. His belly, furry too and stout as any ale barrel, flexed and rippled, seeming to anticipate a gut thrust; rubbing at it, old Kruun thumbed the thick hair covering his middle, as if reassuring it, Hold tight—you’ll get your turn!
And just then, right on cue: “I’ll gut the brute, I will!” the slender lad exclaimed, Kruun’s first opponent. He had passed the rites, of course, and bore the scars of it, but elsewise seemed a novice: pale, beardless, overconfident. His skinniness accentuated what good meat he had: strong sword arm, firm legs, hard, flat abdomen. His navel’s knot protruded slightly—an appealing target, one which the enormous caveman fixed on straightaway. “You speak our tongue, old bear?”
He didn’t.
Henoc chuckled (this the young man’s name)—of course the bastard wouldn’t understand. “All right, then I won’t bother telling you what pains that hulking frame of yours shall shortly undergo... instead, how ’bout a demonstration?”
Henoc leapt and swung; Kruun ducked, then chuckled. Growling, Henoc spun and swung again, but heard the blade’s clang rather than the satisfying thuckt of split flesh—it was parried perfectly, his strike, and for his failure did the old brute deal a counter-thrust, destroying Henoc’s nipple. Blood ran quick and vibrant down his thin, white belly; “Urgh,” he grunted, wincing, knowing that the scar would be an ugly one, more sure to sicken than intrigue the ladies whom he paid to love him. “Bastard!”
As he raised his sword high, gripped in both hands, Kruun plunged forth, defeated him outright: a navel thrust, the full blade swallowed by his waist. Blood leapt his lips; his eyes crossed, and he dropped his weapon, looking down in time to see the red length leaving him. Kruun liked these weapons; though obsidian was holy, iron had a heft to it which he enjoyed, and made the act of running men through simpler than ever.
“Haaarrrghhh,” groaned Henoc, clutching at the wound—“my damned guts!”
As his knees hit sand, a bright jet splattered on the sand in front of him, his life’s blood gushing with abandon. He had hoped, perhaps, to see his entrails strewn before his eyes, as many Thorgans did—indeed, as did the audience that day!—but it was not to be. The crowd screamed as he toppled forward, slain, a red hole in his shiny back, at which point Kruun strode nearer, rolled him over with one massive, naked foot so that the young man’s bloodied, sand-caked belly stretched itself before the sun’s eye, beckoning the gods and vultures. Grinning wide, the caveman put his big sole on the dead boy’s chest, and struck a pose of victory—the heart beneath it beat no more!
But there are battles still for you to face, my burly friend, the autarch thought, observing closely from his highest seat above, excitement bulging underneath his robes. He, like his subjects, yearned to see some innard spilt... but there would be intestine yet, that proof of fortitude the Thorgan ring demanded!
Kruun, too, stiffened as the blood-stink filled his nostrils; it elated him, defeating men, and with his foot pinned firm upon corpse’s breast, he tugged his member—once, twice, just enough to ease a thin, quick dribble from the shaft, a hint of seed to come—then let it go, the swollen, clublike organ jutting proudly from the hair-nest of his naked crotch. Who will I kill next? Kruun thought.
Brothers entered: twinned men, so it seemed at least. In truth, a whole year separated them—one eighteen, tantalized by his initiation, hungry for a real gladiator battle, and the other nineteen, scarred bad, relatively battle-hardened. He had taken stomach wounds before, so said the marks upon his waist—The whelp knows well the sting of steel in his bowel, thought Kruun—but on this day perhaps he’d give his belly fully, finally, and thereby show his little brother what it meant to die right. Each possessed a trail of soft fur, crotch to sternum, rings of thick hair round the nipples; as for muscle, they were powerfully built, if ill-defined. Aye, ripe to die, the bear thought, licking at his lips—he couldn’t wait to bring them their demise!
“I’m ready, brother,” said the young one, sweating, shaking.
“As am I,” declared the far more practiced fighter, tightening his grip upon the sword. He squinted, eyeing Kruun; it couldn’t have escaped him they were outmatched—aye, despite their strength in number, facing down a full-grown cave-bear meant they wouldn’t, couldn’t, walk away from this one. All the same he thrust his chest out, sucked his stomach in; ’twas death by blade they’d each sought from the very start, these loving siblings, and a single glance confirmed their grim, unshakable commitment to the same.
Kruun circled them. He’d pick the green one off first, nip his brief life in the tender bud. Inevitably, youthful eagerness took hold; the kid charged, tried at first a too-wide slash across the hips. The old man, nimbler on his toes than he appeared, would not allow his guts to be laid bare so easily... but his opponent would. Still running forward, the attacker paled—so intent on killing Kruun, he hadn’t realized the caveman’s sword had made its own swipe till his entrails, half-spilt, swung between his quaking, shiny thighs. “Oh, no,” he muttered, staring openly, as though his insides were a marvel rather than a deadly omen; it was when his head fell, severed, that the body dropped and loosed the rest of his intestines all at once upon the hot sand.
Did his kin’s doom lend a special passion to the living? Possibly; he fought so fearsomely, ferociously, in all his bouts that seeing his beloved brother slain thus had no visible effect. For all his effort, though, he lasted scarcely longer—“Hurnghk” he grunted, then a second time as once, twice, steel pierced his slender, sweaty stomach, muscle doing little to prevent these gut-stabs. Finally, the third blow hooked him underneath his sternum, and he spat blood, hugging big Kruun for support. The killer whispered in his ear—a northern death-prayer, possibly—then took his sword back, leaving him to bleed out.
Kruun observed himself: the brute was unharmed, not so much as winded, though a sheet of iron-smelling man-sweat poured across his hairy muscles. Fatter still from killing two more boys, his penis, fit to pop, stood throbbing at his crotch, its red tip curling toward his belly-hole. Won’t take much now, he knew—another kill or two, at most... and yet, how much more satisfying for him, and the crowd, if he could hold it to the point of death, the very limit?
With a mighty flourish, his erection plain and early pleasure dampening his fine robes, Autarch Tholoc ordered now his latest favorite into the arena: Snakefang Slydon. Older even than the cave-bear, Slydon, fifty some odd years beneath his belt, was nonetheless a very handsome gladiator. Tall, lithe, lean and powerful, the bald slave bore a golden-yellow tan, the image of a verdant serpent inked upon his skin: it slithered from his smooth-shaved cock-root, up his firm, flat stomach in an undulating wave, till finally it circled round his left teat, forked tongue licking in anticipation; likewise did the fighter taste the air himself, his pink tongue darting from between his lips. An air of awful strength and sheer skill wafted from him—Finally, a challenge! Kruun thought, grinning in anticipation of their bout.
Indeed, the lean old man proved very hard to pin... and it would come at great cost.
Skwurtch!
“Hrnghf—”
Kruun, against his countless years of training, let his sword go, instinct driving him to grab instead, with both big, hairy hands, the blade half-buried in his midriff. All his strength was needed to prevent it sinking deeper, skewering his organs; with some difficulty, he succeeded in this task, and pulled it loose. An instant later, and to Slydon’s great surprise, he spun the blade round, pointed square its red tip for the snake’s groin—
Spluckt!
“Hngaaarrrghhh...!”
—forcing him, at last, to stab himself. Four hands wrapped round the hilt—two for, and two against—its edge carved sharply upward through the taut flesh, butchering along the way; shrill cries of sorry disbelief rained from the stricken crowd as Slydon’s small bowel slithered slowly out and down into the gap between the tangled swordsmen, coiling neatly in dirt. A truly mighty belly, Kruun thought, smiling as he cut... but, faced with steel, meat is meat, alas, and all men’s guts are fair game. “Die well,” said the old bear in his mountain tongue, and slit the snake’s throat. “For a fighter proud, a good death!”
Kruun breathed deep. His heart beat hard now, and his belly... well, the snake’s fangs dealt a grave blow: from the gaping gouge, his bowel bulged—not much, but enough. In twenty years, the cave-bear’d seen his innards relatively often; stomach wounds were common, even longed-for—painful, aye, but mighty badges of a man’s raw courage. This time, though, the lifelong soldier sensed no healer waited for him, no chance to be stitched whole afterwards, and certainly not after slaying such a favored swordsman. Kruun would die in Thorg, and very shortly too; his guts would be a feast for birds, his bones the playthings for a pack of city-dogs!
So be it!
He was ripe to spurt now, but he held it in—he had to.
For the autarch’s part, he too had only barely managed to contain himself. Desire, mingling with anger, led him then to do a brutal thing, and one which he’d regret; soon, spearmen entered on his orders, four of them—an execution this time, no mere gladiator fight. Kruun sneered. The massive, beefy killers, big as he was, swiftly dominated him; he found his back against the ground, limbs pinned fast by the executioners’ huge feet. At once, and taking turns, they speared with overweening glee the gladiator’s organs: stomach, liver, kidneys and intestines. Skwutch-pluckt! Thuckt-skwitch! Each plunge made its victim buck like mad, a throaty death-howl bellowing behind his clenched teeth... but he kept his eyes wide, forced himself to witness this, his glorious defeat! The crowd went wild as the big bear’s bowel was drawn out, looped around the gory speartip; this was shown to Kruun, as if to say, Your prize, sir, for succeeding in the ring! And he beheld it closely—“Arghhh, my guts!” he spat, so loud and forcefully that all who heard it, understanding not his foreign speech, assumed it but a crude curse. Suddenly his thighs shook; one cruel bastard, guessing what would come next, prodded with his weapon, piercing Kruun’s fat scrotum even as he shot his last load, hot seed arcing high into the air and splattering his hairy, heaving chest...
And then his throat, his heart, his brains became the target.
Tholoc, watching from on high, ejaculated, spreading wide his robes to cast his seed upon the masses.
There would be no burial; instead, just as the old man prophesied, a flock of vultures crowded round the pile of his entrails. From his severed penis was a charm made, meant to strengthen the erections of its wearer, and it sold for quite a handsome price not hours after he was slain. As for his bones, the Everdying Autarch, using molten gold to mend the cracks, remade the savage fighter’s shattered skull, and fashioned from it a terrific scepter—thus did Kruun the Northern Cave-Bear, eyeless though he was, forever look upon the red sands of his wretched death-place!