It’s not that Hewin had been ignorant of southern things; he’d heard, like any traveler to Thorg, of swordslaves, bloodpits, of the Everdying Autarch and his Deadguard—but, as northmen do, he put these crude terms in a category that did not, by definition never could, include himself, however near he might approach. No belly-danger for a foreigner like me, the young man figured—wrongly, he would soon enough find out—imagining that savage disembowelment was the purview of a Thorgan male only, not of men in general. How terribly romantic, thought the tourist, to present one’s guts before a doting audience; he took a slave-fight, put a coin down for a far seat where, when finally one tiny, glistening combatant slew the other and the death-shout, like a distant bird’s cry, reached his ear, he saw them—the defeated man’s intestines—only partially at best, a pale pink glint sliding out between his legs. The crowd’s reaction, more than anything he may have glimpsed, confirmed the butchery: great whoops went up, and all at once a wave of passion rippled through the crowd, so swift and fervent even Hewin, unaccustomed to such public gatherings, felt swept off...
* * *
After that, the lad went wandering the markets for a trinket. Only streets away, he thought with wonderment and, yes, disgust, the men themselves are being traded—slaves and gladiators by the hundreds, thousands! He could hear the fleshmen offering their product even this far: “Fresh meat! Belly-muscle stout as any ogre’s! Don’t take my word for it, have a stab or two—he’ll hold his tripes, or thrice yer coin back!”
“What’s that?” asked a bauble-seller from a nearby stall, a scrawny, balding fellow.
“What?”
“That,” said the man again, but pointed this time at the plump sack dangling at Hewin’s hip.
“Oh, these?” He dumped the contents on the counter separating them: some crystal dice, a set of onyx tokens. “Jastenfrey—you’ve never played before, I take it?”
But the merchant scowled. “A northern game, eh? Never heard of it. I’ll give you six coins for the crystals, and another for the shiny black bits.”
Hewin chuckled, shook his head—“No, you’ve mistaken me, I fear. This set was given me when I was but a boy; I hold it far too dear to sell, for any price... but I can teach you how to play.”
The merchant, hesitant, looked round. “I’ve got no custom at the moment... Sure, why not?”
Before long, half a bell had passed; they’d played for coin, and Hewin won the seven—twice that actually, and more—that selling would’ve got him. Soon a crowd had gathered. Everybody wanted in; the rules were simple, they’d convinced themselves, and they could beat this foreigner if only given opportunity... but one especially, a burly, booming youth, demanded it. “You—northman,” barked the young brute, jabbing Hewin in the shoulder, “show me.”
“Happily,” he answered... only Hewin bested him, then bested him again, a third time even. As the desert heat built and frustration simmered even hotter, the defeated player shrugged his sweat-soaked tunic off, exposed (intimidatingly, as he’d intended no doubt) his stupendous waist and massive, broad chest. Hardly twenty, Hewin wagered, same as he was, yet the plump young man, whose pale, curly hair and blue eyes lent a boyish look despite his girth, was fully twice his size; if angered further, Hewin feared what he would do next. “Well,” he said at last, “the day is getting long. I’d better—”
“What’s that,” spat the big lad, puffing up his massive torso, “scuttle off, yer pockets fat wiv all me hard-earned money, eh?”
“We played a fair game, sir. I’m sorry if it doesn’t suit you—”
“Doesn’t suit?” He socked the tourist in the gut; as Hewin doubled up with pain, he felt the loser’s huge hands close around his throat. He groped, slapped blindly, smacking at the wall of wet flesh towering before him, but to no avail; finally, his fingers found a sword hilt—aye, of course, that weapon worn at his attacker’s hip!
Chwing!
Even as the blade leapt from it sheath, momentum threw its curved edge ’cross the stout youth’s naked stomach, slicing it; no sooner did the blow, unwitting though it was, draw grim red hip to ribs than did the wound gape open, splaying plain each layer of the man: thick yellow fat, taut ruby muscle underneath... and best yet worst of all that coiled, purple prize all proper Thorgans took such pleasure setting eyes upon. Whilst Hewin stumbled, letting go the gory implement of his escape, he stared with fascination as the southman bore that suffering which was his holy birthright: sandaled feet spread wide apart, legs quivering and damp, he reached down, learnt himself the quantity of stuff erupting from his slit waist. Hewin, innocent to that point, hadn’t seen a thing so foul or ugly in his life—and worse, he’d done the deed himself!
“Hurnghk—no, not yet!” the victim pleaded with his southern gods, in protestation of his unannounced defeat—then, suddenly and seemingly without cause, bargaining turned into eagerness, intention. Chin to heaving, shiny chest, he looked down, fixed with brazen certainty his bulging eyes upon the gift his belly offered now, too soon yet too abundant to ignore: his small bowel, all of it almost, the slick ropes sliding loose between his thighs. “You’ve—s-slain—me—northman—”
“B-But I didn’t mean—forgive—!”
Too late—the lad was dead, and Hewin was his killer.
* * *
Noon the next, this newfound criminal commanded suddenly his own crowd, an arena to himself—a small one, aye, but him the naked center of it. Each bare inch of Hewin’s fine young body lay exposed: his wrists were bound, and strung from them he couldn’t help but show his hairy armpits, curly brown fur matted flat with sweat; much fur erupted from his chest, too—small, pink nipples peeking from beneath, the skin pale, freckled. For a stomach, he’d been graced with quite a slender, waspish one, and though the muscle there was not quite visible (not normally, at any rate) the fact that he was stretched now, dangling, had made it so, the subtle ridges of his belly meat pulled taut and waiting for—he didn’t want to picture it, but it was true—the blade. The audience was raucous, trouble-hungry; Hewin knew (for he’d been one of them) they wanted naught more than to gaze upon a man’s guts, fight or no... and this day, they would witness his!
The executioner arrived: a portly fellow, brawny, middle-aged and beautifully bearded. He had arms enough to wield a slaughter-axe, but bore instead the gladiator’s shortsword, fine-honed, freshly polished—not dissimilar, in fact, to what he’d slain the lad with. Going topless, he seemed unashamed of all his girth, soft though it looked; despite his fat, a great strength, greater still than most men, fairly wafted from him like some heady stench, a virile perfume. “Do ye know yer crime?” he asked, and fixed his beady blue eyes on the tourist’s face and figure, as if seeking fault.
“Aye,” Hewin spat, for suddenly his breath grew short—“I’ve killed a man, in public.”
“Tain’t the killin’ what we’ve nabbed ye over, northman,” said the strangely charming swordsman, “nor the public part—we Thorgans like our slaughters through and through, the public-er the better! No... yer crime”—he leveled now his swordpoint at the youth’s waist, poked the tender, furry swath between his gut and groin—“was spillin’ wantonly the very courage o’ me own son, Creghory. He should’ve fell in battle... more than that, he was a swordslave, an’ my property to boot!”
“Forgive me, sir!” the boy begged, but the bladelord silenced him with one more sharp poke, piercing skin and drawing blood this time.
“Save your regrets. ’Tis only natural that men must kill—ye couldn’t help yerself—but bowel begs bowel, and a theft so total must be met in kind.”
“I understand,” said Hewin, after giving it some thought, then bravely raised his chin. Teeth bared and clenched, his chest swelled as he sucked his stomach tighter, readying himself for the attack. The fat man, mightily impressed, began to grin; no northerner he’d met before so willingly embraced his gut-death, let alone a mere lad. Little did he know, though, that young Hewin, who had yearned to be a magistrate one day, approved of nothing more than following the law—indeed, he’d see his life spent should the law demand it, whether of the north or south. It shamed him greatly, knowing he’d destroyed not just the property but kin of this enormous, honorable man... and if the penalty was his evisceration, then so be it, for it seemed a fair trade. “I shall do my best to bite my tongue, sir, but I cannot promise I will be as silent as your southern warriors...”
“Hah! This I don’t doubt... though I’m of a mind now to subject ye to an altogether stiffer punishment...” His sword descended to the swollen pink erection jutting from the kid’s hips, which he smacked with the flat of the blade. “Few men o’ yer race offer belly so intently. Yer a gladiator, boy—I see it in yer eyes, yer cock.” He cut the lad down, watched him tumble at his feet. “If yer to die today, ye’ll do it in a swordfight!”
* * *
You mean, besides the one I slew your son with? Hewin, dizzy from the fragrant, medicinal scent of the oil, but more so out of fear of being felled and gutted—no, excitement, at the chance to fell and gut another man himself!—had trouble answering; the understanding, too, that he’d been made the chattel of this hulking brute, his master, made him clam up in his dominating presence. “Aye, of course... I-I mean, I’m sure I haven’t...”
Creghon laughed, and slapped him loudly on the back. “Still hard down there, I see... that’s good. Ye put that spunk to work, boy; don’t go spillin’ it until yer guts’re out, or his are, eh? It’s unbecomin’, elsewise.”
“I... I understand.” His balls ached, and his manhood wouldn’t settle; never had he been so energized before, and till his master mentioned it, the possibility that he’d ejaculate mid-bout had not occurred to him. In victory or death do southmen spill seed, he remembered reading in a book once, and those words had stuck with him... yet now, the slightest touch of flesh or steel might set him off too soon, and ruin the performance! “Who am I to kill?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now go—and do me proud, young northman!”
* * *
Back in the arena stood a short but altogether lean, hard gladiator; not quite forty by the look of him, his black hair hung down to his sun-browned shoulders, and the thick, dark shadow of his stubble threatened to become a beard. Sharp, piercing green eyes pinned his enemy, and Hewin, feeling caught, could step no further. As the swarthy fighter took a deep breath, his stupendous chest expanded like a hairy bellows; perspiration matted fast the black pelt covering its breadth, and Hewin smelt that fine sweat even at a distance: heady, powerful, a manly, iron musk that made him want to kill or die without regret!
“I will, you know,” the man spat.
“Will what?”
“Kill you.”
Hewin shuddered. “In the southern fashion, I imagine?”
But the man sneered. “Is there any other, in this godsforsaken place? Give me your belly or your blade, I care not which—let’s get this over with.”
Their fight was swift, but quite a spectacle indeed. One might imagine that a would-be magistrate like Hewin wouldn’t last long; you’d imagine wrong, in fact, for he enjoyed athletic feats and had a quick foot—nimble on his toes, he ducked and dodged his darkly handsome enemy with ease, until—
Thlickt—
“Arghk!”
A red line opened up beneath young Hewin’s nipples, and his smooth, pale belly turned a pink hue as the blood poured down and mingled with his sweat. Another slash, intent on slitting him across the waist, came next, but he proved quicker this time, watched the steel miss its mark by only inches. Shall I give my all, or back off? thought the lad. He knew the answer, even as the question flickered in his head: sword first, he charged forth, bellowing. The other gladiator, caught off guard, released a deep grunt as his brave foe dealt a brutal gut-stab—spluckt—then stepped back, pulled his body off the blade. A cupped palm caught the hearty spurt of dark gore which erupted soon thereafter... though the wounded swordslave, equal parts impressed and stunned, could only grin.
In answer to this blow, he fed his own length to the boy’s waist.
Skwutch—
“Argh!”
Hewin, stunned himself, observed with wide eyes as the steel bested easily his belly-wall. An icy fire kissed his vulnerable innards; something whispered to him in that moment, urging him to throw himself upon the weapon fully and impale himself, destroy his body utterly... But not today, he thought, not yet!
Instead, he drew back, raised his blade and sliced the other gladiator’s arm off, felling him.
The crowd erupted, as did gore across the bright dirt, red on white. He’d never felt so powerful; his chest heaved, and his penis threatened to explode. If I should spill my seed now, Creghon won’t forgive me, thought the youth, observing his dismembered enemy fall backward. The attacker, armless suddenly, stared helpless at the stump of bone and raw meat, loosing all at once a long, sad wail of agony and disappointment... only just then, just like with the lad he’d slaughtered at the market, Hewin’s handsome victim summoned up his courage; arched, with dutiful intent, his spine and stretched his furry, tanned gut for the slaughter-stroke—the southern fashion, he remembered, knowing full well what he had to do to bring this to an end. No accident, this time: he pushed the tip inside his foe’s crotch, piercing muscle, slicing slowly and deliberately upward, till at last the contents of his pretty abdomen burst outward with a terrible abudance, endless tangled loops of pink tripe spilling forth. Embracing them, the gutted gladiator mumbled strangely, making sounds and words unknown in any language, save that of the countless bested men who spend their final minutes reddening arena sands. Triumphant, Hewin thrust his bony bare hips, angled his erection over the defeated foe—then spewed, more semen than he’d ever witnessed leaping from his rigid, swordlike cock to coat the slain corpse...
Even as he came, of course, he knew full well what fate awaited him, once Thorg was done with him: he, too, would pour his innards on the ground to please the viewing public... only knowing this excited him, prolonged his battle-pleasure—Hewin couldn’t wait to set foot in the pit again!