Harkut’s prowess was obvious; that much could not be questioned. But for a northern dog, be he adopted or born to that place, to stride the bloodsands nakedly without the promise of a killing thrust—what’s more, oiled and garbed as a gladiator proper—was unseemly, to say the least. Tales soon spread of the traitor-captain who’d betrayed and slaughtered (and in the nastiest of fashions, they noted) the upstanding Raklun, former soldier, prized arenafighter and, most important of all, the second son of High Magistrate Megart himself. As it turned out, Megart had attended the bout that day; from a good seat, low and close to the action, that honored gentleman had a clear view to the brutal disembowelment of his favored boy—indeed, ’twas by his father’s gilded hand alone that Raklun gained his newfound occupation in the first place, realized at last his long-held dream. Though death was ever on the table for his son in such a grim career, Megart knew it would take a very powerful opponent to defeat him. The lad was strong, skilled, tempered by the fields of war... and, till the very moment that his guts touched sand, the magistrate believed that he would persevere.
The heady stench of Raklun’s bulging insides hadn’t left his nose. He wished to see this savage swordsman fight again—and die.
Thus bolstered by his secret benefactor, Harkut was inducted, same as any worthy man, into a decent stable—but, no different from his peers, he’d need to prove his place, and enter battle as a novice. That said, the gruff old fool, more tanned and hairy still than half his fellows (who, for the most part, had only just reached fighting age), would be hard-pressed by the brutal trials they’d subject him to; in fact, thanks to the special attentions of his sponsor, the man was doomed to undergo a far more rigorous regime...
* * *
The spot in King’s End where poor Raklun’s viscera had spilt looked smooth now, pale as any sand there; how they cleaned such messes, and so quickly at that, Harkut couldn’t guess. Being a war-fighter by trade, it had never occurred to the man that the site of a kill might need fixing—the land fixed itself, took the flesh of the dead from their bones, and eventually the bones themselves. But men fell, spilt their guts here, in that very spot, day after day or even hour on hour... and someone, some poor sod paid worse than him, must collect all the fruits of his acts, conceal the burden of his blade. He had a good blade, now: a proper shortsword, honed and polished, with a jeweled hilt and a decent weight to it, the measured balance necessary for an elegant attack. They’d bathed him; never had the man been cleaner, and what little hair his shiny head still bore was now so thoroughly washed, it shined. The whole of him did, at that—every inch of his brown, weathered frame, save the few bits hid by his pristine loincloth (whiter than white, the better to clash with the coming blood), was oil-rubbed and glistening bright with life, despite the many scars carved in his ragged hide, each mark a death he’d slipped. For a novice to fight in that vast old arena was odd; the last time, he had been a guest there only, so to speak, by virtue of his status as a savage prisoner and traitor, but this was unheard of. It was Megart’s doing, of course, though he didn’t yet know it—and Megart too who had packed the stands with hundreds, thousands maybe, hoping, knowing, that the ugly brute’s defeat was certain now, and every soul in Arak-Hed must witness it!
Yet who would be the one to kill him this time?
Two, it turned out—aye, two “novices” like him, a promising young pair who’d been the spawn of Pergot, Gladiator-Prince. In their fine veins ran royal blood, supposedly; their father claimed to be the bastard scion of the former king, though whether that was true or not, none knew. In any event, they were royalty indeed in the eyes of the true fans, who’d worshipped their dad, at his height, with a fervor bordering on religion. A pretty man with long, blond hair, pale eyes and luscious lips, his beauty passed to them, too: each was finer than the other somehow, tall and slim yet copiously muscled for their age (not twenty yet, or so guessed hairy Harkut). The boys were smooth, except their underarms and ’twixt their legs—a bit of spun gold poked from out their coverings, a tantalizing hint—and neither kept a beard, but Pemsret wore a budding mustache whilst his brother, Peksun, kept his chin and cheeks quite scruffy, lending him a rugged look his brother rather lacked.
“You ready, Pek?”
Pem’s body, rigid as a blade just like his brother’s, shone with oily sweat beneath the noon sun; brassy statues, these two, born of the same mold. “To win, or to die?”
“Either. Both.” In truth, a three-man fight was unconventional; the common rules, which couldn’t be bent when it came to novice bouts, allowed at most one winner—meaning, naturally, that any gladiator else must die. If Pem and Pek defeated Harkut (which they would, how couldn’t they?), then the boys must battle one another afterward. They understood this—craved it, even. With a lineage like Pergot’s, killing, dying too, was in their blood; what a pleasure ’twould be to give their guts up to the sands of King’s End, as they’d watched their father do so memorably—and what a greater pleasure, should one brother get the chance to gift that moment to the other!
“You know I am, same as you, Pem... but what have we here?”
“He’s a old one.”
“Aye, isn’t he—older than dad was, eh, when his belly emptied.”
“Yes... well, let us fell him quick, that we might face each other sooner!”
The brothers divided, each in a different direction, so as to catch old Harkut in a pincer move. The crowd was elated; though neither boy had fought a public bout nor killed before, already they appeared their father’s sons, and what came next was sure to prove a spectacle indeed. The former captain, naturally, was too well trained to deem a couple green young men, however pedigreed, a challenge, and he quickly took one, tripping Pemsret at the ankle before leaping on him. Harkut’s hairy hand closed on the lad’s throat; choking him, he put his swordpoint to the golden button of his sleek young belly. What a handsome target; even he, a combat-hardened bastard, couldn’t help admiring that stretch of sweaty, taut flesh rippling now beneath his eager blade. He heard Pek coming from behind, warned him off with a word: “Stop—not another step, you whelp.”
“Or what, you’ll kill him? Gut him?” Pek laughed. “It is what we’re trained for, bred for...”
“Only you would rather do the deed yerself,” the brute said. “I see it in yer eyes, the both o’ you—you’ve promised death to one another from the cradle, good as marriage vows!”
The boy conceded the point. “You speak true, sir... more true than you know. So, what would you have of us?”
“Fight fer me—fer them,” he said, and gestured to their audience. “The pair o’ you. Whichever good lad triumphs in the end will get his turn at me, aye, but before that, I should like to see a bout fer the ages. Would you humor me?”
Pek looked to Pem, as if to ask the question with his eyes; Pem, pinned still under Harkut’s weight, nodded assent. “We accept,” said Pek. “Let him go, sir, then stand far back if you please, for we shall give you a vivid show!”
The crowd, intrigued yet stupefied, was noisy with confusion—but, when the old man stepped off, letting the sons of the Gladiator-Prince himself take center stage, the game became clear, and their cries rang. Harkut, for his part, thrust his sword in the sand and sat to watch whatever happened next, cross-legged, elbow perched upon one knee and chin in hand.
“You’re certain of this, brother mine?” Pek asked, blade drawn back for the plunging thrust; Pem too, opposite him yet identical in stance. They were some paces apart now, each beautiful man a perfect mirror of the other...
“Never been more certain. Ready?”
“Come at me!”
A bout for the ages indeed took place, and yet an all-too-quick one; for a moment it seemed, as their twinned blades sang, that neither’s blow would best the careful parries of the other—until, at last and at the selfsame time, each fighter, aiming for the other’s thigh, struck true and gored him to the bone. Falling crippled into one another’s arms, a long, close, very intimate embrace ensued, the sort only brothers, or lovers possibly, could find. The crowd, knowing what must come next, went eerily silent. Bodies mingled, long, lean limbs entangled, the boys began to grind their muscled frames as one, like cogs in a clock, oil easing the way, sweat pouring through the crevices between. They put their swordpoints to each other’s hips—and there, saw Harkut, had their shiny cock-heads burst loose, poking up from beneath their loosened clothes. Their fervent, pent-up motion, soon enough, would cause an unavoidable and simultaneous ejaculation, but before that, something far more terrible would spill...
“I’ll do it,” Pek said, panting.
“Promise?”
“Hurghk—!”
“Arrrghhh—!”
Shivering, the gladiators moaned into each other’s gaped mouths—battle-song, more grim and beautiful than aught the people gathered there had heard before, nor Harkut possibly. How handsomely they feed the steel to each other’s guts, he thought, gaze fixed upon the sight: a tight, white-knuckled fist upon each sword-hilt, putting fearlessly its point to naked belly-meat. The walls twitched, hardened; muscle, penetrated, can’t help fighting back, but can’t help losing either, in the end... and lose it did. Red stained their garments, dotted in the sand beneath their slender, golden feet.
“My—g-guts—”
“Arghk—y-yeah,” Pem told his doomed kin, looking down now—they both were. “You—g-gonna—?”
Pek answered by pulling his blade across—slowly, a little at first but then too much, too far, for Pem did the same, they were racing each other, and suddenly their audience was aghast and agog at once: guts, loops of pale, pinkish innard, slid forth, dangled loose into the narrow gap between their taut, trim bellies. Hard to tell, at any distance, which boy they belonged to—Pem, Pek, both perhaps?—but wonderful to watch for one like Harkut (and for many others in the crowd), who were accustomed the sight of spilling organs and collected their variety of hue, shape, quantity—some purplish or pink, some gray; some fat with filth but others tangled, ropy. You could tell a lot about a man by how his guts looked, so the brute thought, and the viscera of those devoted lads looked fine indeed. Where he sat, he could only barely hear their little grunts and breathy, whistled groans; their good deaths and devotion to the act of killing pleased him better than he’d hoped, and, shuddering, he soaked his loincloth through with more seed than he thought he could produce...
To Megart’s horror, no doubt, Harkut was the victor by default, would fight again one day.
The siblings, as a coda to their brief lives, spurted semen on each other’s gaping stomachs and intestines; they had perished standing up, and when the time came, it required two strong men to separate the corpses.
Next: Harkut’s Honor