Enter Taban
(Previously: “A Proper End”)
Young Taban is amongst the best of Langrun’s boys. At seventeen he showed up at the stable, full of guts and unafraid to spill them; now, some five years since, he’s fully grown into the role. The lad’s long, lanky form has sprouted hard, lean muscle; where before his skin was smooth and fair, the fighter sports a scarred, brown hide—he’s proud of all the many blows he’s borne, and he is ready to bear more. When death comes (for it surely shall, and sooner for a gladiator than for most men), he will bear it well, but till that day he’ll take his licks and dish them out in turn!
His foe this time is huge, but rather slow—a giant from a distant hill tribe, heads above the tall young man and twice as thick around the waist. As Taban swings, the great brute knocks the boy down, squishes him beneath his big bare heel. Taban squirms, his lungs squeezed empty as the man’s enormous foot bears down upon his chest; he grips the giant’s ankle with his free hand, meanwhile swiping up between the furry, tree-trunk legs—
“Ngarrrghhh…!”
Blood trickles in the sand. The giant grips his groin; a deep red stain is spreading quickly through his loincloth. Taban wriggles free, then struggles to his feet. A slick, dark pool has formed between the brute—the proof, as far as our young gladiator is concerned, that he is soon to win!
The giant grips his broad, two-headed axe in both hands, hefts it, swings it high above his head; his hairy barrel chest swells outward, heaving like a bellows, while his thick, tanned, sweaty belly glistens brightly, beckoning to Taban’s blade. Before the brute can bring his weapon down, the boy drives steel deep into the swell of flesh beneath his navel, piercing muscle, jerking upwards through the meaty groove between his round abdominals…
“Hlurghk—”
Now the crowd gasps, staring, horrified and fascinated, at the mess of stinking purple guts that bulges from the giant’s midriff. Taban slits him to his sternum; the intestines slide out in a tangled, greasy heap and drop into the dirt. He lets his axe go, and it topples to the ground. The brute falls on his knees and Taban, coming up behind him, grips him by his curly hair, tilts back his head, and slits his throat—the blood sprays hot and quick, and soon enough he’s dead.
The second fighter Taban kills today is tall and lean, the same as him—a boy of barely nineteen years. Before they go at one another, Taban notices the fat erection throbbing underneath the other’s loincloth. This one’s eager for it, Taban thinks; he’s seen this sort of thing before, these men who yearn to die more than to kill, who’d rather lose than win—well, Taban will oblige him!
Thlickt—
“Argh—”
Taban spins away—the other boy has drawn first blood, a long but shallow cut across his flank. Our hero grimaces; the pain is sharp, but on the whole not very bad, and of the sort he’s grown accustomed to. Another scar for my collection, Taban thinks. Now, growling, teeth bared, he bursts forth and runs for his attacker while the audience applauds him, cheering—soon they’ll see the fruits of their beloved young combatant’s training, watch with interest as he fells another foe. The other fighter winces, shivering, as Taban’s blade slits deep inside him, sinking squarely through his navel; Taban pushes, grunting, till the blood-slicked steel juts forth from the boy’s back, dripping gore into the sand. The crowd screams—it’s a hit, a fatal blow!
“Nooo,” moans the poor young gladiator as his guts are run clean through. His handsome body folds against the victor’s sweaty form, and Taban feels the lad’s erection bulging from between his hips, its slick head firmly pressed into his bare thigh; as they rub against each other, taken by the fervor of the moment, climax for the both of them becomes inevitable: Taban swollen with his victory, the slain boy overcome with the excitement of his sudden and inevitable death. As Taban’s penis bulges from his loincloth, he is unable to stop the quick, hot spurts of seed that splatter his opponent’s reddened belly; likewise, the gut-stabbed lad erupts and squirts the bounty of his climax onto Taban’s hard, brown stomach. For awhile they hold each other like this, until finally the winner takes his blade back, and the bright blood gushes from the loser’s middle, splattering the sand. The boy dies; Taban lifts his gory blade aloft, and hollers out his pride. Another day, another pair of wins… but how long can a gladiator dance with death before he stumbles?