Huruk Holds His Seed
(Previously: “Urqu’s Opportunity”)
Huruk grimaces as Thuk’s cool steel presses at his waist, above the left hip. Though the warrior is young, he’s suffered injury in countless fights before, but never there: the gut, that seat of manly strength and source of all his fortitude. For weeks, he’s contemplated kneeling in the sand, performing thok-chol for the eager crowd—that holiest of acts, the disembowelment ritual which is the treasured birthright of his race—and this, perhaps, was why he’s waited, what he’s held out for: evisceration in the heat of battle, combat death, no less an honorable end. He clutches Thuk tight—brother from another woman’s womb, the son of Hoghor and his fifth wife. Looks him in the eye. The men’s lips part, their faces pressed so close they almost seem to breathe through one another’s mouths. Thuk’s nostrils flare, as if he were a bull enraged—indeed, he looks the part, as stocky as he is. Bald-headed, older than his brother-warrior by two years, he is not as handsome as the other fighter but he’s killed more men—And now, thinks Huruk to himself, he’s killing me!
As boys, Huruk and Thuk would play together endlessly; their swordfights, carried out with wooden blades, resulted in not more than bruises or, sometimes, a rather bad scratch. They would kneel in the dirt together, stick their slender bellies out, and imitate the ritual of thok-chol—plunging, thrashing, groaning, clutching at their waists and holding in the copious, imaginary guts. My guts’re spillin’ out! young Huruk would announce, and Thuk would answer, Argh—urgh—mine—too—brother. Then the day came when their game of thok-chol was a game no longer, but a very real possibility—no, an imperative—and the importance of a good death weighed thereafter very heavily on Thuk’s and Huruk’s hearts...
Their meaty legs entangled, Huruk feels the great bull’s throbbing member pinned tight ’twixt their sweaty thighs—and Huruk, too, is battle-hard today. They’re fighting naked, for the pleasure of the audience—a not uncommon sort of bout—but both men know full well that spilling seed is not permitted, save upon the moment of defeat or victory. So Huruk holds it in, with all his might—he isn’t beaten yet. Thuk’s tip grinds hard against the firm, thick belly muscle; Huruk grunts, his abdomen clenched tightly as he can... but, in the end, men’s bodies are but meat, and steel is ever stronger. Huruk’s chest swells as the point sinks; he can feel it entering his innards, the sensation he has waited for his whole life!
Thuk was gut stabbed, once—a brutal, nearly fatal thrust—and knows full well what he inflicts upon his brother. “Does it burn?” he asks him.
“Like... f-f-f-fire,” Huruk spits. He gazes down into the gap between their sweaty, hulking bodies, watches as the blade sinks halfway in, then out again, awash with red.
“Once more,” Thuk whispers, “for good measure, eh?”
“Arghk—” Huruk bares his teeth and throws his head back, shivering with ecstasy and agony combined—then, looking down once more, he sees that Thuk has put the sword in him a second time, square in the middle of his gut. Sweat trickles down his neck and hairy chest; the black fur covering his stomach has been matted damp with perspiration and, now, fresh-spilt blood. The wound is not too deep, but Thuk’s blade, broad and wicked as it is, has left two wide and gaping wounds in Huruk’s handsome waist—indeed, as he takes back his blade, its jagged edge rips Huruk open even worse. Thuk lets his brother go. The gut-stabbed fighter staggers backward, swaying slightly, struggling to stay upright. His free hand clutches at his bloodied midriff. There’s an odd sensation, terrifying and yet curious in equal measure; opening his palm, Huruk’s suspicions are confirmed: a single, pale loop of bowel has slipped free, even more behind it threatening to bulge. “You’ve killed me!” Huruk groans.
Thuk laughs. “Ha! Hold your seed in, boy—I haven’t slain you yet.” The warrior is right, of course; a belly wound, guts spilt or no, does not quite spell a man’s death, most especially if he is stout and brave as Huruk is—and what’s more, eager for the test of pain! He looks on Thuk’s huge, brazen body, spies the jagged scar that crawls between his navel and his groin, and knows that he can wrestle with it no less well.
“Then let us carry on!”
Still holding in his guts, young Huruk swings—clang—striking Thuk’s sword; parrying, the big bull swipes but Huruk leans back, narrowly avoiding being stabbed again. Blood drips into the dirt between the wounded fighter’s feet. The pair go at it like this for a minute, maybe two—a sheer eternity in the arena, most especially when one of the combatants has been gut-stabbed—until finally the younger fighter pins Thuk’s back against the wall. A low, strained gurgle rises in the big man’s throat; he grits his teeth, looks slowly down upon himself, only to find his brother-fighter’s sword stuck in the thick, black forest covering his crotch, an inch above his cock. Thuk’s weapon falls and thuds against the ground—instead, he grips with both huge hands Huruk’s offending blade and squeezes tightly, heedless of its keen edge, desperate to prevent it plunging further. For awhile, they only stare into each other’s eyes, unblinking... until finally the victor shoves hard, deeply as he can; Thuk chokes, and blood pours from his lips onto his heaving chest. With sudden, savage pleasure, Huruk roars, twists, tugging upward, following the deep groove of his scar to cleave him clear up to his very belly button!
“Hrghk—anghf—arrrghhhhhh...”
Thuk catches the intestines as they unfurl from his butchered belly, grinning as he stares at them—he’s more alive now, somehow, than he’s ever been or ever will be. Huruk’s happy to have helped the man achieve his battle-death; he watches proudly as his brother falls upon his knees, back arched and managing to laugh as all his messy insides tumble in the dirt. Great gobs of pent-up semen burst forth from his fattened, throbbing cock, which rises from beneath the tangled guts. He bears his throat, and Huruk dutifully cuts it; spurting, Thuk falls foward, face-first—he is slain.
The crowd goes wild, wilder than Huruk’s ever seen. Amidst the squall, he glances down, and winces: several inches of intestine dangle from his gored waist, hanging down to drape his rock-hard cock. He grips his sword in both hands, turns it inward—it would be a simple thing to ease them even further out. Shall I continue what you’ve started, brother-warrior? he wonders.
No—instead, he thrusts his sword into the sand. As much as it would please him to expire here, he longs to fight again!
The healers take him in their care, and have their way with him—they drug him, stitch his stomach, bind the wound, apply their ancient magicks... and, before the next moon, he is in the pit once more.
(Next: “The Gut-Gift”)