That Joyous Game
(Previously: “The Gut-Gift”)
Ivrik, stripped bare, strides through the arena sands with all the elegance and power of a leopard. He is twenty-eight years old—no whelp, but neither has his strength begun to fade. A good age for a swordsman’s final fight, which no doubt figured in the tribehead’s choice of foe. He’s beautiful: black-haired and thickly bearded, oiled skin like polished bronze. The same as any warrior, Ivrik is pocked with scars: a deep pit in the muscle of his left breast, where he took a sword thrust; holes where once his meaty back played host to feathered volleys. Belly wounds are common amongst men of Bahar’sool, but Ivrik’s abdomen thus far is whole, its smooth and rippled breadth unmarred by sword or shaft. The audience applauds him, for today he dies—but what an honorable death!
The man’s opponent is Hoghor himself, the vaunted tribehead. Hoghor, having viewed the thok-chol of his best son Huruk, yearns to slake his nigh-forgotten thirst for battle; as a man of more than fifty years, and saddled with the burdens of his rule, the tribehead has had scant occasion to engage in what had brought him to the very pinnacle of Bahar’sool society: combat, that joyous game of blood and pain. It’s been an age since he has taken steel in his flesh; since then, his body has grown flabby, but his girth remains imposing and his strength unmatched. The old king’s skin is sun-baked and as rough as leather; long of beard, his hair is silver, and the curly pelt which bristles all across his burly chest and bulging gut is white as mountain snow. Though rather fat about the waist, the muscles hidden underneath are stout and thick as ever they have been, make no mistake... and Ivrik knows full well how hard he’ll need to work if he intends to disembowel the brute!
They take their swords up: long, broad, slightly curved, as sharp and polished as a weapon can be made. The fighters’ joy suffuses the arena—never have two men been prouder or more eager to engage each other in a trial. Ivrik, back arched, sticks his smooth and handsome belly outward, muscles rolling as he breathes; the wrist-thick, copper-brown manhood which hangs beneath it starts to swell and twitch, and soon will grow erect. The tribehead, grinning, bends his knees a bit and draws his weapon back, then slaps his stomach, as if signalling his foe to stab it if he can. The gong is struck; the men belt out great battle cries and rush toward one another, eager for their fates...
“Arghk—”
“Hurghk—”
The crowd screams; blood drips in the dirt between their bare feet. Hoghor gazes into Ivrik’s deep gray eyes, his brow bunched tight with pain. Young Ivrik’s mouth falls open, and a stream of spittle dangles from his broad lips. Glancing slowly down, he spots the tribehead’s blade stuck deep beneath his sternum; he can see the steel quiver with the beating of his very heart—but, though he’s badly hurt, he smiles, for his own sword has been buried in old Hoghor’s middle.
“I have got the muscle of your heart pinned,” Hoghor says to Ivrik—“any further, and my steel will see it split.”
Ivrik grimaces. “Is that so? Well... my blade is poised to pierce the muscles of your stomach—in a moment, I could spill your guts.” Indeed, though deep was Ivrik’s thrust, the old man’s belly fat proved thick enough to bear the brunt of it.
“I doubt that,” laughs the king, and as he sucks his stomach in, the younger fighter feels Hoghor’s belly meat bunch firm against the sword’s tip—he will have to best this barrier before the tribehead spills his bowels. Nevertheless, Ivrik shoves hard—splutch!—“Hunghf!”—and Hoghor writhes, his body soaked with pungent sweat, as steel grinds against the muscle, threatening to penetrate. But, god on earth though he may be, the Lord of Bahar’sool can’t keep the sharp tip from its task, and slowly, finally, the sword slides into Hoghor’s innards... “Ngaaarrrghhhhhh—!”
Before his enemy can pierce his heart, young Ivrik pulls himself off Hoghor’s sword, blood spurting down his handsome, heaving waist; as he escapes, he takes his blade back, tugging sharply, and the old man’s belly opens like a gory flower, guts erupting from the torn, pink flesh. The people see their tribehead butchered and they cry out, rising to their feet. Some beat their breasts; yet others draw out daggers from their belts and rip their tunics open, offering their bellies up, a thok-chol for their beaten king...
Old Hoghor falls upon his side, thrusts out an arm to hold himself upright. The pale folds of his intestines drape the sand, unfurling messily, awash with blood and grease. His noble prick, engorged and hard as stone, gives up its seed one final time—a beautiful display, the precious, creamy essence glinting in the sun as it begins to fountain—and a young man, a servant it seems, rushes out with a bowl in his hands and collects the tribehead’s semen, which may yet be put to use.
Ivrik is happy, yet in awe as well: he’s slain his lord! Although just such an end had been expected—welcomed, even—terror fills his breast. No matter win or lose, Ivrik was bound to carry out thok-chol... and now, at last, the time for it has come. With great solemnity, he kneels on the ground within sight of the tribehead, who’s alive still, barely, grunting, watching glassy-eyed and grinning like a boy. “Good... man,” he tells the handsome fighter. “This has—hurghk!—ever been... m-my wish...”
“My lord,” Ivrik announces, chin high, chest thrust out and painted with his blood, “I offer up my thok-chol.”
Staring down, he takes the hilt in both hands, turns the weapon inward; breathing deeply, he can feel the sword’s tip pricking tantalizingly against the smooth, flat stretch of meat midway between his groin and belly button. Ivrik is a killer; he has spilt the guts of countless men like so much offal, heedless of the ease with which a body comes apart—but, in the moments just before he disembowels himself, the swordsman contemplates the awesome mystery of what he will endure...
I need but cut a slit between the hips, he thinks, just deep enough to splay the belly open—everything thereafter will proceed apace. It’s been a good life... what an honor, to expire in the tribehead’s presence!
Thluckt—
“Humphf—”
Sweat rolls down the fighter’s hard and writhing body; as his spine begins to arch, his punctured stomach sticks out, and he draws the sharpened edge clean through the meaty flesh, the muscle parting with surprising ease. The guts emerge immediately, as if eager, bulging fat and shiny in the blade’s wake. Finishing the slit, his agony achieves such heights as he has never dreamt. Despite the pain, or possibly because of it, his huge, engorged cock bucks and spits; he takes it in both hands and works it, jerking feverishly, moaning as his hot seed spills into the dirt...
The deed’s complete. His honor is intact. He’ll die a man.