The Meager Prize
(Previously: “The Gut-Gift”)
Thurckt!
The arrow burrows deep, and Breccan’s belly burns with sudden pain; amidst the copper forest covering his muscled waist, the feathered shaft juts, twitching with his every heaving breath. His eyes cross, and the image of the boy who shot him doubles—two of him there are now, barely men and hardly half his age. “Untie me, cowards,” Breccan cries out—“let us tussle, fair and square!”
They’d caught him wandering across the border, strung him up. The morning after he had slaughtered Huruk, son of Tribehead Hoghor, he departed Bahar’sool for better realms—where gladiators fight for common things, like coin or fame, instead of lusting for their ends. It’s not that Breccan didn’t long for it somehow, appreciate a good death; hell, he’d almost hunkered down and disemboweled himself at Huruk’s side, that day. But when he’d started out upon this path—so young, just seventeen and eager for a bout with anybody, be they bigger, smaller, stronger, weaker—victory had thrilled him back then, not defeat. Those were the days: a sword in hand at noon, a mug of ale by sunset... then, beneath the moon, a woman’s bare breast. Nightly would he sheathe himself in someone new—girls mostly, now and then a boy. Apart from his defeated foes, these days old Breccan barely fucks... but these are strange thoughts for a man about to die, he thinks.
His toes just touch the campsite dirt. The fire crackles as the fat drips from a meager cut of spitted meat—the young men’s supper, no doubt, once they’ve finished carving Breccan up. His clothing has been stripped, and from his red-furred crotch his penis rises, bobbing, stiffening, until the pink shaft rubs against the missile buried in his guts. These shepherd boys, he thinks—could they be starving? When they finish with their fun, will I be dressed and skinned, made mutton of?
“All right then,” says the slightly shorter boy, who aimed the bow. “Do as the old man bids, Dane. Let me have him; if I’m slain, you’ll take revenge.”
“You sure of this?” The one called Dane is thinner, prettier; his skin is sleek and milk-pale, save the bright pink of his penis and his nipples. Feathery brown hair sprouts thick across his collar bones and on his sternum, running in a thin line down his middle till it meets his pubes. Though willowy and fey, his tall frame does possess a certain strength, thinks Breccan—give the youth a spear, I wager he would make a fearsome foe...
“I’m not afraid to die, my friend.” The other lays aside his bow, then finds a hunting knife and cuts the gladiator’s bonds, the whole while locking eyes with him.
“And my opponent’s name?” asks Breccan.
“I am Eilun.” Shapelier than Dane, he’s got a boyish softness to him: pudgy, almost girlish teats with big, brown nipples, belly round and jutting slightly from his waist. Lest any wonder at his age, a pelt of curly black fur covers him from crotch to ribs—this one’s a man, if only just, and just like Dane he’s no doubt capable of much with blade in hand...
“Well met,” grunts Breccan, wincing. Glancing down, he grips the wooden shaft that’s struck him just beneath the navel, and begins to tug. He bares his teeth; the pain is very great. The arrow’s tip—it’s barbed, the old man realizes, and the bowels are hooked. Should I pull too enthusiastically, my guts’ll come right out, like Huruk’s bloody thok-chol! “Eilun, you have shot me true,” he says—“you’ve got a damn good aim.”
“Is that so? I was aiming for your cock.”
Dane snorts.
“Arghk—” Sweat rolls down the fighter’s hairy, heaving chest, which glistens orange amidst the flame; blood trickles quickly, darkening his groin as he attempts to works the arrow free. But, when he twists it loose, it splits his flesh; the wound gapes, splaying wide—“Unghf—hanghfff—nghaaarrrghhhhhh”—and as the reddened shaft slides forth, the entrails come out with it, tangled on the head: some several inches of slick, greasy viscera!
“You’re gutted, gladiator,” Dane says, staring at the old man’s savaged middle. As if feeling Breccan’s pain, the boy begins to arch his back and rub his slim white stomach, prodding gently, knowing that beneath the muscle there, his own guts lie in wait—they too would wriggle free, he knows, if only they were given half the chance. Dane watches as, with great care, Breccan disentangles the intestines, pink and slippery between his fingers. He disposes of the arrow, tossing it aside; as for the length of bowel, he lets it hang, exposed, the soft loop draped against his cock.
“Give me a blade,” the man grunts.
“You’ll fight like that?” laughs Eilun, point with his knife at Breccan’s guts.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Very well.” He hands his foe a blade—like his, a hunting knife, the steel broad and hooked. In moments, Breccan is upon him, lunging; Eilun twists aside, and see the edge flash past his ribs. He spins, swings wide, attempting to eviscerate the old combatant even more completely—only Breccan, light upon his feet despite his age, avoids the strike and sticks his point up underneath the young man’s left tit, sinking deep into the flabby flesh. Blood runs out to mat his belly fur; the curls which wreathe his cock are painted red. Poor Eilun squeals like a stuck pig—and yet, at the same time, his erection throbs and grows, the stubby member gaining girth and length and an astounding rate. “You’ve wounded me,” cries Eilun.
“Aye, and next I’ll put you down!”
The boy bolts for him; Breccan meets him halfway. There’s the sound of steel ripping flesh, soon after followed by the throaty, whimpered groan of which the gladiator is quite fond, that noise that men so often make when they are battle-torn and realize they’ll die—it’s Eilun, this time, who has understood his own death, gazing wide-eyed as the hilt of Breccan’s weapon jabs his waist, the whole blade plunged inside...
“Urghk—my—b-b-b-belly!”
“Sorry, kid—was aiming for your cock!” He grips him by the throat, then sharply twists, a scooping slice which spills the loser’s innards out with frightful, sudden ease. While Eilun fumbles with his guts, Dane takes his spear up, swings it wildly; the tip cuts Breccan’s furry chest, and draws a blood-red line. But then the gladiator elbows him, the spear falls from his hands and Breccan takes it up instead, kicks pretty Dane onto his back, and pins him with his foot, the sole pressed firmly at his swollen, pink prick. Dane looks up, and sees the spear’s tip angled for his navel, just about to plunge... and then, instead of begging Breccan for his life, or struggling to flee, he sucks his belly in as tightly as he can—breast swelled, his ribcage bulging with its final breath, the stomach muscles bunching tight and firm beneath the skin—but at the same time thrusts his hips, back arched, so that his abdomen sticks outward, upward, almost coming into contact with the spear’s long, brazen tip. He’s ready for defeat, thinks Breccan—yes, he almost yearns for it!
“And now,” the gladiator growls, “I plunge into your guts!”
Dane looks him in the eye, his body quivering, anticipating what’s to come. “I’m ready—stick it in!”
Instead, old Breccan squeezes his opponent’s penis with his toes; Dane moans, then starts to spurt, seed pooling where it gathers, thick and milky, in the hollow of his belly button.
“You’re an agile fighter,” Breccan tells him.
“Spare me, and I’ll kill you,” Dane spits.
“Lovers, you and Eilun?”
“No... although we may as well have been.”
“Come with me—train to be a gladiator.”
Dane is silent.
“We could roam the land together, you and I... there’s much and more to see.”
“I’d sooner fall upon my sword... hurghk—”
Blood begins to pool amidst the semen, where the spear is plunged; the old man fishes, twisting, churning young Dane’s insides, while the boy gropes at the wooden shaft and strains to keep it from its task—in vain, of course. When Breccan tugs out, half the boy’s intestines come out with it, slick and tangled, pale purple-gray in hue. Dane bares his teeth, and they are tinged with blood. When, like a miracle, he comes a second time, the seed is scattered all across his gutted corpse like tiny, precious pearls, the meager prize of his defeat.
(Next: “The Tide Turns”)