Urqu’s Opportunity
The tribehead smiles as his son’s bright, flashing steel slits into the other fighter’s stomach—just the barest tip at first, which breaks the golden skin and sinks into the smooth, sweat-shiny breadth of outstretched muscle, followed swiftly by the blade’s full, gleaming length, as though the boy’s guts were its favored sheath. The victim’s name is Umlu, and his death-groan echoes through the intimate arena, mingling with the hoarse shouts and the orgiastic screams of all the dozens who will watch him die; the victor, Huruk, hollering his pride, pulls Umlu into an embrace from which he won’t escape. Blood pours into the dirt between their bare feet; Umlu’s toes curl, as if struggling to grip the earth for dear life. Then, at last, the spectacle those gathered here have come to see: slick, lurid innards, loosed from Umlu’s butchered belly, tumble down between his bare thighs.
Huruk tugs free, backs away, and looks on what he’s wrought—back arched, chest heaving with exertion and excitement, satisfaction plain upon his face. Poor Umlu doesn’t understand he’s been eviscerated; clutching at his guts, he stares at them, confused—they must belong to someone else, the other man, no doubt. He staggers forward, falls to one knee; slippery intestines slide out, pile in his hands, and now he tries to heap them back in, but it’s no good—he’s been torn apart, defeated utterly, will never fight again. But what an end! The fact is, every man there—even Huruk in his triumph, even Tribehead Hoghor—burns with jealousy at witnessing the boy’s demise. A death by disembowelment can’t be matched; for Umlu, agonizing through their contest was, a seat in paradise awaits. Perhaps one day, thinks Hoghor, high atop his throne, I’ll pick an eager young buck from amongst my men, some glory-hungry brave, and have him face me in a blood-duel—ah, to spill my bowels out in the dirt, like any other warrior!
“A good bout, brother,” Huruk tells his gutted foe. The boy throws back his head, lays bare his pulsing, sweaty throat, and Huruk honorably opens it for him. Red spurts and coats the dead man’s muscled chest; the heart within falls still.
The crowd erupts. Bold, handsome Huruk lifts his dripping sword aloft so that the crimson blade is visible to all: a gory trophy for his effort, and the measure of his awesome prowess. Though the fighter’s black-furred breast is matted down with battle-mud—that mixture any swordsman worth his salt is covered in by combat’s end, of sand and sweat and blood and, often, even seed—he’s handsomer than ever, beautiful the way that men who dance with death become when they have just killed, or are just about kill, or even just about to die themselves. His sleek dark hair hangs to his shoulders; eyes like polished ebon stones both frighten and seduce all those who fall beneath his gaze. As Umlu’s corpse is carried from the pit, the ropes of his intestines trailing after, Huruk stares down, sticks his belly out, and rubs the belt of smooth, brown flesh between his navel and his hairy groin; he’s contemplating thok-chol, literally "gut-gift"—desert-speak for suicide by self-evisceration and the favored method of his tribe. The ritual is simple: taking blade in hand, a man stabs low and deep enough into his waist to penetrate the muscle, either just above the crotch, or at the hip; then, in a demonstration of his might and fortitude (for surely it requires very much of both), he tugs up toward the navel, or he pulls it hard across, and cuts his belly open—very slowly, if he’s able, soaking in the pain—whereafter, back arched, leaning forward slightly so the wound is urged to gape as wide as possible, his bowels erupt. The deed is best accomplished in the sight of others, other men especially, no matter enemy or ally—for, indeed, all men are equal at the feet of death. But much as he would like to have his thok-chol here and now, before his father and the gathered crowd, it’s not his time—young Huruk, only nineteen after all and barely entering his prime, has much more blood to spill—and seed to sow—before he offers up his guts!
When Umlu fell, by desert law his body-slave became the property of Huruk. Urqu was the boy’s name—he was Umlu’s younger cousin, eighteen years of age, made chattel on his father’s execution. Umlu’s uncle dared to rape the tribehead’s second wife. The baby was a boy; were he allowed to live, he would’ve been a threat to Hoghor’s line—a rival to the true heir, Huruk, should he come of age—and so, without delay, the child was dashed upon the rocks. Young Urqu’s father was permitted thok-chol, but he bungled it and wailed like a woman, guts half out, until the tribehead, swelling with disgust, took axe in hand himself and separated head from body, sparing all from the embarrassment. Now grown, this Urqu—just like Umlu very pretty in the face, as slender as a reed but packed with hard, lean muscle—yearned to demonstrate his manly virtue, slave or no. He’d watched the bout between his cousin and his newfound owner, suffered seeing Umlu’s guts drop from his opened belly, but he burned with jealousy as well—and admiration for the victor too, whose handsome bulk seemed, at the moment of evisceration, the epitome of swordsmanship...
As Huruk bathes, the body-slave is brought before him, stripped and freshly oiled; in the torchlight, Urqu’s gleaming, golden muscles lend the boy an almost godlike mien, made all the more astounding given his low station. Before the son of Hoghor, Urqu is a worm—and Huruk bids him crawl.
“That’s it,” he says, “down on your belly—slither to me, slowly as you can...” The hulking, handsome fighter rises from his blood-red bath, his body scrubbed of gore and grime, and takes his manhood by the root; with both hands, he begins to please himself, until the prick curves upward toward his belly button, fat with want. Meanwhile, he watches Urqu crawl across the floor to him. “Now, take me in your mouth,” he orders.
Urqu rises to his knees at Huruk’s feet, and cups the man’s balls. “Eagerly, my master—”
Huruk grips the boy’s throat. “One more word, and I will feed you your own tongue!”
The slave shall never speak again. As Urqu sucks him, Huruk leans back, braced against the wall with both big, meaty arms; his hips thrust, buttocks clenching. As he smooths his palms down those enormous thighs, the muscles taut beneath, the slave can feel the very strength that felled his cousin-lover coursing through the swordsman’s frame; perversely, he imagines being made a victim to it, stamped or strangled, one way or another dying in this man’s—a real man’s—arms!
“Unghf—”
Huruk can’t contain himself—his seed spills, filling Urqu’s mouth with vital essence. He is saltier than Umlu, sweeter too, and this delights his eager tongue... but finally he swallows, saddened that he’ll never taste the warrior again. The body-slave knows well that Huruk will not tolerate his presence in this household—on the morn, young Urqu and his cousin’s other servants will be put to death, no doubt, and by the cruelest means. Huruk withdraws himself, kicks Urqu over; sprawled upon his back, the boy can’t hide his own engorged and slickened cock, which Huruk pins beneath his toes.
“You seek release, worm?”
Urqu knows that if he spills his seed, he will be made to suffer—so he bites his lip tight, holds the pleasure in as best he can, despite the weight of Huruk’s foot upon his member; in the end, Huruk relents, releases him.
“By now,” he says, “you must have guessed that death awaits at dawn—a most unpleasant one, at that. But I would deign to gift the worm... an opportunity.” He has a knife brought: finely wrought, well polished, with a keenly sharpened, double-edged blade of some several inches. Huruk hands it to the boy, who kneels at his feet—it’s weighty in his palm, this killing tool; not once before has Urqu ever gripped a weapon, but today his heart swells with the possibilities it holds...
“Commit thok-chol before me now,” says Huruk, black eyes flashing. “Demonstrate your manhood. Purge your father’s stain—or don’t, and die dishonored.”
Urqu straightens his back, squares his hips; with a deep breath, he stares down and arches his spine, so that his trim, hard stomach juts out, bronze and shiny like some precious treasure. Huruk watches as the boy, with great care, takes the blade in both hands, lays its pointed tip against the smooth flesh just below his navel. Urqu’s never slain a man, of course—he is no warrior—but he has seen enough men die to know the awful prize he seeks lies hidden there, awaiting him, beneath the muscles of his handsome belly. Suddenly his cheeks flush; blood flows quickly through his loins, and once more he must take care not to give his seed up—not until his guts are out, the deed done, at which time ejaculation is a rather common—and, in fact, expected—part of thok-chol. Even he knows this. His heart pounds hard within his breast. This is the better choice, he knows—an agony, for certain, and yet less so than the one he’d face upon the morn; what’s more, this simple, honorable act will save the family name, forever... yet, he can’t—he won’t—because of all things, what he wants most in this world, at last, is to experience defeat at Huruk’s hands, however cruel!
The boy lets go the blade; it clatters to the floor. Huruk spits in his face.
“I thought as much. But know this—on the morrow, I will not be merciful!”
The time comes. Umlu’s seven servants have been strung up in a row, their hands bound high above their heads, their feet spread wide. Their squirming, naked bodies have been tilted forward slightly, so their bellies hang suspended over the arena sand; this way, when they are disemboweled, the victims’ innards shall be made to dangle pendulously to the ground and pile there—a very slow and truly agonizing means of death. The vultures have already gathered; soon, they’ll fight amongst themselves to see who gets first pick, bolts down the freshest of the organs, while the rest will screech and squabble over what remains.
Urqu is fifth in line. All spectacle has fled. There is no audience—just Huruk, clad in leather sandals and a clean, white fighter’s loincloth. As the red light of the rising sun illuminates the poor souls’ gleaming chests, the task is carried out, efficiently and quickly. No one says a word. He draws his sword and steps before the first man, swipes; a strangled groan is heard, but by this point he’s moved on to the second man and soon, the third. This latest one’s deep, manly grunts belong, the doomed boy realizes, to the old man who trained Umlu in the arts of swordsmanship—a gruff, endearing bastard who had suffered countless wounds throughout his long career, whose tanned and muscle-knotted body, pocked with battle scars, had fascinated him. He dares to glance right, steal a glimpse: beneath the swordsman’s sweat-drenched, gray-furred breast, his ribs swell outward; lower still, the boy spies something fat and purple bulging slowly from between his bony hips, where Huruk’s opened him. Urqu turns, shuts his eyes. Now the fourth is dispatched; he is next. He knows the fighter stands before him, but he doesn’t look at him—he knows full well that Huruk won’t return the gaze, for he is fixed upon his task. The boy gasps—high and whistling, almost like the whimper of an animal. The sound surprises him; he bites his lip, attempts in vain to hold it in. The sixth man, to his left, lets out a throaty cry; then, finally, the seventh moans—Huruk has finished. Urqu’s eyes are closed still, but the sounds which reach his ears make plain what’s happening: the guts of seven doomed men slither noisily from out their slitted stomachs—his included—as an absent crowd ignores the morbid chorus of their last complaints...
Urqu opens his eyes. Pressing chin to chest, he’s just in time to watch the wound which Huruk’s carved spread open. As the cut parts, he can see the pale pink loops: tender, slick and somehow unimaginably beautiful; until this moment, they had been obedient, so neatly packed within him—now, though, they are churning, desperate to escape and finally slip free. As if to urge them on, he sticks his stomach outward, spine arched tightly as he can... and then they spring forth, loudly gushing, sliding out and dropping downward, piling in the sand like so much offal. Suddenly his penis, rising from amidst the gory mess and stiffened with anticipation of the disembowelment, throbs and spurts—thick, ropy cords of white seed spring into the air, then scatter on the dirt... and, as it happens, just then Huruk spies the climax in the corner of his eye, sees pleasure writ upon the boy’s face, tangled with his pain.
“Hmph.”
Soon the birds approach, begin to peck. The slaves will live till sunset, maybe even through the night—but it will not be pleasant. Urqu, though, is happy to have suffered Huruk’s punishment, impersonal and brutal. Blinking through his salty, stinging tears, he watches as the fighter cleans his blade of blood, then turns to leave, his bare back unimaginably broad and musclebound, awash with sweat and glittering beneath the burning sun.
(Next: “Huruk Holds His Seed”)