Honey of Kutuhu

The Virgin’s Blood

Twilight settled fast over “The Virgin’s Blood” tavern. The usual tavern din bled through the open doors, mingled with the discordant plucking of a harp. From the stables came the snorting and flatulence of horses, cut by low female laughter and quiet talk.

Inside the loft, dimly lit by an oil lantern near the stalls, four women sat in the hay. Two were chewing on flatbread, washing it down from a jug as they talked. The other two, shamelessly naked, were energetically pleasuring each other.

“You know, Brew,” said a large, bald woman wearing nothing but a leather skirt, her breasts sagging toward her waist. “I’m sick to death of sour ale. Sick of sleeping on the cold dirt or hay. I want a bed with a soft mattress and a hot girl next to me.”

The second woman, dressed in a yellowed linen chemise, snorted. “Who doesn’t, Boldy? You think I like smelling horse shit and picking hay out of my hair every morning?” She sighed. “If Matu is merciful, Shusha will come back with more than empty hands. I’m ready for any job.”

“As long as those stinking Crows don’t get in the way,” the bald one grunted, spitting. The saliva hung from her lip; she wiped it away with a surly hand.

Brew made a face as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “There’s only three of those bastards. There’s five of us. Anyone looking for good work will pick us.”

The woman whose friend’s tongue was busy between her legs cried out, arching her back. Her body shuddered and collapsed into the hay.

Black hair spilled across the floor. Gasping breaths escaped her full, parted lips. The others went quiet, staring at her. Her features, sharp with the ecstasy of the moment, slowly relaxed as her athletic body stopped trembling.

Boldy chuckled. “Hiss, you squealed like a sow under the knife. Even the horses stopped farting.”

“Yeah,” Brew chimed in. “Juice worked at it like she was in a fight.”

They laughed.

Boldy grunted. “Hope the new girl fights as well as she fucks.”

Hiss lay back, hands tracing her own skin, her chest heaving. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and answered without lifting her head.

“Don’t piss yourself, Boldy. I won’t disappoint. I’m better with my blades than you are with your tongue.”

Juice, who was slowly getting dressed, giggled. Brew gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve seen her in action. Relax, she’ll outclass anyone.” Turning to Hiss, she added, “I still don’t get why you stuck with us instead of staying an assassin.”

“I failed the test. Because of men. They’re always giving out assignments they can’t handle themselves, and they’re always trying to get under your skirt.”

“Dogs only think about one thing,” Brew agreed, taking a large bite of flatbread.

“Coarse, stinking, lecherous... I hate them.” Hiss’s face twisted in disgust. She sat up and reached for her shirt.

Steps sounded on the ladder. The wood creaked, and Shusha’s scarred face appeared over the edge of the loft.

“Well, girls, did you miss me?” She looked at her half-naked friends and gave a crooked smile. “I see you didn’t.”

They all turned to her with a silent question in their eyes. Shusha climbed up, reached for the jug, and took two long gulps. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, smiling triumphantly.

“We’ve got work!”

They cheered, the questions coming in a rush. “What kind?” “Where? When? What’s the pay?”

Shusha raised a palm. “Quiet down. I’m telling you.” She paused for effect. When silence fell, she continued. “We’re guarding a caravan to Silent Harbor. Tomorrow at the Two Creeks crossroads, noon. We meet the merchants and hit the road.”

Brew leaned forward, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. “And the coin?”

Shusha looked them over, her face glowing with satisfaction. “A silver piece a day. Each.”

Boldy slapped her thigh. “That’ll do!”

“Perfect!” Juice exclaimed.

Hiss tilted her head, sniffing the air pointedly. “Seems a bit too generous for that kind of work. Smells like rot to me.”

Brew slapped her on the shoulder. “A job’s a job. You’re new. You’ll get used to it. There are better contracts, and there are worse.”

Shusha clapped her hands, pulling their attention back. “Alright, sisters, here’s the plan: Juice, Brew, go to the tavern and buy food for tomorrow. The rest of us, get some rest. We move at dawn.

The Shattered Skull

At the other end of the village of Yellow Hill, the common room of “The Shattered Skull” tavern was half-empty. The locals huddled in one corner, while two mercenaries occupied a table in the opposite one. Their trade was written in their scars, their leather armor, and their habit of sitting with their backs to the wall.

One was a true giant, a mass of muscle with sharp, deep-set eyes. He was tearing into a boiled mutton shoulder with his teeth, washing it down with noisy gulps of wine. His companion was shorter but broad-shouldered. He kept pace with the eating and drinking, never missing a chance to swat the backside of a passing serving girl.

“Hey!” barked a tall girl in a dress slit nearly to her navel. “Can’t you see I’ve got a tray in my hands?”

“How much for a little fun with a beauty like you?” the mercenary asked, still chewing.

“Half a silver, sir,” she replied, pausing with a raised eyebrow.

“Fifty coppers? Steep,” he frowned.

“My goods, my price,” the girl smirked. “But for your friend here...” she shot a glance at the giant. “I’d give it for free. How about it, sir? My mattress needs beating. It’s gotten a bit stiff lately.”

The tall mercenary smiled. He set down his food, wiped his face and hands with a rag, and stood up, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He spread his arms wide.

“I’ll help. How could I refuse a lady in such need? Lead the way, beauty.”

The small room held only a wide bed, a table, two chairs, and three large chests. As soon as the door closed, the girl hiked up her skirt, bent over the table, and braced herself with her hands.

“Don’t waste time, sir,” she said. “The master doesn’t like it when we’re distracted from our work.”

The man was quick to oblige. The room filled with the rhythmic slap of skin and heavy breathing. As the end neared, the woman grabbed the mercenary’s thighs, pulling him tight against her, gasping out the words.

“I want a son... just as big and strong as you.”

He went still, feeling his pulse deep inside her. When the relief finally came, he asked, “What about your husband?”

“He’s a good man, kind enough,” she panted, “but he’s short and scrawny. We want a sturdy babe. One who can help with the work and give someone a smack in the teeth if he has to.”

The mercenary kissed her forehead and walked back into the hall. His partner shook his head with envy. “What is it with women and you, Stan? You never even have to pay.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the giant replied. “Look at yourself, Fox-nothing but scars. I’m practically clean. But if you’re that desperate, I can lend you a few coppers.”

Their talk was cut short by a lean, wiry bearded man in battered chainmail. He unbuckled his sword, laid it on the table, and sat down beside them. Both stared at him, their eyes asking the silent question.

The newcomer grinned and slapped the table. “We’ve got work!” He turned to the innkeeper and shouted, “Three jugs of wine!” Then he leaned in, rubbing his hands. “Guarding a caravan. All the way to Silent Harbor. A silver a day, food on them, and we sleep in inns.”

Fox grabbed a jug, took a swig, and started coughing as it went down the wrong way. Stan gave him a light thwack on the back.

“Big caravan?” Stan asked.

“Five wagons.”

Fox stopped coughing and frowned. “Only three of us for five wagons? Dog’s Waste is a dangerous stretch.”

“The drivers all know their way around a blade. We’re just there for extra muscle. We leave tomorrow after breakfast. Meeting point-the Two Creeks crossroads.”

---

Hiss woke during the assassin’s hour-the moment that splits the time between midnight and dawn exactly in half. She listened, cautiously drawing the air into her lungs, scenting it. No sign of anyone nearby.

She opened her eyes to the darkness, remembering exactly how she had fallen asleep. Moving silently so as not to wake her sisters, she made for the ladder. A heartbeat later, she was down.

Leaving the stable, she approached the well and hauled up a bucket of water. She drank. Then she stripped naked and poured the rest over herself.

A cold shock rolled through her body. Her muscles surged with energy; her mind turned sharp and clear. She took a deep breath, spreading her arms wide and arching her back. Then, exhaling slowly through her mouth, she brought her hands together in front of her chest and began a series of complex exercises.

She finished her routine just as her body dried completely. While dressing, she caught the stable boy watching her and shook a fist at him. He vanished instantly.

Better that way, you little shit. Nothing to stare at.

Hiss climbed onto the stable roof to get a better view of the road and began to weigh the day ahead.

Her first job as a mercenary. The start of a new life. It was vital to show her best side-to prove she could work in a squad and handle her steel. She would have been far more effective in an ambush, of course, but she could earn her coin in defense just as well.

The main problem was fighting in a unit. The others had shields and spears; she had short blades. The girls were used to fighting at a distance, but she needed to be close. She’d have to stay in her sisters’ shadows until the right moment came, then burst into the enemy ranks.

The sky began to pale. Stars flickered out. Maidens and water-boys spilled into the yard, hauling buckets to the tavern. Boldy’s grumbling and someone’s giggling drifted from the stable. Soon, stretching and yawning, her sisters joined her in the courtyard.

Hiss climbed down and joined them. They cleaned up, ate, and set out for the crossroads.

The terrain was unfamiliar to Hiss, so she studied the path intently. She memorized landmarks, noting spots for ambushes and places where a camp could be struck if needed. The monotonous scrubland eventually gave way to the crossroads where two small creeks met. They filled their skins with water and sat in the grass to wait.

“I could’ve slept more,” Brew grumbled, stretching out full length.

“You’ll sleep in the graveyard,” Shusha consoled her, picking her nose. “Let’s just hope we don’t miss the caravan.”

“I could’ve eaten more,” Boldy sighed.

“The merchants will feed us,” Juice muttered, mimicking Shusha’s voice.

Hiss chuckled, then went silent, tensing up. She caught a sound that didn’t belong to the local background. She stood up, walking a bit along the road behind the bushes to stay out of sight, and spotted three male figures. Two were average height; one was a literal giant. They were approaching the crossroads.

As soon as she told the others, Shusha spat in anger.

“Cursed Crows! Always sniffing around for someone else’s coin.”

“Those are the Crows?” Hiss asked, watching the opponents closely, looking for weak points, trying to read their styles.

“That’s them, the little shits!” Juice hissed. “Always underfoot. The tall one is Stan-he uses an axe. The other two are swordsmen. Drunks, lechers-pathetic dregs.”

The trio appeared and slowed their pace.

“Hey, you hens without a coop! What are you doing out here?”

Shusha stood up. Spear in her right hand, shield in her left.

“You carrion eaters! What did you lose out here?”

A broad-shouldered mercenary with a messy long beard slung his shield onto his arm and drew his sword. By the way he held his steel, Hiss decided the best attack would be a double strike. A thrust at the eyes to force the shield up, and a simultaneous strike to the legs.

“Looking to steal our work, you yard dogs?”

“It’s our work! Scram, you dung flies!”

All the women were on their feet now, ready for blood. Hiss drew her swords, calculating the best way to get behind them. If she could close the distance, their heavy shields and clumsy axe wouldn’t save them. The speed and lethality of her blades would be a hell of a surprise.

“A duel?” the enemy’s voice drifted over.

Shusha gave him an obscene gesture.

“Looking for fools? You’ll just put up Stan.”

The giant stepped forward with a foul smirk on his arrogant face.

“Scared, you plucked hens? Then get lost!”

He was massive. Hiss was used to looking down on women and many men, but she barely reached his shoulder. Knots of muscle covered his body in a terrifying relief; his eyes were cold and hard. A deadly opponent. But men like that had one weakness: speed. At close range, she’d shred him before he even thought to drop his axe for a dagger. This was her chance to prove herself in a real fight.

She touched Shusha’s shoulder and whispered:

“Let me. I’ll slaughter the boar.”

The women all turned to her.

“You sure? He’s dangerous as Kutuhu himself. Better to lure him forward and hit him all at once. He won’t stand against all of us, then we’ll deal with the rest.”

Juice shouted, waving an unarmed hand.

“Hey, Stan! Come here. Let’s talk terms.”

He gave a vile laugh.

“And get four spears in my ribs? Find your idiots somewhere else. I know you. I step into the center of the crossroads. One of you does too. To first blood.”

It was a generous offer. Though first blood from an axe that size would likely be the last. Still, the chance of survival went up.

The sisters were still hesitating, but Hiss felt her body beginning to tremble with impatience. She could do it. She would take him. And then she’d no longer be the “new girl.” Without waiting for approval, she stepped forward.

Laughter erupted from the Crows’ side.

“Look at that, a brave one.”

“Just a new fool, more like.”

Stan approached in silence. His squinted eyes scanned her carefully. Weighing, assessing, deciding. An unpleasant gaze, like a butcher looking at a carcass before the first cut.

“New?” he asked quietly. “Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“And you won’t see me again!” she snapped, and then shouted, surprising even herself: “To the death!”

The giant raised his eyebrows.

“You’re pretty. Why die?”

The words only added to her cold fury. Another brute seeing only her face, probably already wondering how to get under her skirt.

She didn’t answer. She spat and drew her swords.

One step. Two. Three. The opponent stopped and waited calmly. Too calmly. She didn’t even know the reach of that axe. She had to provoke him, make him move.

“Well, bullock? Ready for the gelding?”

A lazy smirk in response, and forced laughter from the women behind her.

Self-assured bastard. That would be his end. Hiss took a step back, drove one sword into the dirt, drew a dagger, and hurled it at his leg.

He dodged, stepped forward, and carved a horizontal arc with the axe. The strike was lightning fast. Hiss barely managed to leap back. Trying to parry would have been suicide.

A wave of cold washed down her spine. She had underestimated him. Heavily. His speed didn’t match his massive frame. Her first fight, and such a mistake. She had lost one sword, and now her odds had plummeted.

Stan stepped back two paces, giving her a chance to reclaim her weapon. She approached, cautiously turning her body to hide her right side from his view. Keeping her eyes locked on him, she lowered her right hand, but instead of grabbing the blade, she drew her second dagger and threw it at his chest.

He managed to block with his bracer, but the blade drew a red line across his shoulder.

“First blood is mine!” Hiss cried, yanking her sword from the ground and stepping back.

“Tricky bitch!” the giant exclaimed with clear admiration.

Not a hint of anger in his voice, no condemnation. As if he accepted her as an equal. I need to watch this bastard, she thought. Those are the truly dangerous ones. The worst enemy is the one who takes you seriously.

Her sisters’ cheers drifted over.

“Blood! Victory! Get lost!”

Stan retreated without turning away, his eyes never leaving hers.

Cautious, fast, strong as an ox, distrustful, knowing his own strengths and weaknesses. Deadly. She made a mental note: find out everything about him. If they had to cross paths again, she had to be ready.

“To the death!” the Crows’ leader shouted.

“I said to first blood. She won,” Stan replied.

“What, Stan? Pissed yourself at the sight of our little snake?” Shusha taunted.

The big man stopped, squinted, and tilted his head.

“You called me a coward. Step out,” he said, taking a step forward.

The laughter among the women died. And Hiss realized that her commander wasn’t very bright. Shusha wasn’t fast enough, her spear was no longer than the reach of that giant’s axe, and her shield wouldn’t stop his blow. She would die if she fought him. For a moment, Hiss felt the urge to step out in her place. But she checked herself. Everyone has to pay for their own stupidity.

A hiss from the grass, and then the bronze scales were everywhere.

Skirmish

Hiss flicked her steel out, but a spray of blood hit her face before she could strike. Shusha’s spear spun into the dirt. The commander was clutching a throat opened to the bone. To the left, Brew’s scream ended in the wet thud of an axe meeting meat.

Hiss lunged, her blades grating against a serpent-mask. Curved swords and dull eyes behind bronze. Every time she cut a man down, the ground shook from the weight of Stan’s axe nearby-a heavy, rhythmic thunder.

Then, silence. Only her own ragged breath.

Hiss wiped the gore from her eyes. Her sisters lay in the dust. Stan stood a few paces away, his boots soaked red to the laces.

The last Snakehead crawled, clutching his spilled entrails. Hiss moved to finish him, but the man hurled a clay jar at her feet. It shattered. A golden mist billowed up. She tasted it instantly-a thick, metallic sweetness on the back of her throat.

Stan dropped his axe. He scrambled to the dying leader, tearing at the man’s belt.

“The vial…” Stan rasped. “He had the antidote. He had to.”

His fingers pulled a glass flask from a leather pouch. He held it up against the sun. It was dry. The cultist had drained it before the first blade was drawn.

Honey of Kutuhu

Hiss looked at the empty glass and saw her end. She knew the Honey. She had seen what it did: men turning into soft, blackening piles of rot while they were still screaming, their blood becoming too thick to move, their lungs failing as the air turned to sludge.

“We’re done,” she said. Her voice was flat.

Stan didn’t look at her. He was staring toward the treeline. “Not yet. There’s a hut. A healer lives deep in the woods. If she’s there, we have a chance.”

Hiss spat a thick, sweet glob of saliva. “She won’t work for free.”

“Then we pay,” Stan said.

He moved to Fox’s corpse and sliced the purse from his belt. Hiss understood. She went to Shusha. The leather was wet with blood, but she didn’t flinch. She moved from body to body, Crow and Snakehead alike, stripping every coin from the dead.

They ran.

The forest was a green blur, but the air felt like wool in her lungs. With every stride, her skin began to shimmer with a faint, sickly light-the glow of the rot. Nausea roiled in her stomach.

Her legs grew heavy. The thickening blood fought her, slowing her movements. Stan was ahead, his massive frame breaking through the brush, his own skin beginning to catch the eerie luminescence.

They didn’t speak. They just pushed through the undergrowth, racing against the syrup hardening in their veins.

Healer

The healer didn’t need to ask. She looked at their shimmering skin and the way they struggled to draw breath.

“Kutuhu’s Honey,” she said, her voice dry as parchment. “I can brew the cure. But it takes a full day and night.”

Hiss felt a flicker of hope, but the woman wasn’t finished.

“First, the price.”

Stan didn’t hesitate. He dropped the blood-stained purses onto her table. Hiss added hers, the coins clinking with a hollow sound.

“That pays for the herbs and my time,” the healer said, eyes narrowing. “But there is a second problem. You won’t last twenty-four hours. By dawn, the blood will become too thick to pump. You’ll rot from the inside before the cure is ready.”

Hiss felt the cold weight in her chest. “Is there a way?”

“One. Every three hours you drink the decoction - to thin your blood and keep your strength up. Then - sex. Keep your heart racing. Keep your blood moving through the heat. Exchange fluids. If you stop - I won’t make it in time to save you.”

The words hit Hiss like a physical blow. A virgin who had only ever wanted the touch of women, she felt a surge of pure loathing for the man standing beside her. She couldn’t stand the very thought of a man’s hands on her.

“No,” she spat, her voice trembling. “Not with a man. Never.”

The witch shrugged, indifferent. “Then you will rot. You don’t just need movement; you need male semen, and he needs female fluid. ”

Stan didn’t argue. He reached out, grabbed one of the purses from the table, and turned toward the door. “I’m going to the tavern,” he said, his voice a thick rumble. “I’ll find women there.”

He was at the threshold when the terror finally broke through her pride. The image of Shusha’s cooling corpse flashed in her mind. She didn’t want to be a pile of blackened meat in the dirt.

“No! Wait!” Hiss screamed.

Stan stopped, his hand on the doorframe. He didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to die this way!” Hiss rasped, her eyes burning with hatred and fear. “Fuck me, then! And be damned for it!”

The Marathon.

She endured it when he pushed her legs apart and entered her roughly. Stan moved with a grim, mechanical necessity, his weight a crushing reminder of everything Hiss loathed. She kept her eyes locked on the rough wooden beams of the ceiling, her teeth clenched until her jaw ached. It was disgusting, but it gave her heart a frantic rhythm that pushed the thickening sludge through her veins.

When he pulled away, she felt violated, not by him, but by the very fact of her own survival. She wiped her mouth, the metallic sweetness of the Honey still lingering, and turned her face to the wall. She hated the heat of him. She hated the air for staying in her lungs.

By the middle of the night, the hatred had turned into a dull, leaden exhaustion. The shimmering on her skin had faded slightly, replaced by a film of sweat that smelled of herbs and bitter musk.

She didn’t look at the ceiling anymore. She watched the way Stan’s hands trembled-the giant was tiring, his own blood fighting the same slow rot. She stopped fighting the movement. She simply endured, a stone in a river, letting the waves of forced exertion wash over her. It was a chore, like sharpening a blade or cleaning a wound. Necessary. Cold.

The draft the witch gave them was working its own dark magic. It didn’t just thin the blood; it set the nerves on fire.

When Stan touched her this time, Hiss didn’t flinch. A treacherous warmth began to bloom beneath the layer of nausea. Her body, independent of her mind, began to respond to the friction, to the desperate pace. A soft sound escaped her throat-not a scream of defiance, but a ragged gasp of relief. Her skin, once crawling with the itch of rot, now burned with something else. She hated the way her breath hitched, and she hated the way she arched her back, seeking the very contact that had made her skin crawl hours ago.

The sun was beginning to bleed through the cracks in the hut’s walls. The final cycle.

Hiss didn’t wait for him to move. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, her nails drawing thin lines of red. The hunger was no longer the poison’s doing; it was hers. She wanted the heartbeat, the friction, the heavy, rhythmic drive that kept the blackness at bay.

As she shuddered under him, her mind screamed in silent fury at the betrayal of her own flesh. She wanted this man-this brute, this symbol of everything she had rejected. She pulled him closer, her hips meeting his with an agonizing, desperate greed. When it was over, she lay in the damp straw, her body finally safe, her soul drowning in a sea of self-loathing.

The Cure

The healer moved in the corner of the room, her silhouette a dark shape against the bubbling cauldron. She had been there the whole time, a silent witness to every gasp and every shudder, but she never looked away from her work.

As the first true light hit the floor, she stepped forward with two wooden bowls. The liquid inside was thick, black, and smelled of scorched earth.

“Drink,” the old woman commanded.

Hiss took the bowl with trembling hands. Her body felt raw, her skin sensitive to the slightest touch of the air. She swallowed the bitter dreg in one gulp. It hit her stomach like a cold stone, immediately fighting the cloying remains of the Honey.

Beside her, Stan drained his bowl and let it drop into the straw. The frantic rhythm of the night died down. The artificial strength of the witch’s draught evaporated, leaving only a bone-deep, crushing exhaustion. Hiss didn’t have the energy to look at him, or to hate him, or to hate herself. Darkness pulled her under before her head even hit the floor.

When she opened her eyes, the hut was silent. The witch was gone.