Trophy Harvesting - Patreon Exclusive (Patreon)

The last of the fighting had ended less than an hour before.

Smoke still dragged low across the field. Broken spear shafts jutted from the earth, shields lay overturned in the mud, and wounded men called weakly for comrades who would never answer.

The Amazons ignored most of them.

They were looking for officers.

Thaleia found one beneath a collapsed standard, still alive, one leg twisted beneath him. His breastplate bore the silver crest of a commander.

She rolled him onto his back with her foot.

His eyes opened.

For a moment he seemed relieved to see another living face.

Then he saw the knife in her hand.

“No.”

Thaleia crouched beside him.

She cut the straps at his waist and dragged the ruined armour aside.

Understanding came quickly.

The commander tried to crawl backwards.

Her hand closed around his ankle and pulled him flat again.

“No,” he repeated, louder this time.

Two nearby Amazons glanced over.

One of them laughed.

“Found something worth keeping?”

“Commander,” Thaleia replied.

That was enough explanation.

She pinned his thigh beneath one knee and seized him firmly with her free hand.

The knife came down.

The first cut drew a scream that carried across the ruined field.

The second ended it in a choking gasp.

Blood ran across his inner thighs and darkened the dust beneath him.

Thaleia worked quickly, without hesitation.

When she stood, his penis and testicles were no longer attached to him.

They rested together in her bloodied hand.

The commander stared at the empty space between his legs, then at what she was holding.

His face went completely white.

Thaleia examined the trophy for only a moment before opening the leather pouch at her hip.

The other Amazon raised an eyebrow.

“Both?”

“He was a commander.”

“Fair.”

Thaleia dropped the severed genitals into the pouch.

The commander made a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a breath.

She wiped the knife clean on his cloak.

Around them, the same ritual was being repeated wherever an enemy of sufficient rank had been found.

A standard-bearer lost his testicles.

A noble cavalryman lost his penis and scrotum together.

One Amazon emerged from behind an overturned wagon holding a pair of severed testicles by the cord she had tied around them, earning a cheer from the women nearby.

Another had already fastened three trophies to her belt beside captured rings and insignia.

The ordinary dead were left with their bodies intact.

This honour was reserved for men worth remembering.

By sunset, the Amazons had assembled beside the captured standards.

Helmets formed one pile.

Swords another.

The smaller trophies were counted separately.

“Seven officers,” called one of the matrons.

“Two captains.”

“Three nobles.”

“And the enemy champion?”

A warrior at the edge of the group lifted a blood-stained pouch.

A few women laughed.

The matron made another mark on her tablet.

Behind them, the battlefield had gone strangely quiet.

The surviving prisoners watched from beneath guard.

Several had already understood what the women were carrying.

One instinctively crossed his legs.

An Amazon noticed.

She smiled.

“Don’t worry.”

His expression eased for half a second.

Then she added:

“You’re not important enough.”