Lords of Grass and Thunder Read Free Page B

their father, the khan.
    “Bek,” he called across the narrow darkness between them.
    Nothing.
    The jade fragment on its silken cord itched at his breast and Qutula wrapped his hand around it, wishing it to be still. He’d found it high in the mountains, outside a cave that a demon-king had used for his den. They had fought a terrible battle there with imps and minions. He often wondered if the jade had come from the underworld as part of some vessel used in that evil court. The demon-king was dead, however. The crack in the world that had let the horrible creatures escape the land of the dead into that of the living was closed.
    Sometimes, when he thought about it, though, the shard made him feel strange hungers he didn’t understand. He wanted to devour the world whole, to wield power and control, to amass a wealth of herds and precious goods and to gather women to him like fluttering butterflies drawn to their special tree. Not a few, but all the women. He wanted to tell the wind to fall and have it do his bidding, or tell the sun to rise at midnight and have the night spin by as nothing. He wasn’t sure if the feelings attracted or repelled him, but he didn’t want his brother to know about them.
    “Bek, are you awake?”
    “Mrmph.”
    “We need a plan.”
    “Mrmph.”
    Hopeless. Qutula pulled his blanket over his shoulder and turned his back on his brother.
    A stranger was lying in his bed. “You’ve stumbled into the wrong tent, soldier,” he said, keeping his hands and other body parts discreetly to himself.
    “Not a soldier,” a woman’s voice whispered hot breath in his ear. “But an admirer of one.”
    Qutula froze, uncertain what to do. Such things happened in war, of course. Camp followers always accompanied the traveling hordes to ease the burdens of weary soldiers. The boldest didn’t wait to be asked. Mindful of his own parentage, however, he did not as a rule indulge himself so freely. Which was one thing. For another, the camp followers he had known didn’t smell like this—like fresh grass and wildflowers and spring on the Onga River. She didn’t, he realized, smell like a woman at all.
    “Don’t you like women?”
    Her hand reached under his shirt, scratched at the sparse hairs on his chest. Qutula didn’t really need to tell her that yes, he did like women, because his body moved toward her as if his will meant nothing in the matter. She must not think that she could rule him with her body, however, so he held himself a little apart while the sweat bloomed on his forehead and on his nether regions. “I like them well enough,” he answered her question, “when I do the choosing.”
    “Ah. I see.” She reached out and took his hand, placed it on her naked breast. “And do you not, then, choose me?”
    Her breast . . . her breast felt softer than anything he had ever touched, softer than the wool of a newborn lamb. It molded under his touch, unblemished and fine and he wanted to explore it with his tongue. She reached down between his legs and the distance between them vanished. They were one creature writhing luxuriantly in the dark. His legs tangled with her smooth limbs, his sinewy bones cradled in the welcome softness of her thighs, his hard chest crushing the lush pillows of her breasts between them. Her dark places felt like warm butter on his flesh. She would not let him kiss her, but her tongue flicked out to nuzzle at his neck, at the skin exposed at the collar of his shirt.
    “Ahh . . . Ah . . .”
    She covered his lips with her hand when he would have cried out, her silent laughter warm against his cheek. “Bekter will hear,” she whispered. “Do you want your brother to know?”
    No. Torn by shame and greed he wished only to keep even the knowledge of her to himself.
    “Who are you?” He reached out with strong arms to hold her close. This time it was she who pulled away, wiping herself fastidiously with a corner of his shirt.
    “My name is Lady—But no, not