Lords of Grass and Thunder by Curt Benjamin

like a stubborn horse had just kicked him in the chest. On the long trek back from the high country he’d gotten out of the habit of holding his breath, waiting for the news that battle had taken the bright light of his sons from his life. It wasn’t fair, this sneak attack on his unguarded flank. Looked like Qutula had made it home again in one piece, though. He lacked the cocky swagger that surviving a close call usually gave a young man but led the way with his head held firmly erect, his mouth set in a grim line. Perhaps it had been too close a call this time. Or, given it was Qutula, he doubtless hated being rescued even more than he disliked needing the rescue in the first place.
    The prince followed behind, trying to look modest, though the excited grin that kept breaking out on his lips ruined the effect. Then Bekter, bursting to tell the story, and two of their companions. One dropped back at the door, but the other trailed his betters with a bundle heavy in his arms. When they reached the foot of the dais, they stopped and made low formal bows.
    “Uncle.”
    When the prince rose from his bow, Qutula was free to do likewise. He considered addressing Mergen as father, but hadn’t decided what his next step would be if the khan repudiated him. So, “My lord khan,” he said in greeting while in his thoughts he urged his father, Say it now. Call me your son . His eyes remained downcast in a respectful manner, showing nothing of the bitterness he felt when the words did not come.
    “A trophy in honor of the hunt,” Tayy announced with a flourishing wave of his hand.
    It was not clear if the prince meant the bear’s liver or Qutula himself, returned alive to suffer embarrassment in front of his father’s entire court. I could not love a patricide, his lady had cautioned him. He would rather have Mergen’s blessing anyway; would rather win acknowledgment as a reward for some heroic act of his own. But not like this, cast up at the foot of the dais like a child swept out of danger by a more alert guardian.
    Jumal came forward, however, and placed the doeskin bundle in the prince’s hands, which in turn he extended to his uncle. “A gift to the khan from his heir and the guardsman Qutula, who killed the beast between them,” Tayy explained as Mergen-Khan unwrapped the dripping liver. He was very careful, Qutula noted, to say nothing that would imply any interest that the khan might have in his own son. “It was a very small bear.”
    It was clear from the great size of the liver that the bear had been huge, at least seven feet tall on its hind legs, which was how Qutula remembered it.
    “Here is a tale for the telling.” Mergen beamed in pride, though his teeth seemed clenched around some less pleasant emotion that remained unspoken. The khan drew his knife and cut off a sliver of the dripping, raw liver.
    “A fine gift,” he said, and popped the sliver into his mouth, swallowing it without chewing so that the life of the bear might enter his vitals whole and potent. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. With the back of his hand he wiped the smear from his lips and licked away the juices with his tongue. Then he raised his red-stained knife over his head.
    “To the cook pots!” he declared, “A portion to all who would be warriors as daring as these young hunters, and a tale of the chase while we eat our weaker porridge in anticipation of that finer fare to come!”
    With that he invited his blanket-sons to join him on the dais as Prince Tayy’s courtiers. Bekter wasted no time in grabbing a pie from a passing tray, but Qutula accepted no dinner for himself when he claimed his place at the prince’s side. As Mergen had done for Chimbai-Khan, he sampled Tayy’s dishes before he would allow the prince to eat. His brother fed himself heartily to withstand the exertions of a night of singing, but Qutula took his own nourishment from those bites and fragments he tasted off his prince’s