Much later, with his belly full and his inner pockets weighed down by Chinese coins, Sochai headed for Pan Tong Village. He had shown the map in his grandfather’s diary to the fat man in the inn, who pointed him east, along a road called Middle Pass. Before he left town, he traded the rest of his rabbit skins for Chinese coins and purchased a straw hat to keep his face in shadow. Pan Tong was not far, the tall one said. Only another half a day away.

  By early afternoon, he spotted his destination. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was there, despite the sandstorms of the Gobi, despite the icy winds of the Chinese mountains. He was there.

  Pan Tong Village was entrenched in a valley, surrounded by rugged hills and completely protected from the whipping wind. Yet, it was clearly vulnerable to heavy snow and seclusion.

  Sochai was eager to find someone in the village—anyone that he could release his onslaught of questions upon.

  Pan Tong Village was quiet, motionless except for drifting snowflakes.

  Sochai approached the nearest house, his hand on the handle of his saber. He banged the door, but no one answered. He waited. Perhaps they were still asleep. He pushed against the door with his heavy mass, slowly at first, then shoved the door open with his left hand, his saber half-drawn in his right. They were only common villagers.

  Anyone could be an enemy. His grandfather had told him so.

  He stepped into the house and noticed a cat sleeping in the corner. A deaf cat perhaps. The house was clean, the floor swept and fine cloth covering the table. It seemed warm, comfortable. With his hand off the saber, Sochai slipped into the back rooms.

  A child was asleep on a bed, his tiny hands folded, his covers tucked. Sochai gazed at the chubby cheeks, the pale skin. The covers didn’t even move with his breathing.

  The breathing! Sochai placed a hand on the boy’s face and found it cold as ice. He backed away. The boy was clearly dead. Did no one know this child died in his sleep?

  Sochai dashed into the next room, found an old woman stiffly in bed, realizing that she, too, was dead. He ran further into the house, to a master bedroom, and found both husband and wife, in perfect sleeping posture, dead together in bed.

  Outside, the air was colder than ever. Despite the pain in his chest, Sochai ran down the road from which he came. There were no horses, no livestock, no signs of life. He forced his way into another house, only to find more cold bodies in bed. He felt the covers, which were thick and heavy. He realized the village couldn’t have frozen to death.

  The snowfall finally subsided. Sochai stood alone, in the middle of the road, and felt the poison rushing back into his chest. Pan Tong Village, a place that he could only dream about until today. He finally saw the place his grandfather so vividly described, could finally ask the villagers a thousand questions about the poison in his body ...

  But they were dead, all of them, from the infants to the elderly—no one alive. Some of the cooking stoves were still warm from the night before. There was no sign of struggle, no blood, no wounds, no bruises. It was like they had been poisoned.

  Poisoned! His eyes widened. Who could have poisoned so many people at once? What killed them in their sleep? If the well water was poisoned, or if the food was poisoned, at least some of them would die on the floor. But every single villager lay quietly in bed, covers drawn, eyes closed.

  Unless ...the poison was emitted through the air.

  Sochai froze at the thought. Prior to the raid at his camp, there was one other place where he had seen the three-headed dragon. It was on the candles that he bought at the border from the Chinese vendor.

  He never thought of the candles. When he noticed the dragons molded in wax, he assumed they were common emblems of the Chinese. The candles! Su Ling also burned candles for the dead, and she died shortly afterwards. But when he burned the candles for his grandfather, Jocholai pulled him into the wrestling match. Perhaps he wasn’t fully exposed to the smoke, and that’s why he didn’t die.

  The symbol of the three-headed dragon on the jade, on the candles, on the men who raided his camp ...It all made sense.

  Just then, he heard flute music in the distance. It was beautiful, haunting, the lonely notes of a tormented soul. He heard a voice that couldn’t scream, trapped in a wounded body unable to break free.

  Sochai stepped outside. The music danced around him, beckoning him, daring him not to listen while drawing him across the land.

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  He glided out of the village with eyes half closed, his mind spinning.

  He was deep in the forest when he encountered her. She was kneeling on the snow, her back toward him, a long, metal flute held to her lips. Her flowing hair glistened against the piercing light, creating a wave of sparkles, while her lean body, motionless, glowed with an unearthly radiance.

  He shook his head clear. He came to find answers.

  She lowered the flute and slowly turned. Sochai froze. Never before had he seen a woman so atrocious. A large tumor hung over her eyelid, and the right side of her lip was swollen and twisted. The texture of her face resembled the back of a venomous toad. Sochai stepped back, away from the monster.

  The woman smiled a strange haunting smile, almost pleasant. Again, she lifted the flute to her lips to play.

  Sochai glared. “Who are you? What happened here? Why is everyone dead?”

  The woman stopped playing, her voice coarse, hellish. “So you speak Chinese. Do all Mongolians fight like you?”

  Sochai hesitated.

  She smiled. “I recognize you. You’re the great warrior they told me about. Where’s the jade?”

  “The jade ...”

  “If you hand it over, I’ll let you live.”

  “Why do you want this jade?” Sochai asked. “Why is it important?”

  The woman sneered. “I heard Mongolian warriors are strong enough to wrestle a bull. But can they fight a beautiful woman?”

  Sochai flinched. The woman darted at him, her metal flute pointed at his chest. He drew his saber to intercept. Sparks flew when their weapons collided. The weight of his blow sent her reeling. She stumbled back, planted herself, and with a smile, tucked the flute back into her belt.

  Sochai stepped forward, his saber lowered. This woman knew about the jade. He couldn’t decide whether to attack her or question her.

  The heat already swelled in his chest and time wasn’t on his side.

  He came to this strange land to find out about the poison. She was maybe the only one who knew anything. “I will give you the jade,” he said. “Tell me how you killed the people in Pan Tong Village. Did you poison them? What kind of poison?”

  She blinked. “What a thrill. Too bad we have to fight under unfair circumstances. But then, I’m a woman, and I don’t have superior strength.”

  Sochai laughed. The sight of her face would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. “You are not a real woman.”

  She held her head high, a look of admiration on her face, and took a sharp step closer. “I certainly have the endurance to make this a long, lasting fight. Do you?”

  Under unfair circumstances. His heart stopped. She knew about the poison, about him. There was a sense of confidence on her face—the calm composure of a true warrior in battle.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  She approached, ever so slowly, like a drawn-out, painful death.

  “You know about the poison in my body?” he asked. “Did you poison me? With the candles?”

  “Your accent is interesting,” she said. “Few Mongolians ever learn our tongue. It’s too bad I have to kill you today.” Like a gust of wind, she drew her flute and swept at him.

  His chest swelled. He had little time left. He took four steps back, watched her move in to close the distance, and, taking advantage of her forward momentum, charged at her with a roar.

  She pointed her flute at him and he jolted back just in time. A thin blade the length of her forearm, hidden in her flute, shot forward and almost pierced his face. He struck the blade with his saber and she retreated.

  The flute was now the length of a sword.

  The stress fired up the poison in his body and dark blood trickled from his mouth. His legs were weak, his eyes half-blind, and he was ready to collapse. He gritted his teeth and planted both feet in the snow.

  She charged him then, her blade pointing at his eye. For a second, he stared at the strange skin on her face, the tumor, the distorted lips.

  She spun the flute around and swiped at his head. He saw it coming; he wanted to parry, but his legs wouldn’t move. He wanted to block, but his arms no longer obeyed. The flute blasted the side of his skull and he collapsed with a heavy thud into the snow.

  She pressed her blade against the hollow of his throat while he spasmed.

  So this was it. This was the end.

  The moment before death was supposed to be a painful, chaotic struggle, where the world turned red, where he would hear himself die.

  Sochai’s eyes clouded, and he stared into the distant heavens. His homeland was not really that far. He could have walked north after he left the inn, climbed over the mountains, waited for the winds to clear, crossed the great desert and reached the steppe. He could have been home in no time at all.

  It was peaceful where he lay. The snow soft under his body, the air clean and cool . . .

  She watched him carefully.

  He stared at nothing, lost in thought. He came here to find answers, not to die alone.

  He thought of Arrow Head then. The horse he abandoned, the horse he left behind at the edge of the desert. Did Arrow Head survive?

  He clenched his jaws, a bitter taste in his mouth. He came here to find life, to find a cure.

  Who was she to decide whether he lived or died?

  She blinked. He reached over, still on his back, and grabbed the blade. She instinctively stabbed at his throat, but the blade wouldn’t budge. His other hand lifted the saber to cut her. With a vicious jerk, she yanked the blade from his grip and stabbed his sword arm.

  Light flashed from his eyes. With a cry, he lifted the saber, permitting her blade to sink into his flesh, then twisted his body and slashed her across the thigh. She stepped back in shock.

  Sochai grabbed the flute handle and pulled the entire length of the blade out of his arm.

  She jumped over him, behind him, and kicked him in the base of the skull.

  Everything was dark. He thought he saw her stand over him, the blade once more pressed against his throat. He tightened his muscles, summoned the strength that he didn’t have, and lifted the saber again. She watched his trembling hand close around the weapon, her blade pressed tighter against his throat, and she hesitated. There was a deep cut in her thigh.

  In a second, she kicked away his saber and took a huge, clean swipe across his throat. The blood drained from him. She said something before walking away.

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