The marketplace was small, cluttered, and misplaced on the edge of a vast desert where sand and dust floated. The small town of filthy stone shacks and unpaved roads were created for travelers, barbarians, patrol officials, and businessmen seeking trade across the border.
Few nomads ever rode south of this town into the heart of the desert. Beyond the desert was China, and they were never welcomed in Chinese society, never regarded as anything more than uncivilized beasts.
Here, it was different. In this small town, with its scattered huts and small cottages, nomads and barbarians from all directions were welcomed.
Sochai drifted down the main road and passed the Chinese vendors with small booths and tables. Tea, salt, herbs, tools, weapons, all were sold on the street.
He didn’t need provisions, or salt, or tea. He came for one particular vendor.
A small shop, unusually simple and almost hidden, comprised of a window with a rigid man inside. Sochai had seen this shop before, attracted to the smell of burning incense, though this time, only the scent of dried earth filled the air.
The man stood frozen, waiting for him.
Sochai approached. “You will trade for candles and incense here?” He could barely speak the Chinese tongue anymore.
The man leaned forward a little, still eyeing him. “What do you have?”
Sochai opened his bag and showed the sheepskin. The man nodded, his expression cold. He glanced at the jade dragon around Sochai’s neck and then nodded again. “Candles?”
“For my dead grandfather.”
“A Chinese tradition,” the man said with a smile. “Burning candles and incense for the dead.”
He pulled out a pack of incense from a small shelf. He glanced at the jade and then smiled again. “He must have been a great man.”
“He was not.”
“Regardless. You should light special candles for him, out of respect. I’ll give you a pair as a gift.”
“Thank you.”
The vendor disappeared into the back of the store, and in a moment, reemerged with a pair of red candles. Wrapped around the candles was the print of a fierce, three-headed dragon.
“These are beautiful,” Sochai said.
“I’ll take one skin for the incense. These candles are yours. Thank you for spreading our tradition up North.”
“Thank you.” Sochai handed over the skin and tucked the candles deep inside his robes. He took Arrow Head’s reins and walked away.
The ride back was slower but Sochai barely paid attention, often permitting Arrow Head to wander across the plains. He carried enough water and food, both for himself and the animal, and the storm was not due for another day. There was no reason to hurry. He closed his eyes and rested against his horse’s mane.
How did she die? Her skin turned blue. Perhaps she was poisoned ...
Who could’ve poisoned her? No one else was there—surely his grandfather would’ve seen them. Sochai ran his finger along the contours of the jade. It was fifty years ago. Why bother thinking about it now?
Two men had been following him for some time. He turned, finally, tapped his heavy saber with a smile and they slowed their pace. Horse thieves and desert robbers infested the steppe every summer and winter season, a time when travelers often succumbed to heat or cold and were most vulnerable. Sochai was clearly a warrior of the steppe, and for bandits to trail him, hoping that he would become lost, was a sign of desperation.
The sun was on its descent by the time he reached familiar grasslands. The atmosphere was peaceful, the wind calm. In the distance, Sochai noticed scattered clouds of dust.
The hunt! He grabbed the reins and charged.
The incredible scale and duration of this hunt was something no one on the steppe had ever seen before. Thousands participated, and after six months, the hunt continued. Half a year ago, the wolves and leopards, already too numerous, were attacking their sheep and cattle at an unprecedented rate. The major clans of the steppe joined to exterminate them. The hunters and warriors of the steppe divided into four groups, assembled their families, their herds, and traveled in four separate directions. Then, on the designated day, those participating in the hunt fanned out into lines so incredible in length that an entire day on horseback was required to travel from end to end. Slowly, over the span of six months, the four lines closed in and chased every animal toward a central point where the carnivores would be slaughtered and the deer and wild horses led back into the open plains.
Sochai, often revered as the leader of the hunt, had been absent for days and morale was low. That moment, in the final stages of the hunt, where the circle of warriors became so dense that the gap between each man was a mere ten strides, he suddenly appeared. The men bellowed with excitement.
They were chasing two packs of wolves. When two wolf packs ran together, the end of the hunt was near.
Sochai watched Jocholai barging across the smooth grass on a black horse, pursuing two gray wolves at the rear of the pack. Two other hunters followed, their arrows fitted.
Jocholai released an arrow that barely grazed his target. His companions also fired in unison, but the wolves were too fast.
“Sochai!” Jocholai shouted. “You haven’t killed a wolf in days.”
Arrow Head stormed toward the fleeing wolves, crashing in with such a burst of energy the wolves were forced to change direction. Sochai reached for his bow, realized that he was too close and flung it aside. With a roar, he leaped off his horse and onto a wolf’s back. The wolf stumbled under the weight, long enough for Sochai to wrap his arms around the furry neck. He twisted its head to the side with a violent jerk. There was a yelp, Sochai twisted its head the other way, and dropped the carcass to the ground.
The rest of the pack was slain by a shower of arrows. Sochai climbed onto his horse and returned to his yurt. He left his friends to continue the chase. At dusk, they would build campfires around the perimeter of the hunt and half the men would sleep along the encirclement to ensure that no predator escaped.
???
The world seemed exceptionally quiet in his yurt. Shadows heaving from the Chinese candles caressed his face. The first drops of wax fell like tears. He closed his eyes to the smell of incense, wondering if his grandfather could sense the burning candles and rest in peace.
The hunt was almost over, and outside, the clan welcomed the winter. The sounds of laughter and celebration floating in the distance couldn’t penetrate his tent. Deep thoughts drowned the music of the winter festival.
The flap of the yurt flew open and Jocholai stuck his head in.
“The wrestling match started! Where were you?”
Sochai’s face softened. Jocholai slapped him once on the back before rushing out again. “Come on! Everyone’s expecting you!”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Sochai emerged into the open. The soft winds of the Mongolian steppe rode with the music. Women danced in a circle, people played stone-tossing games, and colorful chatter filled the air.
Jocholai stood beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Did your...”
“He died last night.”
The girls stopped dancing. A group of men pounded their drums while young girls clapped. The first pair of wrestlers stepped into a circle and squared with one another. They charged, the audience cheered, and the beating drums overwhelmed the night.
Moments later, the larger of the two wrestlers stood victorious over his opponent. The audience were in an uproar and they shouted in unison. “Fight the number one warrior! Fight the number one warrior!” They were calling for Sochai to enter the circle.
Sochai stepped in. At the first beat of the drum, the smaller warrior charged. Without a glance, Sochai sidestepped, grabbed his opponent, and threw him to the ground. Second beat of the drum.
???
Her cries were an echo. Dark blood spilled from her mouth. Her screams were hollow, desperate; her face twisted. Her skin pale blue, her nails black . . .
Sochai sprang to his feet with a shout, the vivid dream barely faded. Fresh blood flew from his mouth. A surge of pain and searing heat expanded in his chest. He grabbed his ribcage and crumbled to his knees.
He was in his yurt, on his bed. The camp was silent.
He dragged his hand across his mouth and stared at his fingers. His nails were black, his skin pale blue, the warm blood from his lips was dark—so dark that he thought his liver had burst.
In the distance, he heard a faint rumbling, as if thousands of horses were charging toward him. Sochai sat back, waiting to awaken from the dream. The rumbling grew louder.
Just like Su Ling.
His grandfather. The selfish old man who saw his loved one poisoned, who abandoned the woman he loved. She died bleeding from her mouth, her skin pale blue . . .
War horns from the perimeter of the camp screamed into the night. “A raid! A raid!”
Sochai awakened from his spell, scrambled to his feet, grabbed his saber, and dashed out the tent.
Outside, the entire camp was lit by hundreds of torches. Every warrior was charging east while the women and children retreated to the center.
Jocholai, saber in hand, approached him on horseback. “What took you so long? I thought you’d never wake up!”
“Who’s attacking us?” Sochai shouted. “What happened to the peace pact?”
“I don’t know. There are hundreds of them—all on horseback.”
Sochai bolted east with a roar, sensed Arrow Head appearing next to him, and flew onto his saddle. The enemy was approaching the camp at high speed, none of them emitting a single war cry.
Strange, Sochai thought. Which clan would come this close and remain silent?
The Mongolian warriors gathered around him, eager for his signal to charge, thirsty to watch him kill. Sochai assessed the battlefield. The terrain was completely flat, with no trees, no hills. There could be no ambush from the side.
There was nothing left to do but ride out and butcher the enemy. Sochai drew his saber and screamed at the top of his lungs.
“Kill!”
The warriors behind him charged.
Clad in the light armor of the steppe, the invaders also drew their sabers.
The wind whipped across the plains. The charging horses sounded like never-ending thunder. The two tribes rushed at each other, brought to frenzy by the smell of blood, the delight of slaughter, each warrior’s eyes gleaming as they approached the enemy.
Sochai shivered, the hollow pain in his chest expanding. No! He was too close to the enemy, too deep in the battlefield.
The pain surged. He couldn’t control the dark blood streaming from his mouth. The world darkened, blurred.
He rolled off his horse, slamming into the ground with a hard choke. The other warriors soared past him, crashing into the oncoming enemy.
He heard the collision of bare steel, the screams, the hissing sound of jetting blood, the cries of pain, the sick thump of steel carving flesh ...It seemed unnaturally slow, like blood seeping through soft soil.
The invaders had cut a path through their defending forces and were racing toward their camp. They were after the women and children.
Sochai forced himself to one knee, a murderous glare in his eyes. A quiver of arrows and a long bow lay beside him—both from a fallen warrior. He slung the quiver over his shoulders, fitted an arrow, drew it and fired. It sounded like a bullwhip slicing thin air. The arrow pierced the leg of an enemy horse. The animal reared in pain, stumbled and collided into a nearby mount. Three men collapsed at once.
Sochai fired again into another horse, then another. Nearly ten horses had fallen by the time the enemy turned to confront him. He had forgotten about the pain in his chest. He charged the cavalry. With two sabers in hand, he slashed left and right, dodging the enemy and attacking only their mounts. The animals turned wild in panic, bucking and tossing their riders, crushing and falling into one another. Over thirty horses dropped. Chaos ensued.
Jocholai lifted his blade high above his head. With an earth-shattering scream, he brought his warriors blaring down on the enemy again. Sochai was slaying his dismounted enemies, springing on them like a beast, cutting them down like he was slaughtering sheep.
Soon, clouds of dust circled the air, hovering over the ground now littered with bodies. Sochai looked on. Everyone seemed to be moving much too slowly. His pale blue skin had become deeper in color, and the nauseous feeling in his chest reemerged. At that moment, he noticed something in his hand, something that he had been holding the entire time. He must have ripped it from an enemy. It was a small necklace with a beautiful dragon carved into a wooden leaf. It was a fierce looking dragon, three-headed, one that seemed to stare at him, laugh at him.
Sochai pulled off the jade around his own neck. He placed the two dragon emblems next to each other. His hands trembled. The carvings were identical.
He stood in the middle of the field, lost in thought. The image of Su Ling resurfaced in his mind, the blue skin, the black nails, the jade dragon.
Two identical carvings ...
Sochai climbed onto his horse, blood flowing from his forehead in a steady stream. He gazed into the distance, his eyes out of focus, his mind repeatedly envisioning the moment before Su Ling’s death.
Dark clouds hovered over him.
???
Much later, Sochai found himself in a warm bed, the wooden leaf torn from his enemy still in his hand. A thin, bony finger touched his forehead.
The Elder was next to him. “Strange poison,” the old man said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Poison?”
“Not poison from the steppe. Never seen anything like it in Mongolia.”
“How? How could I be poisoned?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what medicine to use.”
A long silence. Sochai tried to sit but he couldn’t. “Am I going to die?”
“The greatest warrior of the steppe cannot be afraid of death,” the Elder said.
Sochai gritted his teeth. “How much longer will I live?”
“Maybe three months. You are strong. You should have three months.”
???
His grandfather once told him that to live is to struggle. Every day, the animals of the steppe must outrun the fastest predator. And every day, the predators must outrun the slowest prey.
He opened his heavy eyes. The Elder was still beside him, gently smearing crushed leaves on his forehead. Sochai breathed a sigh of relief. The Elder was the most respected man in the tribe. He understood the will of the gods, the fears of mankind, the profound medicines of the Earth. The smell of bitter herbs meant that he was still alive.
“Elder?”
“You need rest.”
“How many men did we lose?”
“Forty-six.”
The young warrior trembled. “And our women and children?”
“They’re safe. All of them.”
“And the enemy?”
“You killed most of them. The rest ran away.”
Sochai shook his head. “It’s my fault.”
“Why?”
Sochai reached for the jade around his neck. “My grandfather left this behind—this three-headed dragon. The wooden leaf—also a three-headed dragon. The symbols are identical. Somehow, I brought this upon us.”
The Elder took the jade and for a long time couldn’t tear his eyes from it. “Maybe the jade brought this upon us. Maybe it belongs to someone, and they want it back.”
“Elder, I’ve heard of this poison before.”
“Where?”
“My grandfather saw it in China about fifty years ago. A woman, this woman was poisoned. Like I am now. Except she died instantly. I even dreamed about her. I dreamed about her last night. Her face turned blue and her nails turned black ...Like mine. Fifty years ago, and now, it’s happening to me.”
The Elder held his hand to calm him. Sochai pushed himself into a sitting position. “She gave my grandfather this jade, right before she died, in Pan Tong Village.”
“Pan Tong Village?”
“In China. I have a map. It’s on the last page of my grandfather’s diary. I can find this village. I can find other people wearing this dragon emblem. Maybe there are answers out there.”
???
By the following night, Sochai recovered his energy, although every time he looked down, his bluish hands reminded him of the poison in his veins. Three months left to live. The Elder said so.
“I need to go to China.”
The Elder sighed. “You’ll die in a foreign land. Are you sure?”
“When can anyone be sure of life or death?”
The flapping door of the Mongolian yurt seemed to beckon him, luring him into the dark, limitless grasslands. He seemed to hear the Elder suggesting that a group of warriors accompany him, but the old man’s words faded into the rising wind.
“Not even Jocholai,” Sochai whispered. “If the invaders return, every man counts. I brought this upon my people. I can’t put them in any more danger.”
Sochai felt the chill of the earth creep into his spine, numbing his skull, freezing his tongue. He sensed the Elder standing at the door of the yurt behind him, watching, and he was afraid to turn, to bid farewell.
Arrow Head trotted up to him. Almost reluctantly, Sochai climbed onto his horse. He uttered a short laugh. “Survival. Is that my final destiny?”
He disappeared into the darkness. The dense clouds foreboding the first storm of winter gathered. He heard the Elder, alone in the darkness, saying, “Sochai, my boy. Survival, is hardly a worthy quest.”
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