Fifty years ago, the legendary strategist Snow Wolf was murdered.

  Her revenge is about to begin.

  Prophecy One

  Amid the barbaric horsemen,

  The Jade Dragon surfaced North.

  The light of the firefly resembles,

  The towering glow of the sun.

  “Hold still, grandfather,” Sochai said, lifting his knife.

  The old man closed his eyes, released a deep sigh, his soul escaping with every breath. Sochai leaned in to constrain him, waiting for the breathing to calm. In a moment, his blade tore into the purple cyst on the old man’s back. His grandfather screamed in pain, squirming against his ragged sheepskin. Dark fluid oozed onto the ground.

  ???

  Outside, the shrieking wind of the Mongolian plains announced the approaching storm. There would be an onslaught of snow and ice that night.

  Sochai sat in his grandfather’s yurt, feeding dried horse manure to a campfire that clawed the dangling pot in front of him. He was a towering, muscular warrior with piercing eyes and a heavy-set jaw. His tall nose stood him apart from the flat-faced nomads of Mongolia.

  His grandfather’s yurt was small, tattered; the thin walls of woolen felt so worn and old that wind entered at will. It was barren, except for a chest no one had ever seen him open, and a sheepskin bed thinned with age. Most Mongolian tents could be dismantled and packed away in the time of an ordinary meal, yet, the old man hadn’t moved his yurt for decades. He had few animals to protect, with no reason to migrate from season to season.

  Steam levitated from the boiling water, only to vanish through the round opening on the roof of the yurt. The blackened pot, suspended by a single iron rod over the fire, swayed with every shriek of the wind.

  “Horse meat stew,” Sochai said. It would be half a day’s ride back to the main camp, and if the storm arrived that evening, it would be impossible to visit his grandfather in the coming days. If the Elder’s predictions were true, the old man wouldn’t make it through the night.

  His grandfather shifted with a moan. “Horse meat stew?”

  “With salt. I was at the border last week.”

  A faint smile escaped his grandfather’s lips.

  The young warrior’s voice lowered. “I can speak to the Elder again. Maybe bring the shaman.”

  “I don’t want the damn shaman!” The old man only managed a croaky whisper. “I don’t need anyone!”

  Sochai ignored him. His grandfather lifted a finger.

  “Is that old rat happy now that I’m about to die? The old rat. I curse them all—their mothers, their children—I curse them all! You watch. They will all meet violent deaths!”

  Sochai drew the ragged sheepskin over the shivering body. “No one’s getting killed anymore. Get some sleep.”

  “And who the hell doesn’t get killed on the steppe?”

  “That was before the peace agreement.”

  “Peace agreement,” the old man said. “They named you the greatest warrior on the Mongolian plains. Doesn’t that show how little talent there is on the steppe? Bunch of cowards—it won’t be long before someone invades your clan. Then they’ll all follow me to hell.”

  Bubbles emerged in the water again. Sochai tossed another chunk of dried horse manure into the flames. The steaming pot of horse meat smelled good, but the old man couldn’t possibly sit up to eat. Perhaps he could take the food with him to the afterlife.

  “Who’s Su Ling?” Sochai asked.

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been saying her name in your sleep.”

  “Who are you to question me, child?” He lifted a trembling finger and pointed at Sochai. “How...How dare you?”

  A cough spasm overwhelmed him. The shriveled body racked with heavy convulsions, and in alarm, Sochai reached over to restrain his grandfather.

  The old man glared back; so intense were his penetrating eyes that the younger warrior withdrew.

  Gradually, the anger left him, but the damage was done. The ashen-white face, now streaked with blood, was more ghostly than ever.

  Sochai felt a strange sense of relief. Perhaps the Elder was right. His grandfather would leave this world of suffering tonight.

  The old man wouldn’t go. Something continued to torture him, to eat his soul, even now so close to death. Sochai moved closer. The muscles on the ancient face were twitching and the fluttering eyelids wouldn’t close.

  “Grandfather ...”

  The old man pointed to the wooden chest. The chest had been nearly empty for years.

  The old man shook, drops of sweat rolling down his crusty face. He opened his mouth, couldn’t speak, gasping with each breath, his eyes pinned to the chest.

  “What’s wrong?” Sochai asked.

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  The old man wheezed into another spasm. Dark fluid seeped through the bandages covering his cyst. His entire body heaved in torment and he lifted a crooked finger.

  Sochai sprung the chest open. There was nothing in it except for a knife, a few rags, and a frayed water flask. He held up each item for his grandfather to see and waited for him to react.

  The old man’s face didn’t change.

  “What are you looking for?”

  The old man shook with pain, tears rolling down his bony cheeks. He pointed at the chest again.

  This time, Sochai noticed it. The chest was tall but not deep, with space unaccounted for. There could be additional layers underneath the base. He drew the heavy saber slung across his hip, wedged the sharp edge into the side of the chest and pried the wood apart. The bottom was loose, and in a moment, separated.

  There was a small metal box hidden underneath layers of wood. Sochai lifted it, carefully, like it was a dying rabbit, and showed his grandfather.

  The old man faded, closed his eyes, settled into the sheepskin, and went to sleep forever.

  ???

  The night was dark. Sochai held the metal box under a dim light, caressing it, his fingers tense, his heart racing. He was in his own yurt, on his own bed.

  The wind was rising on the Mongolian Plains. His clan was well prepared. Every yurt was secured for this storm, the horses tied and blindfolded, and they slept with ease. Normally, when the western wind grew violent, the clan would begin preparing the next stage of migration. They would leave the nearby lakes and search for better grazing grounds.

  This year, a great hunt was underway. The predators of the steppe were being eliminated, and over thirty clans united in a hunt that lasted six months. It almost entered the winter season.

  Despite the daily excitement, preparations for winter had to resume. Winter on the steppe was brutal, and each day, men, women, and children took extensive measures to protect the tents. Heavy layers of animal skin, dried and treated after each slaughter, were lined against the walls of every yurt. Tools for cutting the frozen rivers were sharpened, large sheets of fur were sewn together, and meats were dried and preserved. The Elder said the first storm of winter would arrive in three nights, and it would arrive with rage.

  Sochai sat alone, the box clenched in his hands. He ran his fingers across the top, felt its harsh texture, and entertained the idea of burying it. His grandfather had nothing in his lifetime—maybe it should remain that way.

  Jocholai was on the other side of the tent, snoring under a thick covering of animal skin. Sochai smiled. The sleeping warrior couldn’t be awakened without a war trumpet.

  Jocholai was the only other warrior in the clan who had no family. It was destiny that they grew up together. The new yurt they shared was built well before Sochai became known as the greatest warrior on the steppe, and every strip of skin stitched into this massive tent was awarded to them for their courage and leadership. Sochai and Jocholai did everything together. From the daily tasks of herding sheep to seasonal hunting and ice cutting, Sochai always stayed close to his brother.

  He turned his gaze back to the box. It was the one thing his grandfather refused to die without seeing—a hidden possession no one knew about, which the old man clung to with his last breath. Sochai leaned back on his sheepskin, opened the box, and looked inside.

  It was a piece of jade, carved into the shape of a three-headed dragon, dark red yet transparent. The attached silver necklace had already turned black, but the brilliance of the jade carried an enormous, mysterious power. He traced his finger along the contours of the dragon, a murmur of admiration escaping his lips.

  Inside the box was layer upon layer of cowhide strung together by an iron ring with dense writing on every surface.

  He recognized the language—his grandfather had made sure of it. It was the language of the Chinese. Sochai, as a child, was forced to learn these strange symbols because they enabled the Chinese to communicate without speaking, like using fire to signal the presence of enemies, only more sophisticated. His grandfather told him that, if he could master the Chinese written language, new worlds would appear before him. Every day, the old man forced him to learn.

  Sochai hated it but learned quickly. The writings presented him with stories of war, of the rise and fall of dynasties, of warriors who relied on strategy instead of strength. He read about entire empires falling under the hands of a single woman, and warriors who lived and died for a strange set of principles.

  Memories long banished, surfaced, and Sochai shook his head clear. Something caught his eye. The writings described his grandfather in China. For years, the old man lived among the Chinese. Sochai leaned over to read:

  The chaos continued. So much looting and killing. The evil that people did to each other. A few days ago, I saw a young girl slaughtered in the city for a sack of grain.

  I’ve been here for four years and I want to go home. I agreed to stay with Father so he can train the magistrate’s horses. The local government could do nothing to end the violence. They say that only when Snow Wolf returns from the South will the fighting stop and the famine end.

  Sochai moved closer to the light, skimming the words, a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead.

  I was shot by an arrow. By good fortune, I escaped the madness, and after a few days on foot, I found myself in a small village named Pan Tong Village. Most here are farmers, and like all Chinese, worked on their knees. But here, they are kindhearted.

  Especially the girl. Her name is Su Ling. She found me somehow, as I wandered close to death, and oh, I thought I saw a goddess! She was so beautiful, and so concerned about my injury. She brought me into her home, bandaged my wounds, and called a local doctor to treat me.

  From the moment Su Ling spoke to me, I knew I was in love. I was a mere stranger, a Mongolian, but she cared for me to ensure my wounds were healed. I will never forget her smile, a smile I would sacrifice my life for.

  Su Ling ...I think of the woman who saved me, and I shudder.

  Su Ling.

  That was the name on the old man’s lips before he died. His grandfather was once in love? Impossible ...

  I was still recovering in Su Ling’s house that night, and I was awoken by screaming. I scrambled out of bed and into the living room. I saw a man in the main room, covered with blood, and Su Ling weeping and trying to stop the bleeding. The man was her father. I have never seen anyone bleed like that in my life—more blood spilled on the floor than when we slaughtered sheep. I saw knife wounds all over his body, as if he had been stabbed thirty times. I didn’t know what to do; I only knew that when I saw the pain on Su Ling’s face, I too felt pain.

  Her father died on the floor. Su Ling wept for a long time, and all I could do was stand there and watch her. She finally told me to leave her alone. She wanted to burn some candles and incense to her father’s spirit, so he could go in peace. It was the Chinese tradition, I learned, and foreigners must not be present. She told me to go to the roof and keep watch. I didn’t know what I was watching for. I obeyed.

  Then she handed me something, a piece of magnificent jade from her father. She asked me to protect it for her. She wanted me to promise that I would never part from the jade, that I would bring it with me to Mongolia and she would come for it when things settled.

  I pocketed the jade and climbed to the roof. There was no one in sight.

  Soon after, I heard Su Ling scream. My soul screamed with her now. I rushed down, slowly, like I was in a dream, and when I reached her, she was already hunched over in pain. Her skin was blue, her nails black. Dark blood was jetting out of her mouth in short spasms. I was afraid to go near her, and in a second, she stopped moving. I knew she was gone. I didn’t know what to do. I was a foreigner in a strange land. I ran out of the house.

  Somehow, I stumbled back into the city by dawn.

  I never found out what happened to her body. But why did it matter? I didn’t help her; I left her. I never cared for her body.

  Sochai exhaled, leaning back. Should he read further?

  The wind howled, shaking his tent, taunting him to a confrontation.

  He folded the book and inserted it into the box. Su Ling burned incense to her father’s spirit when he died. Perhaps his grandfather would like the same.

  Sochai grabbed his saber and marched out of the yurt.

  His tall stallion Arrow Head wheeled in delight when he approached. Sochai peeled off the blindfolds and stroked the horse’s head like he would his own child.

  “Let’s ride against the wind and ride so hard the neighboring clans think a war is coming.”

  Arrow Head nodded as if he understood. Sochai mounted with a nimble spring and charged into the night. It would be a day’s ride by horseback, but Arrow Head, tearing across the plains, was determined to fight the wind. They reached the market by late morning.

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