THE WARRIOR MONK (EBOOK)

Extract from an ancient Nyingma scripture, dated 810 AD:

It is said that the being whom Guru Rinpoche, the Lotus-born Second Buddha, met on his way to the court of King Dresden stood taller than most men and possessed three times their strength and speed. It is also said that, though he looked like a man and spoke like a man, it was clear to Rinpoche that the stranger was a creature of divine lineage.

Of the many tales the stranger recounted to the Great Master in the time they spent in each other’s company, one stood out the most.

The story was of a woman born over four millennia past, who lived for almost half as many years. She was said to have been the greatest warrior ever born and possessed of extraordinary battle skills that saw her conquer entire armies over the centuries of her existence. Her forefathers were descended from the loins of the very first humans who walked the Earth and her bloodline was made doubly unique by an unknown event that granted her kin powers beyond the natural realm, including the gift of immortality.

One day, sickened by the increasing savagery with which her clan ruled over the race of man, she rose to defend the weak and the just, and all those who suffered needlessly at the hands of the bloodthirsty tyrants who had given birth to her kind.

It was at that time the warrior forged the very first three-spear weapon upon which the trishula would eventually be based. The war that followed lasted one hundred days and nights and turned the sky dark with ash and the land crimson with blood. On the last day of the fearsome battle, the warrior defeated the original immortals.

According to the stranger, the descendants of this mighty warrior still walked the Earth and would do so until the End of Days. For her bloodline had a destiny to fulfill, one that been forged in a higher realm, long before all this ever was. The stranger also foretold that a time would come when the warrior’s soul would be reborn within the immortal bloodlines, when her skills and valor would be needed the most. The body in which she would reincarnate would be marked with the symbol of her three-spear weapon.

When the Great Master asked the stranger how he knew this, the immortal smiled and said, ‘Because I am of the fifth generation born from her bloodline.’

In the decades that followed Guru Rinpoche’s encounter with the descendant of the warrior, the Great Master crossed paths with other immortals. He came to believe not only that they stemmed from original divine beings, but also that their existence should be concealed from humankind until such a time that man could accept the reality of their existence without fear.

He thus created a sect of monks whom he tasked with guarding the secret reality of the Crovirs and the Bastians, the two immortal races, and to whom he bequeathed this scripture, the most secret of all his writings. In honor of the immortal warrior whose tale resonated so strongly with him, Rinpoche named his sect the Order of the Three Spears and had them bear a trishula tattoo on their right palm. He also pledged that when the warrior’s soul reincarnated, his men would lay down their lives for that immortal.

* * *

October 2010. Temple of the Order of the Three Spears. Eastern Himalayas. Tibet.

Abbot Kelsang strolled down the winding, stone steps to the shallow terrace fifty feet below, where a figure sat in silent meditation.

Mist clung to the trees covering the flanks of the wooded ravine and swirled in ever-changing shapes in the cool currents generated by the fast-flowing river at the bottom of the narrow valley. Jagged stone pillars rose through the shifting white blanket, silent soldiers that had borne witness to the passage of time for eons. The water rushed around the bases of the giant rock formations, streams dividing and merging in an energetic dance before tumbling down the waterfalls to the west of the gorge.

The river was the lifeline of the temple perched high against the cliff side, supplying not only plentiful catches of fish and the water needed to sustain it, but also hydroelectric power to the complex of caves beneath the buildings and the carefully-camouflaged satellite dish in the forest at the summit of the valley.

Abbot Kelsang paused at the bottom of the stairs that had been carved into the rock face hundreds of years before his birth. A smile curved his lips.

A sparrow dozed on the shoulder of the saffron-robed monk sitting on the edge of the cliff. Another one landed on his bald head, pecked his scalp curiously, and flew off into the mist.

‘Yonten,’ said the abbot.

The monk unfolded his legs and rose to his feet, his movements so fluid the sleeping bird remained motionless. He turned, pressed his palms together, and bowed.

‘Master Kelsang.’

The Abbot was not fooled by his demure voice. ‘I saw Brother Ensho limping out of the dojo this morning. You need to be more patient with him.’

The young man flashed his teeth. ‘I shall try my best, master.’

The abbot sighed. There was no doubt in his mind that Yonten was one of the best field agents the Order currently had among its ranks. Now twenty-two years of age, he had lived most of his life among the monks of the temple, ever since that day two decades ago, when he was discovered in a nearby forest with his younger brother, Anzan. It was the baby’s cries that had alerted a vigilant monk to the presence of the children. With the nearest village miles from the valley, no one could fathom how the two boys ended up alone in the wilderness. After several attempts to trace their family failed to produce any results, the monks concluded the brothers had been abandoned and took them under their wing. Yonten quickly proved his skills both in the classroom and the dojo and became the youngest monk to leave the temple for missions in distant lands.

‘I have an assignment for you.’

Yonten’s face brightened at the words. The bird blinked, cocked its head at the abbot, and picked its feathers.

‘Our enemies are moving once more,’ the abbot continued. ‘I want you to observe them and report their activities to me.’ He narrowed his eyes at the light that flashed in Yonten’s eyes. ‘You are not to intervene without my permission, is that understood?’

Yonten adopted an innocent expression. ‘Of course, master.’

The abbot glanced at the sky. Oh Heavenly Masters, I sense you sent this one to challenge me.

‘There is time to complete your meditation. Brother Tenzin is gathering the final details of your mission as we speak. You leave at sundown.’

Yonten grinned.

‘Our comrades abroad have been warned of your potential need for assistance. Make use of their resources wisely.’

‘Yes, master.’

The abbot was grateful for the Order’s contacts in both the human and immortal societies – men and women who became temporary novices to benefit from the Order’s excellent education before taking up jobs in human society, and immortals who travelled to the hidden valley to explore Tibetan Buddhism and live part of their long lives in peaceful isolation. Most had maintained close relationships with the Order and were keen to assist them in their overarching mission.

The abbot turned and crossed the terrace to the stairs. Halfway up, he encountered a monk coming down the steps. He stopped and smiled gently at the young man.

‘Anzan.’

Yonten’s younger brother bowed. ‘Master.’ Anzan’s gaze shifted to the terrace. He sighed. ‘I see you have told my brother of his mission.’

The abbot looked over his shoulder.

Yonten was doing a highly unmonk-like victory dance on the terrace, the sparrow flying excitedly around his head.

The abbot grimaced. ‘There are days when I wonder what he puts in his yak milk.’

‘We all do, master.’

* * *

A hot breeze blew across the mountain and whipped up dust and sand in a yellow veil that dulled the glare of the sun. Yonten covered his nose and mouth with his robe and flattened himself onto the narrow ledge thirty feet from the summit of a cliff.

The sound of heavy drilling echoed across the canyon below him. It came from the tunnel that had been blasted into the rock face some four hundred feet up the opposite wall of the chasm, just ahead and to the right of where he lay. Lines and hoses snaked inside the opening from the portable hydraulic pumps supplying the breakers being used to shatter the rock. A series of platforms connected by ladders ran down the side of the canyon wall all the way to the bottom of the valley, where a crawler crane and three trucks stood parked next to some tents.

It had been a fortnight since Yonten had left the Order and embarked on the reconnaissance mission the abbot had entrusted to him. In that time, he had shadowed their enemy as they travelled from Europe to the remote Eastern Desert Mountains of Egypt.

The men he followed spent the first few days studying a number of narrow, ancient riverbeds before finally starting their excavation into the side of this particular canyon. He gleaned, from watching them use a battery of sophisticated equipment, that they had detected something of interest inside the mountain.

The drilling suddenly stopped. An expectant hush fell across the valley. It was broken by shouts of jubilation. Three men emerged from the gloom of the tunnel and waved animatedly in the direction of the camp.

Five men came out of the tents and looked up the canyon wall. One of them was significantly taller and larger than the other four. Yonten studied the giant figure closely.

Three hundred years had passed since the Order first became aware of the enemy’s existence, ever since the latter stormed the temple and stole an ancient artifact that had been passed down generations of abbots. The relic was said to have belonged to a powerful immortal who had bestowed it on the Order for safekeeping many centuries past. Many monks died fighting to defend the temple and many more perished in the blaze that followed when the enemy rained fiery bombs down onto the holy valley where Guru Rinpoche himself once lived. Though they lost numerous precious scriptures that day, the most important ones were saved from the flames, among them the secret writings of the Great Master.

No one knew the true name of their foe. Over the centuries that followed the start of their investigation into the origins and goals of the sect who had attacked them so savagely, the monks came to call them the Rose Croix, after the tattoo its members wore on the back of their necks.

The giant man crossed the camp and started climbing the ladders and platforms toward the tunnel. Halfway up, he paused and looked straight at the ledge where Yonten lay.

The monk froze and held his breath. His instincts had been right.

The giant man was dangerous.

He stared across the canyon for several long seconds before resuming his ascent to the tunnel’s opening. He disappeared inside with the three men and came out some fifteen minutes later. Standing on the uppermost platform, he slipped a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and spoke into it briefly.

There was movement in the camp. Two of the trucks reversed close to the canyon wall and the men offloaded sections of steel tracks, motorized rollers, metal chains, and a small forklift. They used the crawler crane to lift the equipment into the tunnel.

It was several hours before Yonten finally laid eyes on their discovery. The skin on the back of his neck prickled when two large stone tombs and a smaller box emerged from the opening and were carefully lifted down to the base of the valley.

A strong foreboding filled him as he stared at the coffins. He sensed a dangerous energy coming from them.

Yonten watched the men load the cargo inside one of the trucks. He frowned when two of them disappeared inside the tunnel with a large section of rock-colored canvas. They nailed a similar piece over the outer opening, took down the platforms and ladders, broke camp, and set off toward the north.

Yonten waited until the convoy disappeared around a bend in the canyon before rising to his feet and clambering swiftly up the cliff side. He jogged to the rocky overhang where he had hidden the second-hand motorbike he had used to get to the desert. He tied the small sack containing his belongings around his waist, secured his two staff weapons to his back, and started the engine.

He rode along the cliff top and caught sight of the convoy below him minutes later. The canyon ended after two miles and the trucks and crane ventured out onto the open desert. He made his way down to the plains and followed them. Although he had spray-painted the shiny parts of the bike a dull yellow to minimize reflective glare, he still kept a careful distance from the vehicles.

Evening had fallen when the convoy finally turned into the Port of Safaga. Yonten abandoned the motorbike and watched from the shadows of a depot as the men loaded their precious cargo onto a fishing vessel. He stole onto the boat moments before it left the dock and found a hiding place inside the hold, some thirty feet from where the tombs rested. It was only through a bout of meditation that he managed to suppress the anxiety their proximity engendered.

The boat docked in Port Said at dawn the next morning. Yonten slipped off the vessel and followed the Rose Croix sect members as they transported the tombs and the box to a large warehouse close to the waters’ edge.

Three days later, the enemy disappeared along with the cargo, in the middle of the night. Neither the Order’s intelligence officers nor their contacts in the human and immortal societies could trace where they had gone. Although the abbot ordered him to go to Europe, Yonten decided to return to the Eastern Desert. He was still mystified by the fact the Rose Croix sect had masked the tunnel they had dug in the mountain.

He discovered the reason for their clever camouflage when he got there.

A large campsite made of trailers and tents had taken root on the other side of the mountain. He spent a couple of hours observing the men and women working the land with an array of complex instruments before slipping the satellite phone he had been given for the mission out of his robes. He called the Order.

‘I thought you were on your way to Germany,’ said Tenzin at the other end of the line.

‘I took a detour,’ said Yonten pleasantly.

Tenzin’s tone turned stiff. ‘The abbot will be most displeased.’

‘I found something interesting.’ He updated Tenzin with his latest discovery in the Eastern Desert Mountains. ‘Can you find out who these people are? They are not members of the Rose Croix sect, this I am certain of.’

‘Give me some time,’ said Tenzin after a pause.

A trace of remorse flashed through Yonten when he ended the call. He knew full well that he tested the limits of the abbot’s patience and that of the other monks in the Order, including his own brother. He suspected he had been similarly challenging to his superiors and comrades in his former lives.

Still, his instincts had never failed him. And right now, they were telling him that something important was happening at the site.

It was a few hours before Tenzin called with the information Yonten sought.

According to official paperwork filed with the Egyptian government, the new arrivals were legitimate archaeologists working for a large, private organization. It took another day for the Order to discover that the organization was a clever front for the Immortal Culture and History Section of the Crovir First Council, and that it had not only funded this particular dig but dozens of others around the world. Its CEO was none other than the head of the section, a Crovir noble by the name of Dimitri Reznak.

Yonten got his first sight of Reznak two weeks later, on the day the research team finally broke through into another tunnel at the bottom of a shallow valley parallel to the canyon where the Rose Croix sect had carried out their excavation. This second passage apparently also led to the place where the tombs and stone box had been for he heard the archaeologists’ cries of disappointment and anger when they discovered the Rose Croix sect’s camouflaged tunnel.

To his surprise, they lowered pickaxes and crates of equipment into the tunnel they had excavated a short time later. He moved closer to the camp and soon gleaned from the scientists’ animated conversations that they had discovered a second cave beneath the one where the tombs and stone box had been stolen. A smile tugged at his lips at the news. The Rose Croix sect had evidently missed the existence of the other cave.

It was nearly dusk by the time Dimitri Reznak emerged from the opening. He climbed the wall of the valley and stopped at the summit to watch the setting sun, his expression clearly troubled. He made several phone calls as he headed for the Jeep that had brought him to the excavation site.

Yonten watched the archaeologists for a couple more hours before leaving the desert. He made his way to Europe that very night and staked out the Rose Croix sect’s known hangouts. What he witnessed troubled him.

The enemy’s activities had accelerated dramatically in the last few weeks. Like the abbot, he suspected they were working toward a significant goal, something that would bring major change to the world, and not in a good way.

* * *

December 2010. Boston. USA.

Yonten stood behind a tree and watched the apartment block on the opposite side of the road. Movement behind a bay window on an upper floor caught his eye. He glimpsed a slim, shadowy figure.

Even through the glass, he could tell the person he was looking at had an unusual aura. She faded from view.

A month had passed since the events in the Eastern Desert Mountains. Nine hours ago, one of the Order’s immortal contacts had alerted Yonten to an interesting development. Dimitri Reznak had assigned an agent of the Crovir First Council to find the artifacts that had gone missing from the cave in Egypt. Her name was Alexa King and she was reputed to be the best special operative the Crovir Council had ever had. Her first task was to travel to Boston and recruit a renowned Harvard archaeology professor by the name of Zachary Jackson to assist her in her mission.

Yonten’s instincts, and what he had learned of Dimitri Reznak in the time since he had first learned of the immortal’s existence, made him take the first available flight out of Paris, where he had been tracking the Rose Croix sect. He arrived in Boston late that morning and headed to an address in the Back Bay area.

By his calculations, Zachary Jackson’s apartment was located where he had just seen that intriguing figure. Something told him it was Alexa King. He had likely missed her arrival at the apartment by minutes; according to his source, she had driven from New York to Boston that day. He waited half an hour before exploring the side streets around the block. A black Maserati was parked around the corner from the apartment building.

Yonten smiled. That’s her car.

He admired the curves of the vehicle before strolling down the road to the next intersection. He stopped by a set of traffic lights. Although he had no intention of interfering with Dimitri Reznak’s plans to find the relics that the Rose Croix sect had taken from Egypt, Yonten was certain he would cross paths with the agent the Crovir noble had assigned to the mission. He was curious to see who she was and whether she would end up being friend or foe.

He found himself humming while he waited and ignored the stares from passing commuters. It was the height of winter and snowdrifts lined the roads of the city; he no doubt looked strange standing there in his simple saffron robes.

The roar of a powerful engine suddenly rose above the noise of the traffic. Goosebumps broke out across the monk’s skin. His senses warned him of a formidable presence drawing near. The black sports car shot into view.

A beautiful woman with short, black hair sat behind the driver’s wheel. A blond man was in the passenger seat. The woman’s head turned toward the monk as the car swerved across the intersection.

Their eyes met for a second. Time slowed. The world faded around Yonten.

Her aura was the most incredible thing he had ever seen in his life. Dazzling white flecked with crimson, it spoke of power on a scale he had never before witnessed. And there, rising above her head in a fiery orange glow that almost seared his eyes, was a three-spear weapon. The trishula tattoo on his right palm tingled.

SEVENTEEN NOVELS & SHORT STORIES
Hunted (Book 1)
First Death (Short Story 1)
Dancing Blades (Short Story 2)
The Meeting (Short Story 3)
Warrior (Book 2)
The Warrior Monk (Short Story 4)
Empire (Book 3)
The Hunger (Short Story 5)
Legacy (Book 4)
The Bank Job (Short Story 6)
Origins (Book 5)
Destiny (Book 6)

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