Shadow Warriors

By

John Thompson

(Excerpt from Chapter One)

The Shadow Warriors bowed and so did Master Koen. Nothing more was said as the four mounted their horses and rode swiftly out the front gate of his estate. His emerald colored eyes watched as the Shadow Warriors separated at the fork that leads to Ryo village. Once the last dust plume settled his eyes turned black. The Ninja spirit was upon him and once again he was the lone guardian of the people who lived there. He did not know when his Shadow Warriors would return.

Master Koen stood motionless as if suspended in time. He watched a large bald eagle circle high over Ryo Mountain before landing in its nest. If a stranger happened to be passing by, he would notice something strange about this old man. He could tell the old one was slightly over six feet tall. His shoulder length silver gray hair rested gently against his ruby red robe, which had an emblem of a white dove embroidered above his heart. He would have seen a smile cross Master Koen's face as he stroked his gray goatee. Then he would have been afraid as the saw the blue flames that burned inside the center of his black eyes.

Each step he took was like a leopard not even disturbing a blade of grass. Master Koen returned to the Dojo and walked across the Tatami mats leaving no foot impressions. He entered his small study and stopped at the far wall. Where he triggered the hidden lever that opened a door to his right.

Inside, he lit several large oil lamps. Then took a seat at a small oak table inlayed with Mother of Pearl, A red swan feather rested in the ink well. Master Koen slowly looked around his library. From floor to ceiling there were stacks of books, papers, and scrolls. Within this room was every piece of recorded history of the martial arts, weapons of war, stories of battles, and maps of foreign places he had not traveled to. There were also over one hundred written tales of myths and legends. Many were unsolved mysteries that mankind wondered about.

Somewhere in one of those piles were recipes for medicines. Like the secret recipe made from the Bangui Root that he started eating daily some forty years ago.

Near the top of the table was a white tied scroll, which he had not read in the past two years. Carefully he untied the single brown ribbon and unrolled the fragile document. He smiled for a moment the Chinese characters in the handwriting were quite familiar. Leaning forward he adjusted the lamp just left of the table. Then he began to read.