Prologue
It is almost nightfall in the high desert, the witching hour, where ghosts dance with the living in a fight for primacy against the last rays of the falling sun. The man stands completely still on a hard packed dirt road. He is dressed inconspicuously in a workingmans clothes---the requisite faded jeans covered in dust, dirty work boots, and a faded denim jacket worn through at the elbows.
His features are ordinary. His brown hair is cut long in a style no longer fashionable, with a face that appears to be carved from solid granite, immutably fixed, and incapable of nuanced expression, and all of this attached to a solid but unremarkable six foot frame.
All of these impressions came fleetingly, but closer much closer, there is something different that emanates from the man. It is an ineffable foreboding---almost dread---that is spectral and unearthly, resolute, and impenetrable.
It appears he has not moved for hours. His back is toward the setting sun, and he stares directly into the covering darkness.
To his left are a ridge of low hills, and to his right beyond the road, the land slopes gently down to a flat field that has long ago been abandoned by some hapless farmer. The field is covered by a dense growth of waist high grass, burnt brown by a merciless desert sun.
The man knows there are no humans around. This spot has been chosen carefully. But even though it appears empty, it is not.
There is a presence out there beyond the road, lurking in the tall grass. The man can feel it---he knows it, but he refuses to turn his head to look.
Out in the grass, a set of eyes has been watching him with a consuming hunger. The eyes are feral and brutal, but also knowing. If one were to look closely, the animal would appear as a wolf, except it is impossibly large---a dire wolf from an age before man.
The wolf looks at the stranger and gapes its jaws in a silent, mocking laugh. Blood drips from its mouth in a steady patter on the ground, falling in a quiet, ghostly echo.
The man can feel its malevolence. It is waiting for him.
I see you Broken Eagle.
The wolf continues its mocking smile. I see you and you cannot escape me. There is no power on Earth or beyond that can escape me.
The wolf walks slowly through the tall grass to the edge of the road, but stops well short of the man. He continues to speak, communicating from one mind to the next in a horrid, macabre dance.
We are brothers, you and I. You know this. From the time before the world floated on water, and the sky was forged, we have been as one. We come from the same first clot of life that arose from the darkness, and back to the darkness we will go.
The wolf tilts its head, its grin becoming even wider and more mocking.
You hear me Broken Eagle, but you do not acknowledge me. No matter, the outcome is the same. There is only one thing in your future, and it is death and more death. You are the avenger---the stinger in the scorpions tail. The web has been spun, and the Great Spirit will have its way.
The man hears the words, but he does not move. He barely breathes. He stays motionless, and allows the oncoming darkness to wash over him. The wolf, too, remains still until the sun had fully set and the darkness is complete.
It could have been hours, or days, or years. The man had no sense of time passing. He is lost in the surrounding web of evil, and he is powerless.
When he is almost beyond his endurance, the wolf acts.
He launches himself at the man with a supernatural power. In one ferocious leap the wolf clears the twenty feet that separates them. He bares his fangs in mid-flight, aiming directly for the mans exposed neck.
The man sees the wolf. There can be no mistake. In that split second, he sees the animal leap. He knows what must come next, and still he does not move. Broken Eagle knows the prophecy is correct. He will not fight the Great Spirit or the powers of darkness aligned against him. There will be no quarter given, no forgiveness, and no remorse.
Broken Eagle imperceptibly bows his head. It is done. The darkness has won, and he resigns himself to his fate.
It is almost nightfall in the high desert, the witching hour, where ghosts dance with the living in a fight for primacy against the last rays of the falling sun. The man stands completely still on a hard packed dirt road. He is dressed inconspicuously in a workingmans clothes---the requisite faded jeans covered in dust, dirty work boots, and a faded denim jacket worn through at the elbows.
His features are ordinary. His brown hair is cut long in a style no longer fashionable, with a face that appears to be carved from solid granite, immutably fixed, and incapable of nuanced expression, and all of this attached to a solid but unremarkable six foot frame.
All of these impressions came fleetingly, but closer much closer, there is something different that emanates from the man. It is an ineffable foreboding---almost dread---that is spectral and unearthly, resolute, and impenetrable.
It appears he has not moved for hours. His back is toward the setting sun, and he stares directly into the covering darkness.
To his left are a ridge of low hills, and to his right beyond the road, the land slopes gently down to a flat field that has long ago been abandoned by some hapless farmer. The field is covered by a dense growth of waist high grass, burnt brown by a merciless desert sun.
The man knows there are no humans around. This spot has been chosen carefully. But even though it appears empty, it is not.
There is a presence out there beyond the road, lurking in the tall grass. The man can feel it---he knows it, but he refuses to turn his head to look.
Out in the grass, a set of eyes has been watching him with a consuming hunger. The eyes are feral and brutal, but also knowing. If one were to look closely, the animal would appear as a wolf, except it is impossibly large---a dire wolf from an age before man.
The wolf looks at the stranger and gapes its jaws in a silent, mocking laugh. Blood drips from its mouth in a steady patter on the ground, falling in a quiet, ghostly echo.
The man can feel its malevolence. It is waiting for him.
I see you Broken Eagle.
The wolf continues its mocking smile. I see you and you cannot escape me. There is no power on Earth or beyond that can escape me.
The wolf walks slowly through the tall grass to the edge of the road, but stops well short of the man. He continues to speak, communicating from one mind to the next in a horrid, macabre dance.
We are brothers, you and I. You know this. From the time before the world floated on water, and the sky was forged, we have been as one. We come from the same first clot of life that arose from the darkness, and back to the darkness we will go.
The wolf tilts its head, its grin becoming even wider and more mocking.
You hear me Broken Eagle, but you do not acknowledge me. No matter, the outcome is the same. There is only one thing in your future, and it is death and more death. You are the avenger---the stinger in the scorpions tail. The web has been spun, and the Great Spirit will have its way.
The man hears the words, but he does not move. He barely breathes. He stays motionless, and allows the oncoming darkness to wash over him. The wolf, too, remains still until the sun had fully set and the darkness is complete.
It could have been hours, or days, or years. The man had no sense of time passing. He is lost in the surrounding web of evil, and he is powerless.
When he is almost beyond his endurance, the wolf acts.
He launches himself at the man with a supernatural power. In one ferocious leap the wolf clears the twenty feet that separates them. He bares his fangs in mid-flight, aiming directly for the mans exposed neck.
The man sees the wolf. There can be no mistake. In that split second, he sees the animal leap. He knows what must come next, and still he does not move. Broken Eagle knows the prophecy is correct. He will not fight the Great Spirit or the powers of darkness aligned against him. There will be no quarter given, no forgiveness, and no remorse.
Broken Eagle imperceptibly bows his head. It is done. The darkness has won, and he resigns himself to his fate.
