Legacy-The Eternal Forest #NativeAmerican #Occult
Legacy-The Eternal Forest: “You are decreed in the ancient prophesy to end the legacy of darkness, the mark of the protector of the wind is drawn upon your neck.”
Legacy-The Eternal Forest: Occult/Supernatural
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BLURB: Legacy-The Eternal Forest
The people of Maskek have always presumed it to be a bizarre weather phenomenon happening rarely but with great intensity and loss of life. For the poison they have no answer. The odious creeping cloud is growing, pulsating and expanding; its lethal tentacles reaching ever upward.
Faced with this perverse, avenging adversary, Deacon and a small band of “modern day warriors” are all that stand between the malignant and vaporous enemy and the town of Maskek.
EXCERPT: Legacy-The Eternal Forest
Enveloped in the choking, stinking greyness the war party rode on, the maleficent presence reeking of death, debauchery and destruction drawing them inwards. The silence was shattering and oppressive. The area on which the voluminous cloud had settled previously was burned black despite the icy conditions. The trees were gnarled, twisted and charred like firewood, as were the upturned crosses in the circle of death on the island in the middle of Loon Lake known as Amisk Inlet. Even as they rode the tendrils of the fetid cloud closed in behind them.
“Go now,” Spirit of the Wind commanded, “before we are cut off.” Men and horses moved as one skirting around the expanding mass of depravity into a clearing where they re-grouped.
“How will we fight this enemy, my brother?” Clayton asked in the Cree tongue. “There is nothing at which to aim our arrows.”
While Clayton was speaking the cloud began to thicken, plunging them into darkness so dense they could not see their hands in front of their faces. “Be still,” the young chief told them. His gently quietly spoken words a calming influence.
As if on cue there came movement among the clinging vines of tentacles and the forest was filled with the sound of anguished wailing and despair so utterly lost and broken the hearts of the warriors were pierced with barbs of deepest sorrow.
“The souls of the dead,” Spirit of the Wind said. “We must show no fear, they will feed on our fear. They are greed and depravity, the bringers of the demons.”
“The beginning of hell,” Clayton said.
The forest rapidly swarmed with the faces of the dead floating unfettered in the blackness. Sensing his way Spirit of the Wind urged the black stallion forward, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light. Clayton came next, the flanks of his buckskin mare Moonshine rubbing against his blood brother’s legs. At his cousin’s left side Lone Wolf whispered, “Remember what your grandfather told you, in battle you must use all of your senses; ears to hear, your eyes to see…”
Removing the knife from its beaded sheath, Spirit of the Wind clasped it tightly and, in a movement, so swift it would have been almost invisible to the naked eye even in broad daylight, cut into the face closest to him feeling resistance against the blade. “It lives!” he cried in jubilation.
He attacked a second and a third time, the grinning faces of evil falling under his blows. Instantly, as if someone had thrown a switch, the darkness cleared leaving only the veined and interwoven heart of the grey seething mass of miscreants. These abominations were neither animal nor human merely fleshless beings of indescribable inhumanity. When had the vapour become a solid substance? Perhaps in the blinding darkness when no man could see.
Again, the mass descended, its putrid breath choking them, its tentacles reaching out
to form around the legs of the warriors paralysing them where they sat. They cried out in pain. Spirit of the Wind slashed mercilessly at the clinging vines of membranes. With no thought for his own safety he weaved in and out of the breathing, heaving cloud, his war cry loud and distinct. Behind him Clayton, Stands-in-Timber and Stands Alone unleashed a hail of arrows. They hissed as they cut through the air, sharp projectiles striking hard against thetendrils of the animate substance imprisoning the warriors. Released from their paralysis Stalking Moon, Pakito, Reno and Mule Deer took up the fight. Mule Deer produced a tomahawk, a sharpened axe that tore through the sinews of the entity. Within the grasping suffocating tangle of undead flesh, the young chief heard his name.
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