The acclaimed weird western series continues. The Rider and Kabede must rally a US Cavalry troop against an army of the undead lead by three of Adon’s renegade riders if they are to survive The Long Sabbath. The Rider infiltrates an Apache stronghold to convince the combined forces of Vittorio and Geronimo not to lend their might to the mysterious forces of The War Prophet. The Rider sets out to rescue the succubus Nehema from the wrath of The Mules of The Mazzikim, then confronts his greatest enemy, The Man Called Other.Seeking to learn the remaining secrets of The Hour of Incursion, the Rider and his companions arrive in Tombstone only to face the horror of The Fire King Triumphant.
The skinwalkers went to the base of the stone and knelt in a circle. They upended a series of small black pouches from their satchels into their hands, and closed them into fists. Colored sand ran through their fingers, and with measured care they began to let the sand fall in ordered patterns on the bloody red earth. It was wondrous to see them work, ten men making a large vaguely circular picture, each acting independently, their labors taking on a unified pattern, as if they possessed one mind, one vision. Silently and without pause or consultation they worked, forming mystic shapes and figures, incomprehensible to outsiders and yet obviously inspired. As they worked, the colored sand drank up the spilled blood beneath, darkening in color where it fell.
When it was finished, they rose as one and returned to the ranks of their people, and a mesmerizing sand painting lay before the stone on which Misquamacus had stood the whole time, observing. Red and blacks and blues dominated the work, and there were dancing feathered figures, moons, stars, and strange geometric patterns. To the Rider, only a few of these seemed somewhat familiar….all distinctly aboriginal in their interpretation. Central to the painting was a strange humanoid shape of black sand.
Misquamacus removed something from his satchel then, a polished mirror fragment, the size of a man’s head. He placed it in the center to the sand painting, over the center shape.
Then, before their eyes, that black shape began to grow oily and to boil like hot tar.
A lump rose from the center and took shape, congealing into a man-like form, carrying the fragment of mirror with it. Steam rose from the thing, as if it was hotter than the cool mountain air around it. When it had completed its unnatural birth, it stood nearly eight feet tall, like an earthen statue, black and faceless but for the smooth mirror.
Dark, foul smelling smoke, like the oily stench of a machine fueled by corpses, poured from around the edges of the thing’s mirror mask, billowing unnaturally around the figure, never rising, cloaking it in a greasy fog.
Misquamacus turned and went to his knees, arms upraised in adoration.
“Behold Tezcatlipoca! The Dark Wind! Nyarlathotep!”