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Back The Trickster
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

Unaware of his spirit observer, Hunting Wolf was writhing in his bed of snow, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled again and rubbing his numb back against the wet ice beneath him. The black sleep was nearly upon him, and he knew who would be the recipient of the fury it would channel from him. His spirit had felt Henderson approaching and he knew that this time the Trickster’s darkness was for the white shaman.

He could not let it happen again. He would rather die. Except that to die would be to release the evil on its chaotic tempest that would destroy as nothing had destroyed before, would liberate it from the prison that was also its succour, and let it draw that blackness at random from other unwitting sources. His leaden eyelids flickered shut and Hunting Wolf stabbed the knife at his belly once again, jerking awake with the pain as the blade punctured the skin.

A thin line of blood ran from his body into the snow and fanned out through the crystals in red, ragged fingers. The eagle shifted its weight from one taloned foot to another and inclined its head towards the trees below. The tall minister was struggling up through the pines towards the tunnel, muttering like a madman, his crucifix grasped in his hand like a witch-finder. Close behind him, unseen by the stumbling black-coated minister, a snowshoe hare scurried, keeping a watchful distance until such time as its shaman enemy gave way to darkness.

Walks Alone saw and understood all. Hunting Wolf would not sleep if the white man was at his side to keep him wakeful, but should he fall into sleep before Henderson arrived …

Walks Alone gathered his will. He had little control over the eagle other than as a passive, sometimes uncomprehending viewer, from its keen eyes. But he knew what he was seeing this time and hungered to act as his spirit guide’s master.

It was in a deep, soft place that his dream-will rested, and he probed it and focused upon it until it ceased to be a soft thing and became a white-hot shard that pulsed in his mind and moved the air around the rock they were perched upon.