Steven Montano: Black Scars

“ All I can do,” she said sadly, “is grant you the tools to accomplish your task. Your female companions are the power. I am the vessel.” Her features faded, sucked into shadow. Charred sky swarmed over the plain like a horde of penumbral spiders. Everything crumbled. “You are the pilot.”

He falls through maelstroms of screaming smoke. His eyes cast out to churning charcoal seas filled with glaciers of black ice. He falls like a teardrop through a deep and empty sky. The world divides behind him and refolds. A scar is left in his wake.

He falls without a body. He falls outside of time.

In the distance, beyond the boundary of what is and the fathomless realm of what isn’t, forms press against the outer shell of the void. Their visages are impossible to comprehend. Each one of them is as vast as a midnight sky. Their eyes are black pits.

He is a sailor on the ebon sea. Churning smoky waters lap and bite at him. He reaches for the edge of the void, and finds it.

On the other side are the ashen plains of the Reach. Ice smokes into the air and bitter frost crunches beneath his feet. He steps onto snow that recoils, blackened, away from him. He sinks with every step.

He is not in his own body, nor is he in any body. This is a new vessel, as the Woman in the Ice had promised. Just as she is the trapped avatar of a greater power, he pilots the avatar of the Woman. He holds control of a spirit machination: a construct of ghosts.

Avenger weighs the air around him. It's every motion cleaves the skin of reality. Its blade is so keen even time bleeds at its touch.

He moves through the sky. He is an avatar made of blades. The world moves beneath and around him. He is out of synch, neither faster nor slower. He moves according to different rules, stands in the folds between moments. His footsteps leave smoking shadows on the land.

Ahead of him, on the opposite horizon, is the Sleeper. He has never seen it clearly before now. It is not all that different from him. It is cloaked in dripping darkness. Vast drifts of its ebon form fall away and melt the transitional realm. In the physical world, possibilities are melted by its passage. It carries with it inevitability, a finality.

They approach one another from opposite ends of the spectral sky. The Sleeper yields a blade every bit as black as Cross' is gleaming white.

Pure flames dance in the air between them. Every step they take is a thunderous echo. The world shakes and rattles at their passage. Time blisters and peels away.

The Sleeper is night condensed into humanoid form. Its skin is a rich ebon field. The blade in its hands cuts the air, and darkness bleeds out.

All around them, everything stops. The universe holds its breath.

Cross steps forward in his unbody, in his armor and weapons of light.

He knows this blade. Avenger extends and shifts. It is fire and light and an edge that can cut through worlds.

Their swords come together in battle.

The weapons clash at the center of the sky. Metal and light explode. The ring of ancient steel cracks the heavens like a hundred storms.

Very quickly, the battle turns to the Sleeper's favor. It is the stronger of the two. Its attacks come at him like an avalanche of dark blades. It is all he can do to deflect them.

He can't launch an attack back of his own; he is too busy defending himself.

Its eyes smoke with histories of destruction. He hears plaintive calls in every strike of its weapon: lost souls made to suffer their own end, again and again and again, with every blow landed by that blade.

He falls. His phantom form feels pain. Terror seizes his bodiless heart.

No.

He springs to his feet. He sends a hail of strikes at the Sleeper, and one of his thrusts lands a cut that gushes forth a rain of shadows instead of blood, a black waterfall of soil and soot.

His rapidly deteriorating mind goes back to the arena in Krul. He is taken back to the battles, to the merciless drive to win. He had a cause worth winning for: to keep his friend alive.

But his friend is dead. He failed.

Dillon is lost, just a body now. All of his simple hopes, his love for his sister and nephew, his sense of duty, his strange dice and his notebook, all gone. Dead and lost, because Cross couldn’t save him.

Graves, and Ramsey, and Stone and Cristena. And Snow. Snow, burning, screaming on the train.

He sees their faces in the clouds as he presses the attack. Their accusing looks give him strength. Steel resolve pumps through the avatar’s veins.

With every motion his comfort in the unbody grows. Rage courses through him like fire. He recalls the taste of victory in the arena, the animalistic drive to destroy his enemies.

He does so now. He smells weakness, sees an opening, and he takes advantage.

Sparks fall onto the Reach like lighting rain. Steel grinds steel into smoldering splinters. Slowly, inch by inch, the light drowns out the shadow.

The Sleeper is desperate. It lashes out with an off-balance strike that catches him off guard. Avenger is deflected aside, and the dark sword pushes forward, finds home.

He screams as the shadow blade pierces his flesh. Something inside of the lunar armor screams out in pain. Everything begins to unravel. He is down on the ground. The Sleeper towers over him. Its midnight blade rises as it prepares to deliver the killing strike.

He reaches deep inside, and finds that part of the avatar that is dying. It fades like a star. It must be released, and even as he ponders the notion he feels it surge forward, feels it call out with a martyr’s fury, a grim resolve. It leaps out of the avatar, and into Avenger.

The white blade rises just as the black blade falls. Dark metal shatters like broken glass. Shadows curl off into shards of lost midnight. Umbra energies part and steam as Avenger continues up, straightens, hones in on its target. He can practically smell the Sleeper’s void heart, buried deep in folds of night armor.

Avenger punches through shadow flesh and dark possibilities, slices away ebon mail and drills to the Sleeper's core. White metal pierces the black and ancient heart, and the Sleeper explodes. Shadow rains down. Dark geysers of energy scream into the heavens like bolts of hot grease.

The Sleeper melts like ice in the sun. It's unmouth rounds into a bodiless scream. Its pale moon eyes shrink, dim, and fade. The clarion roar of a thousand cursed souls escapes into the vast sky. He sees worlds unfold in the shadows of their passing: places that once were, places that might have been.

For a moment, he feels that he can reach out and grab those places, hold onto them, maybe keep them from fading.

But before he even realizes it, the moment is lost, and he is left alone as the dust of time drifts over his body and washes him away.

Cross woke back in the cave, on the safe side of the canyon. His body felt like he’d been trampled by horses. His chest was raw, and he belched up acrid smoke. Cross slowly sat up. Dull pain pushed against the inside of his skull.

After a time, Cross stood up. Both of his arms trembled. Avenger lay at his feet, smoking and broken. Most of the upper edge of the blade had cracked off, and those shards melted like ice right before his eyes. The hilt had also snapped off at the bottom, leaving an overall shorter weapon, jagged, and steaming with frost. Cross gently picked it up.

Dazed and dizzy, he looked around. He felt like he had just woken from a dream. The bodies of the Black Circle agents were still there, lifeless on the rock shelf next to the underground canyon.

He looked across the rift. The cleft in the rock had sealed.

He saw Black struggle to climb up the inside of the canyon wall by the light of her own arcane torch. Ekko was draped across her back, unmoving.