Steven Montano: Black Scars

“ Knock it off, Vos,” a woman’s voice called out.

Four figures emerged from the burning fog and haze. Two men and one woman were bound and chained together at the wrist. Both of the men were blonde; one was an older man with thinning hair and a number of scars, while the other was younger and athletic, bearded and tattooed. The third prisoner, the woman, was lithe and the color of a ghost, with long blonde hair and a number of tattoos — dragons and blades, pyramids and skulls — that matched those of the bearded prisoner.

The prisoners were shepherded by a woman that Cross momentarily mistook for Ilfesa Warfield, a seductive black marketer and witch in Thornn whom he’d lusted after for the past several years. This woman was taller than Warfield, more toned, and impossibly more voluptuous, clearly displayed by the tightness of her form-fitting armor. Her waist was waif-thin, and her legs seemed to go on forever. She was clearly in excellent physical condition. Her deep red hair was perfectly straight and fell just past her shoulders, and her cheeks were sharp, angular and angry. Her eyes shone sapphire blue.

The witch wore black leather armor that matched that of her partner, Vos. In one hand she held a Colt Python revolver. Her other hand was encased in an arcane gauntlet, and she gripped a small ball of smoldering flame.

“ You’re Revengers,” Dillon said. He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.

“ Yes,” the woman said. “And you’re a dumbass. Now drop your weapons.”

“ Wait…is there suddenly bad blood between the Revengers and the Southern Claw?” Cross asked. He holstered his HK. His spirit hovered in the space between them, an invisible wall of fire. He felt the witch’s spirit, along with all of its harsh male destructive potential and raw primal energy. They were evenly matched.

“ You’re not dressed as Claw,” the witch said. She was right — Cross and Dillon both wore earth-colored fatigues and armored coats with no insignias.

“ Who in the hell else would we be with, lady?” Dillon groaned.

“ There are lots of questionable characters roaming the wilderness these days,” Vos smiled.

“ Tell me about it,” Dillon said.

Vos motioned for the prisoners to drop down to their knees, which they did, though the bearded man did so reluctantly. He shook his head sadly at Cross, and smiled wryly, as if he was the only one in on some great joke.

Cross knew all too well that the Revengers were to be taken seriously. They were a mercenary outfit, not a part of the Southern Claw. They maintained autonomy because they controlled the massive facility called Black Scar, a vast and secure prison complex located in the wilderness far to the east of the Reach. The Revengers charged inordinate fees to the Southern Claw for use of this facility, but the Claw did so, as there was no better place to hide away dangerous citizens or captured creatures that for whatever reason needed to be kept alive. Relations between the Claw and the Revengers had always been tenuous, in no small part because of the rumors that inmates at Black Scar were subjected to brutal treatment and horrific living environments. Then there was the Revenger’s excessively mercenary nature: anyone could be incarcerated into Black Scar if the price was right. Worse, anyone — or anything — could also be set free, so long as there was ample cash involved.

“ I don’t care if you’re Southern Claw or Wile E. Coyote,” the Revenger woman said. “You just destroyed two of my prisoners. Destroyed prisoners are no good to me.”

“ Yeah, that’s a bitch,” the bearded prisoner laughed. “Of course, you don’t mind them roughed up a little bit, do you Hot Pants?”

Vos cracked the prisoner in the back of the head with the butt of the MP5. The bearded man fell forward, and he nearly dragged the others prisoners down with him.

“ Nice move, kid,” the other blonde man smiled. He seemed distant, and woozy.

The female prisoner didn’t speak, but she cast Vos a baleful look. Cross noticed the scar that ran lengthwise across her throat.

“ Kane,” Vos said to the prisoner. “Do that again. Please. I’d love to break your kneecaps.”

“ I like it when you talk dirty,” Kane groaned.

“ All of you, shut up,” the woman growled. She turned back to Dillon and Cross.

“ So you’re Southern Claw?”

“ Yeah,” Dillon nodded.

“ What are you doing all of the way out here?” she asked.

“ Recon,” Dillon lied.

Either the woman bought it, or she didn’t really care. She looked at Cross.

“ I’m going to call my spirit back. I’d appreciate if you’d do the same.”

“ I’d rather you didn’t call your spirit back,” Cross said, “at least not until you have that vampire safely contained.”

She smiled. He pulled back his spirit. She was reluctant and angry, and he could feel how desperately she wanted to confront the witch’s spirit. Cross had to exert more will than usual in order to force her to behave. He sensed as the witch called hers back, as well, seemingly with the same amount of required pressure.

The fiery chains around the vampire didn’t move, which meant that the woman’s gauntlet was wholly responsible for keeping the undead contained.

I’ve never seen an implement with that much power. Of course, no one really knew the full extent of the Revenger’s resources, but they were unquestionably extensive. Black Scar itself was supposedly buried deep within the earth, a multi-layered stronghold of chiseled iron protected with incredible levels of magic and artillery.

“ Your weapon?” Dillon said to Vos.

Vos watched Dillon for a moment, smiled, and lowered his gun.

“ You want to give me a hand?” he asked the ranger.

Dillon complied, even though he didn’t seem overly enthused by the idea. He and Vos secured the prisoners and moved them away from the wreckage. None of the prisoners spoke while they were moved; they just kept their eyes to the ground.

The witch’s name was Danica Black. She was a Warden of Black Scar and a Revenger, two facts that counted as marks against her in Cross’ mind.

That’s right, make excuses, he chided himself. She’s even further out of your league than Warfield is. And that’s saying something.

Cross stood at the ready while Black carefully adjusted the dials and switches on her arcane gauntlet, modifying the flaming chains that constrained the vampire and making them more stable. The chains never actually touched the creature: they just hovered less than an inch away from its pale flesh, ensuring that if the vampire tried to break free it would turn itself to ash.

“ Is this everyone?” Cross asked as they moved away from the wreckage and into the trees. The dead forest was thin and open, and after a short distance they finally found ground that was devoid of debris. Sharp stones covered the frozen soil of the forest floor. There was only a small amount of snow on the ground in the forest itself, but Cross looked through the tree line to the east and saw fields of white. The air was bitter and cold, and even though they put some distance between themselves and the Dreadnaught’s wreckage the smell of burnt wood and fuel still hung thick all around them.

“ This is all,” she said with a shake of her head. Soot and ash covered parts of her smooth face and hair. “All of the survivors of the Dreadnaught’s trip across the Reach. All six of us.” She smiled bitterly. “Shit.”

Black paced about, kicking stones with her tall boots. Cross tried not to think about how much she looked like Warfield.

Okay, stop it.

Her spirit was there, tense and watchful. Cross’ own lapped at it, teased it with challenge.

Dillon and Vos erected a crude camp, where they gave the prisoners — Lucan, Kane and Ekko — some water.