Black Scars by Steven Alan Montano

sensed was an effect of Shul Ganneth, as that would have made some sense. That place had been a temple refuge for the Maloj, after all, primal arcane natives who in their time had commanded vast and terrible powers. According to tales, their home had been as devastated as Earth had by The Black, and significant portions of their twisted arcane geography and spatial biomechanical tools had been left half-lodged between worlds. Earth had only been exposed to a fraction of what that mad race of lupine theurgists had created. Cross had only seen some of their locales and relics, but what he had seen was powerful, and defied most of what he’d learned about magic.
    But what he felt there outside wasn’t born of Shul Ganneth, he was sure of it. It was a presence. Something else was there in the ruins, something Cross hadn’t seen yet. It froze his spirit in her place, and cowed her. He felt her wither in its shadow.
    Cross traced his way along the edge of the frozen shore, which broke into salt crust beneath the toes of his boots. Cracks littered the edge of the black lake and shot out several feet into the ice, like caricatures of dark lightning.
    He saw where dust piles had been broken apart or flattened. Cross pulled his spirit close, and her slippery electric form pushed against him. He set her to the task of keeping his weight light as he moved. She took pressure off of his wounded leg, and she gave him just enough of a telekinetic lift to glide him along the ice.
    Cross felt himself fading; he was on the brink of passing out. His spirit’s anxiousness kept him conscious.
    Stay alert. There’s something out there in the dark.
    Cross knew that Dillon was en route, but he didn’t have time to wait.
    He made his way towards the crumbling cluster of broken monuments at the far side of the onyx lake. So much sediment and debris had frozen into the ice it looked like a slab of marble. Lupine faces and serpentine limbs from shattered statues lay scattered everywhere. The far bank was a barrier of frozen charcoal dust. Stone faces from shattered statues peered out through an ice cold mist that smelled of lye.
    Cross moved carefully. His eyes had trouble adjusting to the gloomy green light. Everything seemed distorted and distant, as if he moved underwater. His boots pushed through crusts of petrified basalt and frozen ash. The air tasted sick.
    Slowly he made his way off of the ice and onto the far shore, near the small set of ruins that stood outside of Shul Ganneth, the ruins that Dillon had spied on his earlier reconnoiter.
    A truck sat at the far side of the felled monuments. It was an old-fashioned M2 Army transport that had been painted black. Such artifacts were rare outside of the Southern Claw, and those that still existed were used sparingly in favor of the arcane airships, which didn’t require traditional gasoline, but instead were powered by thaumaturgic fuel. The truck growled with a low grinding sound, like a metal animal gasping for breath.
    “ Damn it!”
    The voice was Cradden’s. He sat behind the wheel in the truck cab. Blood ran down one side of his face. Maddox and Lucan, both lucid and unsteady, sat in the truck bed.
    Cross didn’t hesitate. He sent his spirit forward in a rain of fiery nails. Smoke trailed the spiky projectiles as they seared through metal and glass. The air was alight with hundreds of incendiary ribbons.
    Spirits tangled. Cradden raised a shield that deflected many of the missiles so that they exploded in a rain of sparks and steel shards.
    A shadow flickered at the edge of Cross’ vision. He turned just in time to see Gregor emerge from behind a shattered stone monument. Gregor’s goggles reflected the fire of the arcane battle, and he aimed his shotgun squarely at Cross’ head.
    Machine gun fire tore through the night. Vos and Dillon ran out of the darkness behind Cross, kicking up clouds of black dust and ice silt.
    Vos gunned down Gregor with his MP5. Gregor’s body fell onto