The Dark Edge Chronicles - Hardwire

Chapter 36: A Dark Discovery

Mordecai sat back on his haunches, stunned as his mind tried to wrap itself around a concept that he had always thought was impossible: the presence of a race of psionic vampires! Was this the reason he was pulled forward in time? To discover this? Regardless of the answers were, Mordecai wouldn't get the opportunity to consider them.

"Stand, knight-protector, so that I may separate your head from the rest of you!" snarled a powerful voice and, with a frown, Mordecai's head jerked up.

He found himself staring hard at the rapidly advancing form of yet another Reaver, equally big and as impressive as the one he had just killed, already sheathed in the red Quaydrim armor of his people. It was time to resume his dark task. 'Vampires or not,' he thought darkly as he swiftly rose to his feet to ignite his sword and bring it to the ready. 'The Reavers are going to die this day!'

The man in black, filled with both Caiphus' god fire and his own native determination, was as good as his word. Wielding his Quaydrim weapons with instinctive skill and fiery desire, he cut his way through the ranks of the Reavers that were sent out, one by one, to face him. Until, as the great sun slipped beneath the horizon to leave only the lesser white dwarf sun to cast its pale light across the twilight-lit glade with its tournament grounds in its belly, he found himself alone on the battlefield.

Stepping away from his latest victory, breathing hard from the effort it had taken to smash his mace into his opponent's head with enough force to kill him through his Quaydrim armor, Mordecai stared down at the Reaver jerking out his last moments on the ground in front of him. Ground that was already well littered with bodies, the Reavers making no efforts to clear their dead. Only the UV fire from the great sun had kept them from stinking throughout the afternoon's heat.

Clutched in Mordecai's right gauntlet was his mace, a seething ball of bright blue energy generated by the blue Quaydrim crystal that jutted from the mace's haft. He had been forced to turn to it, this, the second time, after his opponent had managed to knock his fire sword from his grasp.

The mace's haft spun lightly in Mordecai's quick fingers before, with a thought, the uneasily shifting ball of blue light that sat at its head was extinguished, leaving only a softly glowing crystal in its stead. Then it joined the only weapon that Mordecai had yet to use on the belt, the curious bivalve device, whose purpose the man in black could only guess at.

Mordecai chuckled softly at that thought. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd get the opportunity to find out what it was. There were still plenty of Reavers that needed killing! Although a glance up at their camp at the tournament ground's far end yielded their numbers were severely depleted by the afternoon's activities.

But, before any of those could advance towards him, the trumpet sounded to announce the end of that day's fighting. And, almost in the sound's shadow as Mordecai frowned in disappointment, he felt a gentle touch on the armored sleeve of his right arm.

"Time to retire to our camp and renew your soul, Sir Caiphus," Brin's soft and familiar voice husked in Mordecai's ear. "I believe you've bathed in enough Reaver blood today!"

And so it was a half hour later that found the man in black bathed, wearing a new shirt and slowly chewing his way through an unimaginative but filling meal of black bread, beans of some sort and a chunk of boiled meat, its origins equally unsolved. The meal sat on a plain wooden plate on an equally plain table in front of him. And the unassuming Father Brin sat across from him, a small smile of satisfaction playing on his worn face, as he looked the lean knight-protector over.

"You did well today, Sir Caiphus. Very well! I must say that I'm pleased with how quickly you learned how to use the Quaydrim."

"The god fire itself showed me how," Mordecai replied with a brief glance up at the worn looking priest before returning his undivided attention to the meal in front of him. Quaydrim armor or no, he could feel the drain on Caiphus' untested psionic cortex that the day's battle had brought. He needed to refuel.