Infinity Blade: Redemption (15 page)

It was gone from his mind, lost to the thousands upon thousands of years it had been since his father had left him on that slab of metal. The bird species itself had been extinct for nearly as long, part of the price paid to bring about the era of the gods.

Raidriar entered the chamber. A throne room, after Deathless ways—but then again, also different. Where the Worker sat at the end, lofty and imposing, was a throne for certain. His seat lay on a large dais high above the room, with a long set of steps leading up to it.

But images hovered around him, screens projected into the air—a contrast to the throne. All those screens, powered by deadminds. Images tugged at the edges of Raidriar’s memory. Visions of another time, visions of his youth, when he had been called Jori. The person he had once been.

Huge windows rimmed the upper edges of the room, showing the desert vista outside. The Worker worked in his hub of light, helm on the chair beside him, looking so . . . human, with the light of the screen reflecting in his eyes. He looked old. Not ancient, but certainly middle-aged, with creases in his skin, silver in his hair.

Raidriar hated how human they all looked, once the masks were gone.

“Worker!” he bellowed, crossing the floor of the chamber.

The Worker didn’t look at him.

“I have escaped your prison, Worker! I am here for you.”

“You are such an interesting specimen, Raidriar,” the Worker said, still watching his screens. He spoke softly, as he often did, though his voice always seemed to carry. That voice . . . it
pierced
. “Do you realize that? You are like a rare butterfly, whose patterns take generations of breeding to perfect.”

“I am not here for word games, Ancient,” Raidriar spat. “You will face me. We will end this.” He raised the Infinity Blade, pointing it at his ancient enemy. The man once named Galath, the one who had given him immortality.

The Worker smiled. “You see? That is what makes you so
wonderful
! The others, they never really bought in. It’s an act to them. When they put aside the masks, they put aside the god. But you . . . you
believe
.” He hesitated. “Of course, it does make you
damn
pretentious on occasion.”

The Worker raised a hand, and a column of light split the ground. A pillar rose, releasing a series of daerils.

“More minions?” Raidriar demanded. “This is pointless. Face me yourself and know my fury!”

“Do you listen to yourself, Raidriar?” the Worker said, amused. “You really are something special.” He turned back to his screens, tapping away at a set of figures. Most of the screens were in motion. Deadminds executing commands. He was working on something big. Something important.

Raidriar didn’t have time to look over much before engaging the first of the daerils. The fight was not terribly difficult. Yes, the creature had been created well, but it could not match the God King, fully armored, with the Infinity Blade in his hands. He dispatched the beast, leaving it to twitch its final moments on the floor.

“A waste,” Raidriar said, shaking his head. “Such a fine creation, slain for no reason.”

“I agree,” the Worker said from above. “It
will
be a shame to see you dead.”

Raidriar snorted. “Do not play your games with me, Worker. Your life is mine, and I have come to claim it.”

“You see?” the Worker said, tapping on his screen, then moving to the next one. “There you go again. Once in a while, I create something
truly
remarkable. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

“I am not one of your pawns, Worker.”

The man on the throne above hesitated, then turned. “You really
do
believe that, don’t you, Raidriar?”

“It is the truth.”

The Worker grinned broadly. “Wonderful.”

“I came to you as a child,” Raidriar said. “I am not some daeril plaything, crafted from the flayed souls of men. I am—”

“—your doom,” the Worker said. “Yes, yes.”

Raidriar hesitated. That had actually been what he’d been about to say. A—

“—fortuitous guess on the Worker’s part,” the Worker said.

Can he . . . read my mind somehow?

“No, I can’t read your mind, Raidriar,” the Worker said. “Let’s just say I’ve known a few versions of your personality subtype before.”

“I was born, not created!”

“Oh?” the Worker asked. “And there was no interference between your birth and now? No changes made to your Q.I.P. to grant . . . say . . . functional immortality?”

Control,
Raidriar told himself.
Retain control. He is playing with you. Ausar imprisoned him for a thousand years in the Vault of Tears. If he could read everyone as perfectly as he pretends, that would never have happened.

“Well, fight your way past my guardians,” the Worker said, going back to his typing on the projected screens. “Then we’ll be on with our climactic final duel, or whatever you want to call it.”

So, what trap would the Worker have laid for him? Raidriar approached the throne hesitantly, noting a figure sitting beside the stone stairwell that led to the throne.

The figure wore gold armor, helm on the steps beside him. The face looked . . . beleaguered. A mop of brown hair, too-thin features.

Eyes that had seen eternity.

“Ashimar,” Raidriar said, using the being’s Deathless name. Once, this creature had been known by another name, however. An ancient name. Jarred.

“Jori,” Ashimar replied. He sounded tired.

“So,” Raidriar said, stopping before the steps. “He pits us against each other. Another of his games.”

Ashimar nodded.

“I have not forgotten the kindness you showed me,” Raidriar said, “when I was young. The stories of my father you shared, memories I needed before I truly came to my strength. For that, I will spare you. Lay down your weapon and leave this place.”

“He’s only going to take one with him,” Ashimar said softly, rising. “A seed, he calls it. Me or you. His favorite pets. Everything else will be . . . gone.”

“What are you talking about?” Raidriar snapped.

“You can’t fight him, Jori,” Ashimar said, sighing. “He knows too much. Everything we do is but a string he has pulled.”

“And this?” Raidriar asked, raising the Infinity Blade toward the steps and throne. “I hold the only weapon that can destroy him. It was a mistake to give this back. He
is
capable of making mistakes.”

Ashimar looked up, meeting Raidriar’s eyes. Then the Deathless stood and pulled a sword from its sheath at his side.

An Infinity Blade.

ANOTHER INFINITY
Blade.

Outside Siris’s cabin, the sky rumbled with distant thunder. The ship rocked back and forth, and he smiled. Then, he took out the small ring of teleportation. He could summon the Infinity Blade back in a heartbeat, leaving Raidriar unarmed and facing a weapon that could kill him for good.

The perfect betrayal. Vengeance, at long last. A conclusion to what he had been built to do, what he had been trained to do.

Defeat the God King.

He moved to activate the ring . . . but found himself hesitating.

On the screen, the fight began.

RAIDRIAR WAS
not stunned to see a new Infinity Blade. He could not afford to be stunned. Lesser beings let surprises destroy them. Not him.

It could only mean one of three things. Ashimar’s Blade was a fake. Raidriar’s Blade was a fake.

Or the Worker had created more Infinity Blades.

You are a fool, Worker,
he thought. A duel would solve this problem. He would need a Deathless soul to feed to his Blade to test it, and that meant he could no longer allow Ashimar to leave. A pity.

“I am sorry, old friend,” Raidriar said, entering a dueling stance.

“I am not,” Ashimar said, putting on his helm. “I can’t let myself die. Curse me, even still, I cling to life . . . I can barely remember the old days. The good days.”

The old days,
good
days? Perhaps putting poor Ashimar down would be an act of mercy.

Raidriar attacked.

Ashimar stood on the steps leading up to the throne’s dais, and that high ground should have given him the advantage. But his attacks were sluggish. Raidriar easily forced him up the stairs, using his shield like a bludgeon, keeping his opponent’s Infinity Blade away. He did not plan to test its authenticity with his own blood.

SIRIS WATCHED
the fight.

Inside of him, another fight raged, more powerful. So strong, he could barely focus on the screen.

Betray Raidriar or not?

This monster had killed him hundreds of times. Siris could have the perfect revenge now. If he took the Blade at just the right moment, in the instant when Raidriar tried to parry, this enemy’s weapon would find Raidriar’s soul.

It would end him forever. Raidriar deserved it. He truly did.

And yet . . .

He didn’t kill me when he had the chance,
Siris thought.
He believes in honor. He’s a tyrant, a murderer. But he’s an honest one.

Could Siris really do this? The Dark Self wanted to lash out, wanted to see his ancient foe defeated.

The man that Siris had become fought back, clinging to his morality by his fingernails.

RAIDRIAR FORCED
Ashimar up the last few steps and onto the dais above, then came in like a tempest. Raidriar threw aside his shield and attacked with overhand blows in rapid succession.

Ashimar was Deathless, and he was skilled, but Raidriar was among the best. Only one man had beaten him in recent times.

Ashimar floundered, dropping to the floor of the dais. He lunged in a desperate maneuver.

Raidriar moved to batter the weapon aside.

SWEAT SLICK
on his brow, Siris watched.

The moment came.

And to his sorrow, to his shame, he activated the button and betrayed the God King.

Nothing happened.

SOMETHING CHIRPED
in Raidriar’s helm—the chip that Ausar had embedded into his weapon, the one that would have teleported it away, had been activated. Raidriar had removed it, of course.

So, you decided betray me after all,
Raidriar thought, surprised as he continued his swing and battered aside Ashimar’s weapon.

Raidriar’s blow threw the weapon from Ashimar’s hand. It clanged to the floor of the dais, skidding away, toward where the Worker sat, engaged by his screens.

Raidriar’s enemy slumped down, defeated.

Ah, Ausar,
Raidriar thought.
That move with the teleportation ring was clever. Just not clever enough.
He activated his armor’s personal interference shield, as he knew that Siris would be watching remotely. That would inhibit the image, make it so that his old friend could no longer watch.

Raidriar should be angry at Ausar. Instead, he was impressed. That would have been a wonderful betrayal. Treachery worthy of the highest Deathless.

He still hated Ausar, of course. Deeply. But that didn’t matter right now. Secure that Ausar could no longer watch, he knelt and grabbed Ashimar by the throat, lifting him.

“Thank . . . you . . .” Ashimar whispered.

Raidriar nodded solemnly. “Goodbye, my friend.”

And with that he slammed the Infinity Blade into Ashimar’s chest. The proper flash of light followed, indicating the severing of the immortal bond, the end of a life thought endless. When Raidriar dropped the husk he knew that the Weapon he held was no fake.

SIRIS SAT
back, his mirror greyed out.

He’d been outmaneuvered. Not just politically and technologically, but morally as well.

What have I done?
he thought.

The Dark Self seethed.

I hate you,
Siris realized.
Even if you make me strong, I hate you. Far more than I hate him.

There was nothing to be done about it. For now, he admitted defeat.

He was the Dark Self.

RAIDRIAR PICKED
up Ashimar’s weapon. It was, to Raidriar’s eyes, identical to the Infinity Blade he held.

“Why?” he called to the Worker, who was still tapping on the screens projected around his throne. Raidriar was only a few steps away by now.

“To occupy them,” he said. “And to make certain I could replicate the device.”

“Foolish,” Raidriar said, striding forward. “That gives them a chance to destroy you. You ignore too much. Even if I do not defeat you, someone will. They will raise empires to rival you.”

The Worker turned to him, then slowly shook his head. “You still haven’t figured it out, I see.”

Raidriar prowled forward, glancing at the screens around the Worker, which were now close enough for him to make out. Schematics of the world, each continent outlined, and . . . satellites in the skies? Launch trajectories?

Another war? No . . . this was more extensive than that.

“Did you know,” the Worker said conversationally, “that there are actually
two
ways to kill a Deathless? I’ve known of the first for ages. It requires leaving the soul with no place to hide, no body to restore.”

“Impossible,” Raidriar said. “Even if you destroyed all of the rebirthing chambers, the soul would return to the original body and heal it.”

“Not if there is nothing left to heal.”

Raidriar saw it, then. Full orbital bombardment. Laying waste to the entire world, reducing it to ash and slag. Extinction of all life.

“No . . .” Raidriar whispered.

“I hate to do it,” the Worker said. “I will have to live offworld for centuries while the planet recovers. But occasionally, a resurrection is needed—a cleansing. What did you once tell me?” The Worker smiled. “That men must be cast down on occasion, or they will grow too high-minded? That goes for Deathless too.”

“Not this,” Raidriar said, looking at one of the screens with dread. “Everyone . . . everything. You go too far, Galath! I will not allow this. These are my people, and I am their king. I will not allow—”

“Allow?” the Worker said, amused. “Who are you to allow anything, Jori?”

Raidriar turned to face him, then fell into a dueling stance, wary for traps. Before him, screens displayed a multitude of plots. Images of the satellites that would vaporize all life. Views of the various places where Deathless fought one another, struggling for supremacy, never realizing that their creator had already deemed them obsolete.