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.