“Very well, great master,” Kuuth said. “That should—” He cut off, cocking his head, as if hearing something.
Siris threw himself to the side.
As a child, Siris hadn’t swung on swings. He hadn’t played marbles, or eaten everberry pies.
Instead, he’d trained. He may not have had a childhood, or a youth, to speak of. But he did have something to show in exchange for that loss: reflexes.
Siris dodged before he even understood why, hitting the ground and ducking into a ball, making himself as small a target as possible. He did this even before his mind registered what he’d heard. A click from behind.
Something sliced his cheek. Idiot, he thought. He’d let himself be caught without his helm. He came up from the roll with his back to the God King’s throne, putting it between himself and the windows behind it. Those would probably be the source of the attack. He pressed one hand to his cheek, stopping the flow of blood.
The pain was nothing. He’d trained himself to ignore pain with a specific group of exercises that had earned him quite a bit of notoriety in the village. They had not been pleasant, but they had been effective.
He remained still, pressing up against the stone of the dais. How many assassins were there? He needed his weapon. Making a quick decision, he let go of his bleeding cheek and scrambled up the steps to the throne, then grabbed the hilt of the Infinity Blade in his unbloodied hand and spun around the side of the throne to assess his enemies.
A single figure in dark clothing had dropped on a rope from one of the upper windows of the vaulted chamber. Sleek and dangerous, the creature wore a long black coat that came down to its ankles, with dark brown leathers underneath. It had the characteristic mask on its face, one that he had come to see as a mark of being in the service of the God King—or, perhaps, another of the Deathless.
The creature pulled a long, thin sword from the sheath at its side. Siris sighed, flexing his hands and gripping the Infinity Blade. His shield was on the table a short distance away, where he’d set his helm and gauntlets. He doubted he had time to grab them. Instead, he climbed down from the throne dais and fell into the stance of the Aegis, inviting the enemy into a duel of honor. In case of an emergency, the healing ring glinted on his finger.
He didn’t use it on his wounded cheek. That was a simple cut, and healing had a terrible cost. Before, he hadn’t cared. He had expected the God King to kill him. Now, the potential cost weighed upon him.
His foe studied him for a moment, then raised its blade.
Here we go, Siris thought.
The creature promptly lowered its sword and raised something from within its coat—a slender, dangerous-looking crossbow.
“Oh, hell,” Siris said, flinging himself to the side. The creature fired, and had expert aim. The bolt drilled into Siris’s thigh, where the metal armor plates parted. He grunted. This was not how a proper duel was supposed to go.
Siris came up, stumbling, and winced. He yanked the small bolt from his thigh, awkwardly holding his blade and trying to watch for the creature’s next attack. As he did so, he felt a deadening of his leg. Poison.
Hell take me! He had no choice now; he took cover beside the throne dais, then engaged the ring.
The healing effect was immediate. He felt a burning on his finger as the magic was expended, and a shock ran through his body. His skin grew clammy, as if he’d dunked himself into an icy pond in the winter.
It lasted only an eyeblink, and when he came out of it, his pains were gone. However, in that eyeblink, his hair had grown all the way down to his shoulders, and he now had a beard where previously he’d had none. His fingernails had grown long.
The healing rings sped up his body in a twisted way. Though they made him heal quickly—wounds scabbing over, then becoming scarred—they also made him age as long as it would have taken to heal wounds naturally. As near as he could figure, each use of the ring took about a half of a year off his life.
He raised a hand to his newly grown beard as he glanced at himself in the polished marble of the throne’s dais. He hated healing. The more he did it, the more . . . alien his own features seemed.
He peeked around the side of the large throne. The assassin was slinking along the side of the dais toward him, obviously expecting him to be succumbing to the poison. The creature yelped in a quite undaerilic way as Siris dashed out from behind the dais, running toward the side of the room.
The assassin raised its crossbow again, but Siris was ready. He ducked low and jumped in a roll. He came up beside the table and grabbed his shield, turning and raising it.
The enemy scuttled away, taking cover. Siris gritted his teeth. Every beast he had faced in the God King’s palace—even the most foul of daerils and most primitive of trolls—had followed the ancient dueling ideals. Obviously, he was facing a different kind of evil now.
“So . . .” a feminine voice called from beside the pillar where the assassin had fled. “You’re not dead then, I see.” Her voice had a faint accent that Siris couldn’t place. She said her “eh” sound too long, like it was an “ee” instead, and she punctuated her syllables too much.
Siris blinked in surprise, but didn’t reply. He moved across the room back toward the throne dais. It made for good cover.
“This is very awkward,” the hidden assassin said, voice echoing in the room. “I’m going to flay that vendor alive; he promised the poison was a three-breather. You’ve taken considerably more than three breaths since I shot you.”
Siris reached the base of the dais.
“I don’t suppose you’re starting to feel tired?” the voice asked.
“Afraid not,” Siris called back.
“Weak? Dizzy? A little peckish?”
Siris hesitated. “Peckish?”
“Sure. You know, like something has pecked you? Isn’t that what the word means?”
“It means hungry,” he said flatly.
“Damn.” There was a sound coming from one of the back pillars, like the assassin was writing. Taking notes? “Your language is stupid, immortal.”
“Wait,” Siris said. “Immortal?”
“And might I add,” the voice continued, “that when people speak of awe-inspiring divine powers, spontaneously growing a beard doesn’t really come up. I expected lightning, thunder, earthquakes. Instead I got facial hair. I’m less than impressed.”
Thunder . . . earthquakes . . . immortal?
Siris almost laughed. She thought he was the God King!
What else would she think, finding someone sitting in the throne, with the God King’s sword beside him, speaking with a troll?
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—” Siris began.
At that moment, she leaped out from behind her pillar and leveled her crossbow at him again. She’d removed her mask, and he was surprised to see that she was completely human.
And she was not unattractive, with long black hair that she kept in a simple ponytail. But her eyes spoiled it. Those were grim and hard. Dangerous.
Siris’s hard-won reflexes meant he got the shield up in time to deflect a crossbow bolt; the woman ducked back behind the pillar, her black coat swishing. She’d been trying to lull him with the conversation.
“Look,” Siris said. “You’re making a mistake. I—”
The door to the room exploded. A massive, hulking thing of sparks and darkness broke its way through the far wall, tossing down chunks of rock. It held a blade as wide as a man’s stride, and its head was capped by a helm that trailed black mist through the eyeslit.
“What’s that?” Siris demanded.
“You didn’t think I came alone, did you?” the woman called.
Great, Siris thought, turning toward this new foe—though he had to be careful not to put his back to the woman. That would likely earn him a crossbow bolt between the shoulder blades. His armor was good, but she obviously had an enhanced crossbow built to punch through the best steel.
The newcomer stepped
into the room, the beautiful marble tiles crunching and cracking beneath its feet. Siris was half-afraid the tower floor would fall out from under them. They were at the highest point in the castle, and the drop would be deadly.
Most of the daerils fled, though Kuuth retreated to the side of the room. The ancient troll rested on his staff, head cocked to listen.
None of the daerils offered to help Siris, despite their willingness to call him “great master.” Siris put himself into an Aegis fighting stance—well, as best he could, while watching two places at once. The machinelike monster took a pair of crunching steps forward, and then another one just like it followed through the hole the first had made, knocking pieces of rock to the ground.
Great, Siris thought. He made a snap decision, then attacked forward, intending to try to defeat one of the monsters before he could be overwhelmed.
The assassin had been waiting for that move, however, and took a shot at him as he charged. Siris had to lurch to a stop, letting the bolt shoot in front of him, then awkwardly raised his shield to block a blow from the first golem.
The monster’s gigantic sword crashed down, hitting hard and sending a shower of sparks from his shield. The shield’s magic held, but just barely. Terrors, he thought, I’d never be able to parry a blow from something like this unaided.
He breathed out, bringing his sword around to strike, but caught another motion from the corner of his eye. He leaped to the side in time to dodge yet another crossbow bolt. She was fast with those reloads.