Page List


Font:  

Curiously, he saw two daerils guarding the way in. Unusual for the Worker, who normally eschewed daerils in favor of Deathless guards. It seemed something just for Raidriar, a nod to the way he personally had always done things.

That made him even more angry. The Worker knew he was coming, and had set these beings out here for him to fight, as Raidriar himself had always done with the Sacrifice who came to fight him. A subtle message that the Worker knew he’d be coming.

Raidriar growled and stepped up to engage the first beast.

SIRIS ROCKED in the cabin of the ship, wood groaning softly, waves crashing softly outside. Isa lay wrapped in a sheet on her bed, lashed in place. She was healing, slowly. He’d met back up with TEL and Terr, who now guarded his door.

Siris raised a mirror before himself and engaged it. He was immediately rewarded with an image of the God King riding up to the Worker’s stronghold.

The remote viewing device. Siris had slipped it onto the Infinity Blade’s handle. Now, he would watch for the perfect chance. For there was one thing that had been on the Soulless’s datapad that he’d deleted. One thing that Raidriar hadn’t seen and didn’t know.

The Dark Self hummed softly. No, Siris hummed softly, in satisfaction.

The perfect trap.

RAIDRIAR KICKED a daeril off his sword. The dying creature tumbled down the stairs and slammed against the door at the bottom, throwing it open.

Breathing hard inside his helmet, Raidriar followed it down. The deadmind in his armor chirped a quiet bird whistle in his ear, informing him of a minor injection to boost his stamina. Oddly, as he stepped over the corpse, he found himself struggling to remember the name of the bird that had once made that song. One of his favorites, from long ago . . .

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.”


Tags: Brandon Sanderson Infinity Blade Fantasy