Infinity Blade: Redemption

trembling legs, raising a hand toward Raidriar. Then, the man fell to his knees and bowed himself.
    “My God,” Eves breathed, “you have returned.”
    Excellent. Eves, Raidriar’s High Devoted, head of his priesthood. “Ever known the truth,” Raidriar said, repeating a passcode set up between him and Eves should there ever be a question of Raidriar’s authenticity. Because of the possibility of Soulless copies, it seemed wise to have such a protocol in place.
    Eves’s shoulders relaxed and he looked up. “It is you. Oh, great master. I have failed.”
    “I noticed.” Raidriar waved for Eves and his companion, a younger man, to rise. “How complete is the impostor’s domination?”
    “I do not know, great master. I was not suspicious of the creature at first. It wasn’t until the second day that I demanded the sign from him. When he could not produce it, I tried to raise the Devoted and Seringal against him. Great master, my rival among the Devoted—Macrom—was ready, and he turned them all against me.”
    “Curious,” the God King said. “So he was informed of the plot ahead of time.”
    “It seems that way.”
    The Worker had found a way to communicate while imprisoned. Had he led Ausar to search him out there in the first place?
    The answer was obvious. Of course he had.
    “Macrom had been whispering poison to the others for some time,” Eves said. “We who remained loyal fought them, but most of the Seringal sided with the impostor. All that remain of your true Devoted are myself and young Douze. We have been imprisoned here for months upon months, great master. Perhaps years . . .”
    Raidriar grunted. He had hoped that Eves would at least have some information for him.
    “Great master?” Eves asked as the other Devoted bowed and gave obeisance. “Macrom . . . Did you slaughter him in a particularly painful way?” Eves sounded hopeful.
    “Thin fellow?” Raidriar asked. “Upturned nose?”
    “That’s him, great master.”
    “Hmmm. I may have actually left that one alive. I don’t fully remember.”
    “That is . . . somewhat uncharacteristic of you, great master.”
    “I haven’t entirely been myself, lately,” Raidriar said, stepping through the mangled remains of the door back into the dungeon corridor. The two Devoted followed, Eves limping noticeably. His robe was stained from old blood and ripped on the left side—the sign of a wound that had long since healed. That was good to see. Raidriar would have been annoyed to find his High Devoted unwounded. Eves should not have been taken alive without a fight.
    “Great master,” Eves said, barely keeping pace. “We two are weak, for it has been very long since you vanished, at least by the reckoning of mortals. You deserve much better servants than myself and this one. That stated, great master, I offer my most sincere prayer of thankfulness to you for our rescue. I did not give up hope during the long, dark days, for your triumph was assured. I did, however, worry that I would not be worthy to be released, following my failure.”
    Raidriar waved an indifferent hand as they walked the quiet hallways. “You have proven useful in the past, Eves.”
    “Thank you, great master.”
    “Besides, I’m fond of you. You remind me of your grandfather.”
    “Toornik? Great master . . . didn’t you execute him?”
    “Hmm? Oh, yes. Sword through the gut after he tried to embezzle tax monies, if I recall. But if I hadn’t liked him, I’d have hanged him by his ankles in the sun and let him starve.”
    “Ah, of course.”
    The catacombs had grown suspiciously silent. Raidriar frowned, expecting more daerils—or even several Seringals—to appear and challenge him. No further enemies appeared. Surely he hadn’t yet slain everyone in the temple.
    No challengers presented themselves as he and his Devoted approached the stone-walled core at the center of the temple. Here, a burnished wall of reflective steel was inlaid with an etched mural depicting Raidriar’s glory.
    The God King stopped before it. When had this etching been made again? Two, three thousand years back?
    That’s right, he thought, dredging the depths of his organic memory. That blind sculptor who etched by touch. He had taken seventeen years to create this etching. It was exquisite. I really should have visited this more often , he thought as he tore a hole through it with the Incarnate Dark.
    Beyond lay silvered surfaces. Like the old days—metal