Infinity Blade: Redemption

the thing thrashed and lurched. It smelled awful .
    “I am a God,” he shouted, rolling across the beast’s back and slapping the key of the teleportation ring against the machinery keeping the monster alive.
    It thrashed again, throwing him free. He slammed to the ground nearby with a grunt, ribs cracking. He rolled over, then took the second half of the teleportation ring and hurled it while activating its summoning property.
    The machinery vanished from the beast’s back in a flash of light, then it appeared nearby, teleported to the thrown ring. Only non-living matter could travel with the ring, after all.
    The monster dropped with a thump, ichor spilling from the hole.
    Raidriar groaned, rolling to his knees. That was the problem with these terrible hybrids. Not organic enough to be considered fully alive, but not machine enough to have proper shielding. He lurched to his feet and walked to the machinery that he had teleported, a lump of metal and wires about the size of a small table. He found the lens, through which he knew the Worker would be watching.
    “These are my lands,” Raidriar hissed, leaning in. “And these are my people. Remember that, Worker. You do not take what is mine .”
    He picked up a rock and smashed the lens with a swift motion.

CHAPTER
TEN
    THIS, SIRIS thought, holding up the next sheet of paper, does not make sense.
    Isa was right. The brutality in the God King’s lands was astonishing. Raidriar’s empire was declining rapidly. Barely any coordination between its pieces, local minor Deathless taking up dominion of their little fiefdoms and ignoring decrees from the fake God King, villages starving because shipping had broken down.
    He could have fixed this easily, Siris thought, turning to the next report. It’s like he doesn’t care.
    A knock sounded at the door. Siris looked up from his reports and maps. He sat in the top room of the command center. It had its own window, which he left open to the cool mountain breeze.
    The newcomer was a woman in an apron and a dark grey cotton dress. Nice clothing, for a peasant. She was one of the cooks, likely someone who had run from direct Deathless employ.
    “Mr. Deathless, sir?” she asked from the doorway.
    “Don’t call me Deathless,” Siris said, smiling. “It’s nothing for me to be proud of. I’m Siris.”
    “Siris, sir,” she said, then curtsied. She was one of several dozen who had come to him during the last few hours. Isa was sending them up, he assumed. Soldiers, grooms, the town chandler, and now a cook.
    The Dark Self was furious at the interruption, but it adapted quickly. He would need the good will of his minions.
    They aren’t minions, Siris told himself forcibly. Hell take him . . . the more he leaned upon the Dark Self, the more those kinds of thoughts crept into his mind.
    “What can I do for you?” Siris asked.
    “I just wanted to see you,” she said. “With my own eyes.” She looked at him adoringly.
    The Dark Self was pleased.
    “You’re really going to kill him?” the woman asked. “The God King?”
    “I’ve killed him already,” Siris said. “Hundreds of times. I’m going to do something better. I’m going to free us all.”
    And after that, he’d be the only remaining Deathless.
    She withdrew, and Siris settled back, disturbed at the realization of how desperately he wanted to be the only living Deathless. How much could he trust himself? Once, he’d blamed these instincts on the Infinity Blade, assuming that it was corrupting him. The truth was far more disturbing. There was no corruption—no exterior object to blame. This was him.
    The piece of him that knew how to lead, how to inspire men and make them eager to follow, was also the piece that had oppressed and destroyed.
    Another sound distracted him from his reports, but this time it wasn’t someone at the door. It came from outside. Siris tried to work, but the boiling dread of the Dark Self—mixed with his frustration at the Worker’s unseen plots—kept him from being able to focus.
    Instead, he rose and went to the balcony to investigate the sound—that of children playing. He stood up above, watching them for a time, then glanced at the steps going down. The balcony had its own set, of course. Isa ran this place. There would always be a back way out of any building she ordered built.
    The Dark Self wanted him to get back to his studies. So, defiant, he did not.
    He started down the steps instead.
    ISA SHOVELED