Infinity Blade: Redemption

his armor’s personal interference shield, as he knew that Siris would be watching remotely. That would inhibit the image, make it so that his old friend could no longer watch.
    Raidriar should be angry at Ausar. Instead, he was impressed. That would have been a wonderful betrayal. Treachery worthy of the highest Deathless.
    He still hated Ausar, of course. Deeply. But that didn’t matter right now. Secure that Ausar could no longer watch, he knelt and grabbed Ashimar by the throat, lifting him.
    “Thank . . . you . . .” Ashimar whispered.
    Raidriar nodded solemnly. “Goodbye, my friend.”
    And with that he slammed the Infinity Blade into Ashimar’s chest. The proper flash of light followed, indicating the severing of the immortal bond, the end of a life thought endless. When Raidriar dropped the husk he knew that the Weapon he held was no fake.
    SIRIS SAT back, his mirror greyed out.
    He’d been outmaneuvered. Not just politically and technologically, but morally as well.
    What have I done? he thought.
    The Dark Self seethed.
    I hate you, Siris realized. Even if you make me strong, I hate you. Far more than I hate him.
    There was nothing to be done about it. For now, he admitted defeat.
    He was the Dark Self.
    RAIDRIAR PICKED up Ashimar’s weapon. It was, to Raidriar’s eyes, identical to the Infinity Blade he held.
    “Why?” he called to the Worker, who was still tapping on the screens projected around his throne. Raidriar was only a few steps away by now.
    “To occupy them,” he said. “And to make certain I could replicate the device.”
    “Foolish,” Raidriar said, striding forward. “That gives them a chance to destroy you. You ignore too much. Even if I do not defeat you, someone will. They will raise empires to rival you.”
    The Worker turned to him, then slowly shook his head. “You still haven’t figured it out, I see.”
    Raidriar prowled forward, glancing at the screens around the Worker, which were now close enough for him to make out. Schematics of the world, each continent outlined, and . . . satellites in the skies? Launch trajectories?
    Another war? No . . . this was more extensive than that.
    “Did you know,” the Worker said conversationally, “that there are actually two ways to kill a Deathless? I’ve known of the first for ages. It requires leaving the soul with no place to hide, no body to restore.”
    “Impossible,” Raidriar said. “Even if you destroyed all of the rebirthing chambers, the soul would return to the original body and heal it.”
    “Not if there is nothing left to heal.”
    Raidriar saw it, then. Full orbital bombardment. Laying waste to the entire world, reducing it to ash and slag. Extinction of all life.
    “No . . .” Raidriar whispered.
    “I hate to do it,” the Worker said. “I will have to live offworld for centuries while the planet recovers. But occasionally, a resurrection is needed—a cleansing. What did you once tell me?” The Worker smiled. “That men must be cast down on occasion, or they will grow too high-minded? That goes for Deathless too.”
    “Not this,” Raidriar said, looking at one of the screens with dread. “Everyone . . . everything. You go too far, Galath! I will not allow this. These are my people, and I am their king. I will not allow—”
    “Allow?” the Worker said, amused. “Who are you to allow anything, Jori?”
    Raidriar turned to face him, then fell into a dueling stance, wary for traps. Before him, screens displayed a multitude of plots. Images of the satellites that would vaporize all life. Views of the various places where Deathless fought one another, struggling for supremacy, never realizing that their creator had already deemed them obsolete.
    He fought down the terrible, nauseating horror of it. He was a king, and he would not allow emotion to cloud what he needed to do.
    He would stop this. And then, each and every Deathless on the planet would owe Raidriar their lives. He would make certain they knew of that debt.
    “Still assuming you’re going to be able to kill me, Raidriar?” the Worker said, sounding amused. He stood up, passing through his screens, to a small workstation near the throne. The desk was scattered with bits of ancient technology.
    He paid Raidriar little heed, taking out a datapod and laying it on his desk, opening up files.
    Raidriar vaguely remembered datapods. His father had used one to transfer information between electronic surfaces. He’d