“Not much,” Siris said. “Seven lords, ruling together, with the God King above them all.”
“Yes, though that is mostly just the illusion they give to others in the land nearby. The God King was but one of many who name themselves Deathless. They are immortal-truly immortal. They need neither food nor water to live. They do not age, and their bodies heal if wounded. Chop them to pieces, and their soul will seek out a new receptacle to be reborn. Often they are reborn into what the God King called a ‘bud,’ a replica of themselves, prepared ahead of time.”
“I saw some of those,” Siris said. “Below.”
“Yes,” Kuuth said. “But even without a bud, the soul of a true Deathless will find a new home. Unless . . .”
“Unless.”
“The God King’s sword. You mentioned its magic before. You have the weapon?”
Siris reached to the side, fingers resting on the blade.
“The Infinity Blade,” Kuuth whispered. “Crafted by the Worker of Secrets himself.”
“But he’s just a myth, isn’t he?”
“What better creator of a sword that should not be, a sword to kill the unkillable? Great master, that weapon is designed to slay the Deathless. Permanently. It is a terrible and wondrous thing. The Deathless have lived for thousands of years, and have come to see themselves as eternal. But if one of them were to gain access to a weapon which could finally threaten them . . .”
“He’d be a God,” Siris whispered.
“God among gods,” Kuuth said. “King among kings. First of immortals.”
Siris ran his fingers along the blade. “They will chase me. They’ll hunt me, for this.” He gripped the sword by the hilt. “I should throw it away.”
“And they would still hunt you,” Kuuth said. “Because you know the secret. Because you’ve done the unthinkable.”
“You’re dead too,” Siris whispered, realizing the truth. “Everyone in this castle. Each Aegis or daeril who knows that a mortal slew one of the Deathless.”
“You see why I needed to whisper this to you,” Kuuth said. “No need to inspire a panic. Many of the Aegis in this castle are golems with deadminds controlling them, but many are not. All will likely be destroyed. Just in case.”
“You don’t seem afraid.”
“I’ve lived many years beyond my lifespan,” Kuuth said. “I believe my death will be a nice rest. The others . . . well, they’ll probably be allowed to fight one another until one champion remains to fall upon his sword. It is the method commonly granted to skilled Aegis who have acquitted themselves well. They will consider it an honor.”
“Hell take me,” Siris said, looking at the creature’s bandaged eyes, then at the gathered daerils at the back of the room. “You’re all insane.”
“We are what we were created to be, great master,” Kuuth said. “Though, the rebel inside of me tells you all of this to perhaps . . . repay the God King and his ilk. My kind were created to die and to kill.” He raised his head, blind eyes looking toward the ceiling. “But they are the ones who created us this way.”
Siris nodded, though the beast couldn’t see him.
“Great master,” Kuuth said hesitantly. “If I may ask a question. Why do you say that phrase that you did?”
“Hell take me?”
“Yes,” Kuuth said.
“It is a saying from my village and the region about,” Siris said, standing up, taking the Infinity Blade. “These Deathless are the gods; they claim to rule the earth and the heavens. And so, when we die, we wish for a place where they are not. Better the pains of hell than living in heaven beneath the Deathless.”
Kuuth smiled. “And so, we are not so different, are we?”
“No,” Siris said, surprised at the answer. “No, I suppose we are not.”
“Then I must ask you,” Kuuth said, “as one warrior to another. Will you stay? Rule here, make your stand here. Together, the two of us may be able to decipher the secrets of the God King’s deadminds. We might be able to face the others.”
That . . . that was tempting, when put that way. Siris considered it for a long moment, but eventually discarded it. Making a stand here, even with daerils, was suicide.
As frustrated as he was with the townsfolk of Drem’s Maw, he was coming to understand why he’d been required to leave. He couldn’t remain long in any location where the Deathless knew to find him. They’d kill him and take the sword. If he was going to survive, he needed to escape them.
Freedom . . .
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But it is not to be.”
Kuuth lowered his aged head.
“Your words are wise, Kuuth,” Siris proclaimed loudly, standing. “I will seek out this Killer of Dreams, starting immediately. If he was an enemy of the God King, then he may be an ally to me. If not, I will slay him, then hunt out the true location of the Worker of Secrets. You and the other daerils are to remain here and guard my castle.”
That should do it-his home was to the south, and so if he traveled north, he would leave a trail that would not endanger his mother. Speaking these words, however, gave Siris an immediate sense of regret. He was leaving these creatures to die. They were daerils, true, but it didn’t seem fair.
“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.