Infinity Blade: Redemption Read Online Free PDF Page B

not worthy of gazing upon the visage of a full Deathless—even if it would be the last thing they saw.
    Four remained, including two who had run into the room when they heard the yell for help. Raidriar’s Devoted could all fight—he made certain of it—but they were no match for him. He was a Deathless with thousands of years of practice, not to mention a body crafted to the peak of physical capability. It was hardly a fair fight.
    Still, one of these could always get in a lucky blow, which would be problematic. Raidriar backed carefully around the fallen High Devoted, whom he’d hit first. The man was groaning but climbing to his knees. Raidriar planted a foot in the man’s stomach, then cracked him on the head with his sword butt.
    Nearby, a set of armor on the wall awaited Raidriar. It hung on its mountings, opened up like the husk of an insect recently shed. With that, he could . . .
    But no. They were ready for his arrival. The living Devoted regarded him as they would a snake. Shouts still sounded down the hallway, passing the word of his awakening.
    The Worker had prepared this place well. The armor would be a trap.
    Raidriar lunged for it anyway.
    The four Devoted relaxed. The change was subtle—a slight lowering of the swords, a release of breath. Ten thousand years taught one to notice such things, if you paid attention.
    And Raidriar did. He always watched and studied. He was a king—and you could not properly dominate that which you did not understand.
    His lunge for the armor was a feint—he hit the release latch, tumbling the suit to the floor with a crash. He leaped across the slablike table where he had been reincarnated, then separated one of the Devoted from his arm with a swing. The man went down, screaming.
    The other three engaged him at once. On one hand, he was proud that they showed such bravery in fighting, rather than fleeing. But on the other, he was disgusted. They knew the ancient protocols known as the Aegis code. True honor lay in engaging foes one at a time. Raidriar himself had instituted these codes millennia ago, seeking a more honest form of combat between men. Even the most brutish of his daerils followed the code. To have his Devoted ignore it, particularly in fighting Raidriar himself, was an insult.
    He dispatched the three with little trouble. Such a waste. He stepped over to the High Devoted, but the man was out cold from the knock to the head. That left only the one whose arm he had separated from its shoulder. Raidriar strode over and lifted the bloodied man into the air with one hand.
    “What did he say about me?” Raidriar asked, curious. “How did he turn you?”
    The Devoted squeezed his eyes shut and started whispering a prayer. To Raidriar himself, of course.
    “I’m right here,” Raidriar said, shaking the Devoted.
    “I will not listen to you, demon. You may wear the form of my master, but you are not him. He warned us of your coming. In his truth I bask, in his name I die . . .”
    “A Soulless,”Raidriar guessed. “The Worker has given my crown to a Soulless, has he?”
    A Soulless—a copy, a body awakened without the actual Q.I.P. to inhabit it. Such a thing was possible, but creations such as this were unstable, their memories flawed, their personalities erratic.
    “I put protocols in place to prevent something like this,” Raidriar said to the Devoted he held. “Why did you not spot the lies? You were trained better than this.”
    The Devoted was too busy dying to reply.
    Raidriar sighed, dropping the Devoted in frustration. The rest were dead or unconscious, save . . . Yes, the bulky man that still wore Raidriar’s mask. He knelt beside the fallen Devoted, noting the steady rise and fall of his chest. Raidriar pulled the mask free, needles sliding out of the skin of the cheeks and neck. He smelled the poison . . . what was left of it.
    Nightdew. It was meant to bring unconsciousness, not death. A temporary way to incapacitate a