Infinity Blade: Awakening

warriors who followed the ancient ideal.

Of course . . . as he considered it, the God King had known that he wasn’t fighting for his life. Immortality would make it a whole lot easier to follow the Aegis Forms.

Before talking to the minions in the castle, he hadn’t even known that Deathless could restore themselves to life. He’d known the God King had lived a long time, but had figured a sword in the gut would end any man, no matter how old he was.

Naive. Yes, she was probably right.

“You didn’t seem surprised to find that he wasn’t truly dead,” Siris said. “You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I stumbled upon one of their rebirthing chambers once,” she said absently. “It was an . . . educational experience. So, where’d you get that healing ring?”

Siris snorted. “You acted so surprised at my beard. You knew all along, didn’t you?”

“I’m good at connecting facts,” she said. Which wasn’t really an answer to his question. “Where did you find it?”

“It belonged to the God King,” Siris said. “I found others, though. On the bodies of the guards I fought. I’ve got a few of them in my pouch.”

“Huh,” she said, thoughtful.

“What?”

“Did the guards ever use the rings against you?” she asked. “To heal themselves?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, they didn’t.” He considered for a moment. “Usually when I found one, it was hung by a strap around their neck, or kept in their pouch. That makes sense for the trolls, who couldn’t fit them on their fingers. But a few of the guards I fought were ordinary men, knights or Devoted who served the God King.”

“Maybe they didn’t know how to work them.”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Siris said, holding up a hand, looking at the ring. “I just kind of . . . did it, naturally. Most of the rings stopped working after I killed the God King, though.”

Isa frowned.

“You know something, don’t you?” Siris said.

“No.”

He eyed her.

“I know many things,” she said, haughtily sitting atop her saddle. “I know how to get anywhere. I know that you walk like a soldier-with a gait I’ve seen from men who have trained in the military for decades-yet you can’t possibly have that kind of experience yet. I know a really incredible recipe for cinnamon-baked sweetbread. But I don’t know anything more about those rings. Honestly.”

He said nothing.

“What?” she demanded.

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” he said, looking ahead.

“I’m telling you,” she said, “it’s really good cinnamon bread.”

He found himself smiling. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, people do usually assume I’m lying when I speak of baking. I’ve been told I don’t look like the baking type.”

“You did glare at me when I suggested you might have a frilly dress in those packs.”

“That was not a glare. That was a dignified look of measured contempt.”

“I’m sure,” Siris said. “So, you can really bake?” Cinnamon sweetbread. That sounded delicious. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never have let himself taste during his years training.

“I like to be able to do things for myself,” she said. “Unfortunately, I also like to eat meals that don’t taste of moldy rat leather. This sort of conundrum necessitates a woman taking a few liberties with her chosen persona. And if this entire line of reasoning is intended to get me to prove myself with an outpouring of cinnamon sweetbread, then I’ll relent.”

“You . . . will? So you’ll fix me the bread?”

“As much as you can eat, whiskers. Price is one sword. Oh, look. You happen to have one. What a fortunate turn of events!”

“Well, you certainly are determined.”

She smiled. “Actually, I’m persistent. You are so fond of using the wrong words. Are you not the one who speaks this language natively?”

“Natively,” he said. “But apparently not that fluently.”

“I’ll trade you my very nice dictionary-”

“-for this sword, I assume?” he asked, taking a drink from his canteen.

“Nonsense. The sword is worth far more than that. I’ll throw in a pair of penis.”

Siris nearly choked, sputtering through the water.

Isa looked at him, frowning.

“A pair of them, eh?” Siris asked, wiping his chin. “Wow. Must have cost you a lot.”

Isa, looking confused, pulled two pens out of her saddlebags. “They were quite pricey, but are very nice. You are still laughing. I see. One pen, two penis? No?”

“I think you, uh, may want to work on your pronunciation there, Isa. You say pen in a way that does not sound at all like-”

Isa suddenly froze, turning forward, coming alert.

Siris cut himself off, loosening the Infinity Blade in its sheath. What was that? Voices, he thought.

Isa pointed. “Ahead, I think.”

“I agree.”

“Hide the sword! Remember what I said!”

“I’m not a fool,” Siris said, moving the cloak to cover his arm. Isa checked her crossbow, making certain it was covered. It wouldn’t be much good if there were a tussle, at least not immediately-he doubted she could get the leverage to cock it from horseback. It was of the ‘step and pull’ variety.

A small group of people appeared atop a hill on the road ahead of them. Isa slowed her horse and inspected the ragged group. They didn’t seem dangerous. There were three of them, men in caps and workers’ smocks. No trousers, just knee-length tunics and sandals.

They’d be from one of the farming regions to the near west. It had been a shock for Siris to discover that people even in nearby areas dressed quite differently from those he’d known in Drem’s Maw. The newcomers stopped on the road after seeing Isa and Siris. Their chatter quieted.

They’re trying to decide what to make of us, Siris thought. Isa had a horse-a mark of someone rich, lucky, or favored. But, true to her suggestion, the lack of arms seemed to convince the three that Isa and Siris were not a threat. The peasants continued their trek, carrying sticks with bundles and walking cautiously.

“Ho, travelers,” one called when the two groups grew near. “You come from the east! What word?” The man’s voice sounded nervous.

“It’s hot,” Siris called back. “And dusty. What word from the west?”

“Much of the same,” the man called, voice growing more calm. “With a little bit of wind.”

“That will be nice.”

“Well, it is a hot, dusty wind, mind you.”

Siris laughed, walking up to them. The three men had relaxed, and one pulled out a canteen, offering him a drink. All looked to be of their middle years, but hard work in the sun could age men quickly.

“Thank you,” Siris said, taking the canteen. It likely held only water, but sharing anything with a stranger was unusual.

“It’s a fine day, young traveler,” one of the men said. “Tell me . . . have you come from paying homage?”

“Homage?”

“To the Sacrifice,” the man said.

“Has that come, then?” Siris asked, taking a sniff of the canteen, then lifting it to his lips. He made as if he