“I will accept him gladly. Especially him. He eluded me before. No one escapes my domain twice. I don’t know how he succeeded in battling free of the Underworld, but he had help. A gravedigger. That makes no sense, but if I find him, he will beg to replace Sisyphus! Can I forget that Kratos killed my beloved Persephone?”
Before Athena could respond, Poseidon whirled up, his trident’s haft clacking on the marble floor.
“He is gone? Good riddance! I want nothing to do with that liar and thief.”
“Kratos is many things,” Athena said, “but never a liar. What has he stolen?” She caught her breath when Poseidon bellowed his answer. The scent of the sea and dead fish came along with his words.
“He duped me out of my Rage! I gifted him because he lied to you, Athena, he lied to you and you convinced me to aid him against my better judgment. Turning a mortal into a god cannot be good for Olympus!”
Athena remained silent. She had seen her other uncle in such self-deluding anger before and knew better than to argue. Kratos had required the Rage of Poseidon to recover Pandora’s Box, and she had been instrumental in turning Poseidon against Ares—if only briefly—in that quest.
The thought of Pandora’s Box made her frown. Before she could find her way through the mental maze born of that memory, Poseidon and Hades had begun arguing.
“Uncles, do not quarrel like this,” she said. Athena stepped between them before they could come to blows. Sometimes snappish and always testy, the two disturbed the seeming tranquility of Olympus. Or was it only a false peace since Kratos had departed? She chewed at her lower lip, worrying that she was missing a small detail—a detail possibly as important as Kratos being intent on the destruction of any city-state not named Sparta.
“How should we quarrel, then?” demanded Hades. He stepped up and thrust his bearded face into Poseidon’s. For a moment, the God of the Ocean’s seaweed beard mingled with the coal-black beard to ignite tiny orange and yellow sparks. Hades reached up to push Poseidon away, but Athena caught his thick wrist and prevented it. He jerked free and glowered at her.
“Do not think to appease me, Athena,” he said.
“Nor I,” Poseidon chimed in. “Kratos is a canker on the ass of Olympus and must be lanced!” His trident stabbed through the air with a shrill whine, the razored blades passing just inches from Athena’s face. Poseidon often lost his temper but not usually in this menacing fashion. He drew back and looked, for an instant, startled at what he had done, but he made no apology. And Athena expected none from the Lord of the Oceans.
“He goes too far,” Hades grumbled. He wrung his hands as if he held Kratos’ neck between them. “How dare he kill those who worship us, even if they are only mortals? Think of what Kratos has done to your precious Atlantis.”
Poseidon started to retort, then understood what was said. Rage clouded his face. “My brother, whatever you decide, count me in.” Poseidon slammed the butt end of his trident on the floor and sent cracks radiating from the point of impact.
The two went off, bickering. There had never been peace on Olympus—even Zeus could not forestall the ill temper of the gods with their petty concerns and small-minded plots. But her uncles were not acting in character.
She walked to the edge where Kratos had plummeted away. Far below raged the battle—perhaps the final battle in what would be Kratos’ mightiest campaign. His Spartan warriors had conquered all the other cities, save for Rhodes.
Her gaze hardened as she watched events unfolding far below, as if ants futilely battled with the towering Kratos stamping on them. She hurried to speak with Zeus but feared the Sky Father’s patience had vanished. Kratos had to be stopped before he laid all the worshippers of all the gods in their graves. All save his own precious Spartans.
SHADOWS SLITHERED ABOUT the large chamber as if they were alive, but they were only possibilities, hints of what might be, as the Sisters of Fate huddled in deep discussion over their judgments.
Lahkesis held out her hands and created a small skein of glowing multihued threads, then batted it into the air, where it spun about, showering her sisters with sparks. From behind her iron-black mask with its short horns, her eyes shone like liquid silver. She spun about in midair, bare feet not touching the floor, her elaborately woven tapestry of a girdle spiraling outward to match the radius of her wings. Trailing downward from just beneath the juncture of her wings and shoulders cascaded a multilayered cape of fine cream-colored silk. Legs and breasts naked and copper-hued skin aglow, she made cutting motions with her short hooked shaft as if she sliced short some doomed human’s life.
Atropos protested, catching the sparks in her hand and snuffing them out. She shot upward like a squid in the sea, black mist trailing where a mortal’s legs should have been. Impossibly long nails stabbed forth accusingly as she tossed her head, yards-long streamers of white hair snapping like a whip.
“Be serious, sister,” Atropos said angrily. “Such a fate is never to be suggested!”
Lahkesis laughed. “Must we always deliver such fearsome fates to those mortals—and gods? Why can’t we have fun breeding improbable lovers and then playing with their offspring? Remember the amusement Ixion and his cloud lover Nephele brought us? Zeus binding him to an eternally spinning fiery sky wheel provides me with enjoyment yet.”
“Isn’t our work amusement enough? Clotho spins the fate we decide, I measure the length of the thread, and you cut it.”
“I get bored quickly with routine and seek occasional diversion,” Lahkesis said. She smiled wickedly. “Surely, our threads are inventive, even elegant as they flow. Was it not great fun when I made that hideously ugly Pan irresistible to Nymphs?”
Atropos looked furiously at her sister. “He was hardly farcical when he aided the Athenians at the Battle of Marathon. You should have consulted Clotho—or me—before venturing beyond romantic trysts in the forest.” She sniffed indignantly. “Without Pan’s aid, they might never have won.”
Lahkesis shrugged off the possibility that Pan was all that interesting a destiny to craft.
“At least let us take another look at Hermes’ thread. He ought to be given something more interesting than what you have done with him recently,” Lahkesis said finally.
“Enough. You both need to tend to your chores more closely,” said Clotho as she shifted her immense bulk. Rolls of mottled flab bounced as thick arms reached out to her sisters. She shook an admonishing finger like a taloned octopus tentacle at them as she sided with Atropos. “The gods are becoming restive, and we will need to deal with that situation eventually.”
“One might even pay closer attention to our pet project,” Lahkesis said. Her sisters always insisted on work rather than enjoyment. Unlike Atropos or even Clotho, she wanted more than the satisfaction of a job well done. Duty? But why not stimulation as well?
“Yours. He is not our special scheme. Why do you even care about Kratos?” Atropos ran deft fingers along a thread extending from the Loom Chamber, measuring with precision using a notched talon to find the exact point to impart small vibrations that would cause a war because of a momentary lapse of etiquette. She immediately turned her attention to another strand, then reached out and tugged on the thread Lahkesis studied so intently.
“You provoked him with that touch,” Lahkesis said, but she was not displeased. Kratos had grown too difficult to guide after becoming God of War. He had tried to wipe away the memories that Zeus would not banish for him through debauchery, and had failed. After he realized wine and the soft embrace of endless willing women would not give him surcease, he had turned to what he knew best: battle. Because of him, a dozen city-states lay in ruin. He—and the gods—could provide suitable diversion for some time to come.
“We need to discuss his fate if we are not to work at cross-purposes, dear sisters,” Clotho said. She worked on a dozen new threads, weaving them together and splitting another to birth twins, only to separate them, with each strand going onto a different spool.
Lahkesis nodded in approval. Such possibilities!
“I think the promise of Pandora’s Box is enough to keep us occupied for a while longer,” Lahkesis said. She whipped the thread of fate affixed to Kratos and sent him plummeting toward the earth and the battle to destroy Rhodes.
The sight of him plunging earthward ought to have delighted her, but rather it gave her an uneasy feeling she was unable to define. Lahkesis looked at her sisters, both diligently working at the threads stretching away to every point of the world. Neither shared her momentary disquietude about Kratos and his fate. And why should they? They controlled the world. They controlled Kratos’ fate.
Yes, his fate was sealed. She turned to other, more pressing matters. Being creator of so many destinies was a taxing chore, but she enjoyed it. Even if Atropos and Clotho were such unimaginative sticklers for duty.
AT RIGID ATTENTION, Kratos fell forward. His arms pulled in to his sides as he plunged headfirst toward the distant battle. The sounds of metal, flesh, and stone colliding set his pulse pounding. The smell of blood and the stench of death filled his nostrils as surely as he felt the bite of wind ripping past his face, across his shaved head. He had missed the tumult of battle while on Olympus, even as he guided his stalwart Spartans against one army after another to spite the gods who shunned him.
The ground rushed up, but Kratos had a chance to survey the fight. A smile of satisfaction pulled back his lips into what others might consider a sneer. His warriors fought well and drove the soldiers of Rhodes into an ever-tightening circle, making them fight back-to-back, surrounded by swords and eventual Spartan-delivered death.
With a deft twist, Kratos brought his feet under himself, letting his massive size demolish the roof of a palace. He recovered and stood to his full hundred-foot height, looking around. Carnage everywhere bespoke a victory that gladdened him. The bay was filled with ships sporting the orange and yellow stripes of the Spartan navy. Although unneeded, reinforcements were landing every few minutes. The ships disgorged troops, but these fresh warriors would be disappointed. Their brothers-in-arms had almost crushed Rhodes.
His gaze lifted from the ships to the immense bronze statue of Helios straddling the entrance to the harbor. Kratos would pull it down when the last of the Rhodes soldiers had died on a Spartan blade. It would be a fitting symbol of the utter defeat of the city.
He barely noticed an eagle flapping furiously from the statue’s shoulder toward him. Even if this was a hunting bird, it could not harm a god. Kratos reached behind him to draw the Blades of Athena when the eagle swooped down to rake fierce talons along his shoulder. The electric jolt that snapped his back into an arch held him in a rictus he could not escape. As quickly as it had come the paralysis passed, but his entire body danced with blue-white flames.
“Athena, you conspire against me?” Kratos swatted at the eagle, but it flew back toward the Colossus. The talons trailed crackling blue sparks. Kratos reached out to grab it, but the bird flew too swiftly and evaded his grasping fingers. He staggered and almost fell to his knees as weakness seized him in a fierce grip.
The eagle landed on the shoulder of the Colossus and immediately transferred the shimmering energy—the energy stolen from Kratos!—to the statue. Kratos shivered and fought, but the web of scintillant electricity enshrouding him could not be shaken off. In a fury, he saw the statue begin to stir as his energy invigorated it; the unnatural movement sent the men on the scaffolding screaming to the ocean below.
The statue stepped out into the harbor, a giant bronze foot crushing a Spartan ship under its sole. The Colossus splashed water and capsized another vessel laden with soldiers. As it made its way across the harbor, the warships attempted to fight. Arrows arched upward, some ablaze, only to bounce harmlessly off heavy bronze legs. Then the archers and the ships carrying them were crushed beneath the juggernaut coming for Kratos.
Kratos tried to muster his strength. He was more than a minion of Ares now. He was the God of War! But the harder he attempted to lift his arms, to take a step, to draw the Blades of Athena sheathed at his back, the weaker he became. Then the ultimate humiliation was delivered to him.
He began to shrink. From godlike proportions he shriveled up second by second. Where once he towered over the buildings of Rhodes, he was now the same size. And then smaller. He crashed through the flooring and landed hard, the shimmering web that had sucked away his size now fading. He looked around the chamber where he found himself, still a giant among men but more of a size as he had been when he was mortal. Looking at his hands and powerful forearms, he knew he was still a formidable fighter, but lacking the full strength of a god would make combat more difficult.
“Athena, you will suffer for this!”
Then a wordless cry erupted from his throat. Being a god with a god’s power had lulled him into an existence that was soft, decadent. Being the size of a mortal once more, lacking full godlike strength, only made him more determined to slay his enemies. Doing so now would carry more honor and reflect glory on the army of Sparta.
He turned to see a handful of Rhodesian warriors enter the large chamber. They stared at him, wide-eyed, then one cried, “The Ghost of Sparta!”
Kratos gave them no time to recover from their shock of finding him in their midst. He strode forward and grabbed the first soldier by the throat. He squeezed down on the exposed neck so hard the man’s eyes bugged. Then his throat ruptured under the pressure, sending a geyser of hot blood down Kratos’ arm. He tossed the soldier aside in time to sidestep the sword thrust from the second warrior. Kratos’ blade cut cleanly through the soldier’s outstretched arm.
As he stepped away from the falling enemy, a grating sound drew his attention to a huge hand sliding along the outer wall of the chamber. Through a window he saw shining bronze and an intricate superstructure. For a moment, he frowned and wondered what this could be. Then a face peered in, eyes bright and blue in a face of immobile metal. The Colossus pressed closer to the window, trying to find Kratos in the relative darkness of the chamber. Kratos drew the Blades of Athena and advanced.
The Colossus might be hundreds of feet tall, but it faced the Ghost of Sparta.
Barely had Kratos taken two steps than he heard excited chattering and, “Don’t let him escape!”
“But we cannot fight a god!”
He turned and saw half a dozen Rhodesian soldiers pressing through a doorway, then fanning out in preparation for their attack. A quick glance at the Colossus showed that the metal giant still sought him. Kratos roared from deep in his gut and attacked, his blades leaving behind trails of eye-searing gold flame as he swung first left, then right. His first strike cleaved a man in half. His second gutted the officer commanding the soldiers. Then he ran forward, a battle cry on his lips as he engaged the remaining defenders of Rhodes.
He quickly pared his opposition down to a single soldier, who bolted and ran.
“Coward!” Kratos yelled after him.
As he turned, an arrow penetrated his armor. He felt the arrowhead’s prick, reached to the back, and grabbed the shaft. With a jerk, he pulled it free. The armor had saved him from more than a tiny cut—but half a dozen more arrows whistled past him. With blades swinging in a wall before him, he deflected several and found the source of so much feathered death.
Two archers fired as quickly as they could, having identified their target. So intent was he on the two bowmen that he failed to see the expressionless face at a large window. As Kratos rushed forward to engage the archers, blades whistling in a circular death pattern, the entire wall on the harbor side of the chamber exploded inward and a bronze arm crashed down, almost crushing him.
He rolled, slammed into a wall, and came to his feet, facing the Colossus. Tiny electric sparks danced along the arm and up to the giant’s head. The eyes were a guileless blue, but Kratos read danger there.
Throughout his thralldom to Ares and the ten years in service to the gods of Olympus he had fought Cyclopes a
nd Minotaurs and monsters so vile they would have revolted a lesser man. The Colossus of Rhodes lacked the speed and agility of any of those creatures. Kratos slashed downward on the exposed forearm and caused an immediate withdrawal from the chamber. The moaning of metal made him contemptuous of the poor caricature of Helios. That god had been no friend of Kratos’ but at least was quick and quick-witted.
A ladder beckoned to an upper level that led out onto a balcony where several soldiers gathered. “We m-m-must stop him or all is lost! Kill Kratos and the Spartans will retreat!”
“But we cannot kill a god,” protested a soldier almost the size of Kratos.
“Is he truly a god? He bleeds. See the cuts on his face.”
“No, no, that’s another’s blood.”
The first fighter took Kratos’ measure anew and came to a quick decision. Puffing out his broad chest to look even larger, he pushed the others aside and stepped forward. “Do you pretend to be a god? You bleed like a mortal. Where are your powers, other than in your swords?” The soldier snorted as he hefted his weapon. “You’re only a mortal—and you will die!”
The huge soldier rushed forward, thrusting with his spear while hunching down behind his shield for protection. Kratos stood his ground, acting only at the last possible moment. One flashing blade cut through the spear shaft. As he pivoted, his second sword tip sneaked under the shield and upward. For an instant, the soldier’s armor held. Then Kratos felt the blade enter the belly and strike hard against the man’s spine. Grunting, Kratos heaved and lifted the man high, still impaled on his blade.
The other defenders of Rhodes reacted as he expected. They began backing away, keeping their swords and spears leveled at him as they sought to retreat. Kratos dropped the still-living soldier and kicked him away—a distraction that almost cost him his life.
The great whooshing of metal sailing through the air gave his only warning. Instinctively, he dropped, rolled, and barely evaded the bronze fist as the Colossus smashed through the stone and mortar of the wall behind him. The Colossus recovered and slammed its flat hand down in an attempt to swat him like an annoying bug. The stone floor shattered, and the shock waves knocked the tight knot of soldiers off their feet.
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