“War,” insisted Atropos. “I have found a new path to destruction that is fitting for this particular character.”
Clotho looked at the thread and sniffed in contempt.
“What? You do not think well of my work this time, Clotho?” Atropos plucked the thread and sent ripples down it. “I sank an entire continent this way!”
“Atlantis,” Clotho said reprovingly, “was hardly worth your effort when we have so many fine destinies to weave with the gods and the mortals who worship them.”
“The gods,” Atropos said almost sadly. “I have been disappointed in them. I thought Zeus’ victory over his father Cronos would have resulted in something more … diverting.”
“For them it has, but they are only gods dependent upon us for their fate.”
“Lahkesis might be right about Kratos. Elevated to godhood after the destruction of Ares and then returned to a mortal state,” Atropos said, “might be interesting. I get so tired of delivering the same destinies to the gods, but especially to the mortals. Their lives are so short and violent.”
“You ought to decree more peaceful deaths for them,” said Clotho. “Otherwise, will you shorten their existences or make them suffer?”
“Oh, I suppose I could allow some more pain in their lives. You spin well, sister, but I worry about the length I afford them. It always seems so … limited. Everything turns so ordinary over the eons.”
“I enjoy watching Hades receive them into the Underworld and the tortures he allows there.”
“Kratos,” Atropos said, coming back to the disturbing mortal. “We need to observe our sister Lahkesis at work with her pet mortal turned god.”
“I don’t think he is all that interesting,” Clotho said. “Better to invent a new creature for the mortals and gods to couple with. War, pestilence—there are so many possibilities for combining them to keep us occupied.”
“Is he a mortal? Or is he a god? Something in between?” Atropos looked pensive. As she considered the matter, her finger stroked the thread of destiny attached to the young king that had caught her eye before and produced a violent fate for the mortal affixed to the far end. Never slack, always under delightful tension, the poor wight afforded her the chance to think even as he suffered.
“A demigod? How ordinary. The gods mate with mortals endlessly. I get tired of spinning their fate for such unions.” Clotho dismissed the notion out of hand.
Atropos plucked at the thread so expertly that a huge ripple followed it. She smiled at the desired fate delivered to the young ruler. He would reach old age, yes, with all his wit and intelligence, but her single design dictated that he would do so without legs. Exploring his character now would certainly break the sameness of their woven fates. It was good to pioneer new destinies for mortals.
“Lahkesis wastes her time with Kratos,” Atropos said suddenly. The words escaped her lips unexpectedly because her attention had been directed elsewhere.
“Nonsense, dear sister,” Clotho said. “She has something special in store for him.”
“What?”
“She claims it will be a surprise, a gift for us. So we should not intrude too much on the destiny of the mortal turned God of War.”
“Not meddle?” Atropos laughed. “Or not meddle too much? I see great entertainment for us with this Kratos.”
Clotho nodded, already distracted from the fate of Kratos as she returned to her tapestry, which decreed the inevitability of death for thousands. Despite what she said to her sister, a strand of disease woven in made the colors of fate more attractive.
KRATOS TUMBLED THROUGH the air, arms flailing until he regained control of himself. He had fallen headfirst from Olympus; falling to the far side of the Rhodes harbor shouldn’t be as difficult, even if he had been robbed of his size and strength.
He tucked in his chin, swung about, and landed hard on a glass dome. For a moment he thought it would hold, then it shattered and dropped him directly downward into a limpid pool. The shock of breaking the glass dome was compounded by the sudden immersion in the water. Kratos plunged downward through the warm water until his feet touched the slick-tiled bottom of the pool. Powerful legs straightened and sent him arrowing upward. He broke the surface, gasping for air. The cloying perfume of the bath choked him.
He swam to the edge of the pool and pulled himself up, shook like a dog, and sent droplets flying everywhere, then raced up the stairs and onto a broad balcony overlooking the harbor. The Colossus thrashed about noisily, destroying wantonly as it searched for him, unaware that he watched from some distance. Even as Kratos stared with cold hatred at the metal monster, it turned. Its single glowing blue eye fixed on him, and its mouth opened to spew forth more radiance in a silent scream.
The sound of metal joints creaking warned Kratos he had only moments before he would again engage the statue in dire battle. He drew the Blades of Athena, widened his stance, and waited for his opportunity. The Colossus moved ponderously in the deep harbor, but Kratos had experienced its quick reflexes. As it approached, it raised an arm to smash down again. Kratos caught the right forearm in the X of his crossed swords and pulled with all his might. A deep, bright, jagged scratch appeared in the bronze.
The Colossus recoiled, then swung its left arm stump about. Kratos used the blades as climbing hooks to engage the exposed framework. More rods parted and the Colossus reacted as a wounded animal might. With a powerful overhead cut, Kratos drove the swords downward onto the exposed metal wrist. Sparks flew in all directions. He swung again, fighting to keep his balance. The God of War made his way up the injured arm until he reached a spot where he could cast out one sword in a tremendous upward sweep. It embedded like a fishhook in the metal cheek. A hard yank sent Kratos flying upward, using his other sword to deeply score the metal with a deafening screech and poke into the remaining eye. Once more the Colossus responded.
Kratos ducked under the wild grab, tore back a chunk of metal, and exposed a wound that oozed blue light just as the single eye and mouth did. He stabbed and slashed and found the metal yielding—and this almost proved his end.
So intent was he on peeling back the metal sliver to expose the inner face, he neglected to dodge the right hand. He screamed in pain as the metal fingers closed about him. And squeezed. Hard. Harder. The pain matched anything he had ever felt, but he refused to yield. Working on the top finger until he had almost severed it, Kratos gained leverage and used his prodigious strength, only to find himself once more flung through the air.
He crashed to a stone floor, rolled, and came to his feet. He stood, only to stare up at the sky, where storm clouds blew across the sun.
The lightning blast that rent the sky warned him an instant before a resonant voice rumbled, “Kratos!”
He glared at the clouds and responded, “I do not need your help, Zeus. I can take down this metal monster!”
“I offer you more than help, Kratos. I offer you power.”
Kratos threw up his forearm to shield his face as the clouds parted and a brilliant new sun exploded into being, a sun that fell from the sky. Squinting, he watched as what he had thought a lightning bolt turned into a long, scintillant sword. It embedded itself in a stone terrace on the far side of the harbor.
“I offer you the Blade of Olympus,” Zeus continued. “It was this blade that ended the Great War and defeated the Titans. Drain your godly powers into the sword, Kratos. Only then will you reach your full potential.”
Kratos stared at the distant sword half embedded in the stone, then lifted his gaze upward to the clouds, now ablaze with Zeus’ jagged, eye-searing lightning. The Colossus moved at the far side of the harbor, marshaling its strength for another attack—one that he would be hard-pressed to meet.
“Why do you aid me now?”
“What I do now I do for the good of all Olympus. Wield this weapon and all on Olympus will see you for who you are.”
Kratos was torn with indecision. He had no reason to believe or trust Zeus, but his burning need t
o lead his Spartans to victory—against Athena, the treacherous bitch—was foremost. Still, Zeus? The Sky Father was no more an ally than any of the other Olympian gods he so loathed. Zeus prided himself on his perfidy.
But if Zeus truly thought this was for the good of Olympus, he would aid anyone. Even the Ghost of Sparta.
Before Kratos could balance the risk of believing Zeus against the chance of some faithless offer, he found himself engaged with soldiers making their way up from the building’s interior. His swung the Blades of Athena about in wide, vicious arcs that ended one Rhodesian defender’s life after another. But their sheer numbers would eventually swamp him—and the Colossus once more moved toward him. Its unceasing attack had rallied the Rhodesian soldiers, who now pushed back the noble Spartans toward the harbor. For them, Kratos could do nothing but provide an example. To achieve that victory he knew he must accept Zeus’ gift.
The Blade of Olympus!
He made his way through the destruction left by his Spartans, only to encounter another tight knot of soldiers—and an archer.
Kratos glanced in the direction of the blue-glowing blade that was his goal, then lashed out with renewed fury. As he laid into one soldier, one to his left cried, “Beware! The Colossus!”
Kratos looked away from the fight for an instant. His entire body ached from his battles with the animated metal statue. Worse, his legs lacked their usual strength and speed of movement in his attacks.
Kratos looked. And almost had his head severed from his shoulders. It was a trick. The Colossus rampaged in the harbor but was no immediate danger. The soldier who had shouted afforded Kratos’ opponent the chance to take advantage of the lapsed attention.
Kratos barely brought his blades up in an X to trap the descending sword that would have split his head in half. Ordinarily battle rage and his godlike strength would have easily prevailed. He was driven to his knees by the power of the blow. Worse, the distracting soldier attacked in concert with his companion. The two cleverly slipped their sharp-edged swords past Kratos’ furious parries, scoring his flesh and creating rivulets of blood from their inflicted wounds.
Kratos looked past them to the Colossus—and to the aid Zeus had offered.
“Die, Kratos, die!” shrieked the soldier who had almost sliced his head in half.
Long before Kratos had become God of War or even Ares’ minion he had been a fierce warrior. Old reactions replaced reliance on godlike power now stolen away. He yielded before the potent attack but turned it aside as it slashed down. Still on his knees, he released his grip on the sword hilts and drove forward, his shoulder in the soldier’s groin even as his fingers circled the man’s legs, seeking nerves in the muscular thighs and cruelly gouging. The soldier’s legs went numb, allowing Kratos to change the direction of his own attack.
He lifted the man on his shoulder, spun him about, and threw him into his battle mate. They fell in a confused, struggling heap, but again Kratos discovered how the fight against the Colossus had drained him. It should have been simple enough to dispatch the two helplessly flailing men before they could regain their stances. He missed the chance to use his swords, so Kratos flopped on top of them, driving them back to the floor.
His wrestling skills again saved him. A solid punch to one’s throat caused him to choke, allowing Kratos to pummel the other into a stupor. Both men incapacitated, Kratos pushed himself to his feet, turned, and stared at his true enemy.
The Colossus returned to claim its victim’s death.
This single-minded determination burned away any indecision. Kratos raced out an arched doorway and stared across a long, narrow stone bridge. The Blade of Olympus gleamed like a beacon on the far side.
And every joint in the Colossus creaked as it reared back and delivered with its stump a huge blow that crushed the stone terrace behind Kratos. He reacted instinctively. Legs driving hard, he sprinted forward across the bridge. Again the quickness of the Colossus almost sent him to the Underworld. Both the left stump and the right fist rained down on the stone bridge, shattering it behind Kratos. It collapsed faster and faster and only a final burst of speed sent the God of War forward onto solid stone flooring.
The Blade of Olympus was thrust point-first into the center of the terrace.
Kratos started for it, only to stop and face the Colossus. The metal statue clutched its stump, then beat both left forearm and right fist onto the stone, shattering the marble into channels. Dodging the cracks, Kratos attacked, his blades singing a hymn of destruction—but he found himself cut off when the Colossus thrust the glowing stump onto the flooring. The cracks filled with searing flame that charred his armor and turned the Blades of Athena fiery hot in his grasp. Kratos avoided the cracks, stared at the Colossus, and unleashed the Rage of Poseidon. Kratos stood, arms held high, and felt the power build within. A nimbus of energy surrounded his body, crackling, sizzling, dancing about like evil insects set ablaze. He spun, then sent out a ring of the energy, fast, faster until it exploded like the sun itself. The Colossus recoiled, momentarily stunned, giving Kratos an instant to attack. He slashed and hammered at the Colossus’ right arm, ducked beneath, then opened a long gash in the bronze midsection that spilled forth blue light.
Wounded, the Colossus clutched at the rent in its metal hide, giving Kratos the opportunity he had anticipated.
The God of War ran to the blade and tried to pull it free. It resisted his efforts, but he felt a pulsation in the blade, a growing sensation in his gut. He gripped the hilt with both hands and heaved. The Blade of Olympus remained stuck in the stone where Zeus had hurled it, but Kratos began to experience a curious weakness.
He released the hilt and stared at the blade. “Truly, do I need your help, Zeus? What will this do to me?” The sound of battle, of the Spartans being repulsed, of his brothers-in-arms being killed, decided him. Pushing his doubts aside, Kratos once more took the blade in hand.
Dizziness assailed him but nothing more. To draw the blade from the stone, he had to willingly surrender his power. As alien as the concept of surrender was to him, he knew it was necessary. Kratos closed his eyes, gripped the blade, and willed away his power.
The sword began to draw out his godhood.
The world spun, and he felt his belly knot violently. He would have puked had there been anything in his stomach. His muscles quaked, and weakness seized him.
His strength was now that of the Kratos of old, the Kratos who had been Ares’ lackey—but also the Kratos who had slain a god.
The Blade of Olympus slid free from its stone sheath, all of Kratos’ godly powers now residing within it. He lifted the sword and stared at it. He felt the power within quiver. That had been his power, and now he had given it to this weapon. The ponderous blade swung easily in his grip. Almost naturally.
The Colossus pressed its right forearm across the gash he had carved in its belly. The left arm waved about, spewing blue luminance as if it were arterial blood. Kratos rushed forward, the Blade of Olympus held high over his head for a killing attack. He dived forward, somersaulted, and came up at the edge of the stone terrace as that severed limb swung above him. The heat from the blazing light-blood melted parts of Kratos’ armor, but he pressed on.
Rapid cuts to the Colossus’ right hand further infuriated the statue. It swung its right hand up and dropped it heavily to shake the flooring under Kratos. He avoided the blow, stepped up, and judged distances. With legs like springs, he shot forward, the tip of the Blade of Olympus preceding him.
The blade opened the gash in the statue’s belly even more, and Kratos tumbled into the huge animated structure. He followed the scaffolding around the innards of the statue, circling upward. The sound of grinding and grating gears drew him ever higher until he reached a platform looking out to a rotating shaft that drove the gears powering the Colossus.
Carefully balancing, he trod a beam to reach the center of power for the huge bronze automaton. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, the Blade of Olympus
slid forward between the gears. For an instant Kratos thought the sword might break. Instead, the sword grew brighter as it sucked the life force from the Colossus—his life force that the eagle had transferred. Kratos watched in grim satisfaction as the blade absorbed the energy from the statue in the same fashion it had sapped his. The glowing shaft and gears turned dull and dark, only mechanical now.
He yanked the blade free and held it high above his head. It shone with the light of a hundred suns. There was no time to revel in the feel of such a potent weapon in his grip because the entire structure began to shake and wobble. Kratos jumped up to a scaffold and continued climbing until he reached a grillwork where he could peer out the statue’s gaping mouth across the harbor. His sense of balance proved right. The Colossus was leaning precariously.
But it still moved. He saw its left stump rise and spurt out blue-white energy. Drained as it was by the Blade of Olympus, there remained enough life energy to be dangerous.
From his vantage Kratos saw that the Colossus turned toward the harbor, where valiant Spartans had rallied and again pushed back the city’s defenders. Pride in their fighting prowess filled him, but the steady gains being achieved once more would slip away should the bronze statue turn its focus to them. It had to be utterly destroyed to ensure victory for Sparta.
And to ensure his own victory over the treacherous Athena. Once his stolen power was reclaimed, she would come to regret her betrayal.
Kratos continued upward inside the head. Four more circuits of the statue’s interior brought him to another gear-shaft nexus. Again the Blade of Olympus drank deeply. And yet the Colossus moved and struggled.
Before he could strike another blow, the Colossus shook all over as if it had a terrible fever. Kratos grabbed a rod for support and still lost his footing. He was slung out over the abyss in the center of the bronze statue. Far below he saw the jammed, sundered gears tearing off huge strips of brass as they grated against one another.
Swinging once, he kicked hard and sailed through the air to grab the edge of the eye he had put out in the fight. From this vantage he got a better look at the burning city and the progress his Spartans made against the defenders.
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