Kratos drew his blades, attacked with an earsplitting cry, and severed the right head—but not cleanly. The head still snapped and yowled but was held to the body only by its spinal cord. The flapping head distracted the remaining central head long enough for Kratos to duck under a reflexive, toothy snap of its jaws and grab its chin.
As he had ripped away the first head, so he dealt out death to the third. His muscles bulged as he exerted himself. The central head was stronger. He shoved his foot into the Cerberus’ chest to get better leverage. This time the head tore free of the body. So much blood was spilled that the head slipped from his grasp and went bouncing across the floor.
It stopped in front of the mewling pup he had thought to kill earlier.
The Cerberus pup’s back legs had been broken by his earlier kick. Kratos walked over and looked down into the yellow eyes filled with nothing but hate. He tentatively reached out and let it strike at his hand. He kicked it back to land beside the thrice-beheaded Cerberus in the center of the chamber where it could die in its own time.
Panting from the exertion, he surveyed the room.
He saw only one exit. If he wanted to reach the Island of Fate he had to take it.
STRAINING, EVERY MUSCLE at the breaking point, Kratos shoved the huge stone block across the chamber, grinding the bodies of the Cerberus pups beneath it to leave a blood-smeared trail. When he positioned the block properly, he jumped onto it, caught a railing, and pulled himself up and over to a walkway around the palace that hadn’t collapsed.
He edged around and got back to the collapsed bridge, staring at the island beyond. There had to be a way. As he turned to explore further, an arrow whistled past his ear.
“There’s the intruder,” cried an archer, pointing with the tip of another arrow being nocked. “Be cautious. He’s the one that killed the Cerberus and her pups!”
Another archer joined the first, speaking in a low voice. Kratos didn’t have to know what they were saying. Their mistress had to be one of the Sisters of Fate.
“Hold! Wait!” Kratos called to them. “I would speak with—” He got no farther. Both archers let fly with their arrows. He batted one aside with the flat of his hand. Moving his head slightly allowed the other to slip past harmlessly. Being allowed to speak with their mistress was not going to happen.
He grabbed Typhon’s Bane, drew back the string, and let fly before he recognized the target. The icy gust flew off and to his left to impale an archer. Beside the dead archer were two others preparing to loose their missiles. Kratos gave them no chance. Four quick releases of the string sent two arrows into each, killing them.
He surveyed the way over to the terrace from which the archers had fired. That provided him as good a direction to explore as any. The archers had to be guarding something important. And if he approached cautiously enough, he might find a way to declare his intentions of speaking with the Sisters of Fate so he would not have to fight his way through a phalanx of other guards. Going to the side of the bridge, he judged distances and how difficult it would be to reach that terrace, drew the Blades of Athena, and then leaped into space. The blades dug into the ornate stonework facing the palace wall. He swung from one position to another until he reached the other parapet and pulled himself up.
Kratos expected opposition and got it immediately. A tall soldier screamed and attacked with a curve-bladed axe. Rather than use his swords, Kratos judged distance and speed, ducked at the last instant, and tore the axe from the warrior’s hand. He shoved hard and sent the creature falling onto his face. A quick downward swing with the axe ended any opposition. Kratos had not even broken into a sweat from the exertion.
Long strides took him into the palace and down a corridor to a chamber far removed from the others behind the sundered bridge. He found a lever in the center of the chamber and shoved it hard. The floor quivered under his sandals and then began sinking faster and faster. If he wanted to cross to the other island, he had to reach sea level.
As the elevator came to a halt, Kratos stepped off warily and looked around what seemed an empty chamber similar to the one above, but his nostrils flared at a peculiar odor. Making him certain he knew what he faced, he heard a small hum, a tiny sound that would have meant nothing without all the other clues. Kratos grabbed Typhon’s Bane and began firing across the chamber toward an intricately carved marble column casting shadows—which moved. And sang.
“Siren,” he muttered. He kept firing the bow, sending one wind arrow after another toward the sinuously moving, ethereal creature. Taller than Kratos by half, the thin creature reached out arms wearing golden bands at the biceps and hands ending in fingers so long they rippled like tentacles. Eyes of fire burned with an intense blue light as she reared up, like a sea horse, no legs or feet visible under a diaphanous gown that swirled about like pale smoke. She slipped forward, the gown of silk sliding in a soft whisper across marble flooring, and began her song in earnest.
It rose in pitch, beguiling, hypnotizing. Kratos tried to fire another arrow but found himself immobilized by the sweet, clear voice.
“My lover,” came the words intertwined with the song’s notes. “Come to me. I want you. I want to love you.” The Siren held out her arms and how could Kratos resist? Why should he? She was his lover, his love, the only one he cared about or who cared for him in the entire world.
He walked to her slowly, every step an agony.
“Embrace me, my lover, my brave Spartan warrior,” the Siren called.
He tried to fight but his body refused to obey. He neared her, heard her beguiling song, knew that death was close at hand. Kratos struggled to lift a sword, to punch the lovely woman reaching out to him. He had never seen a woman as beautiful or desirable. Her song touched his most primal urges and pulled him closer.
Their lips touched. Kratos felt as if he had been caught in a raging river and was being carried toward an immense waterfall. Her lips caressed and aroused—and sucked the life from him.
He fought to no avail. Strength drained from him until the Siren no longer kissed him.
“You are weaker than a mewling babe in arms,” the Siren said. “I like for my … lovers … to appreciate me.”
Weak though he was and his godly power drained, he still possessed twice the stamina and strength of a normal mortal.
“You will become a husk. You will—”
The Siren screamed, the sound so shrill Kratos’ ears bled from the noise. But it was sweeter music to him than her entrancing song. It was her death cry. He brought his swords up through her gut and continued to strain, slicing his way through her torso; then each blade departed the body at the shoulders. The Siren fell in three pieces, but she continued to shriek.
“I love you,” the Siren said, words he had not heard since the death of his wife, Lysandra. But the blood pumping into her lungs from the sword thrust through her chest robbed the words of any magical power.
Kratos bent, gathered her in his arms, and held her so her face was near his for a moment.
“Die” was all he said as he tightened his grip around her back and snapped her spine like a dried twig. Her death cry reverberated like thunder and shattered a wall hiding a corridor along the far side of the chamber. He hated Harpies as much as he did Sirens, though a Harpy could never insinuate herself into his mind and emotion. Kratos kicked the body aside, then went and looked through the archway over the backs of four immense horses hitched to the side of the building by chains with links thicker and heavier than Kratos’ own body.
“The Steeds of Time,” came Gaia’s rumbling voice.
“What of them?” Kratos asked.
“You must go to the steeds if you want to reverse all that has happened to you,” Gaia said. “Mount the steeds!”
Kratos wanted to ask more of the Titan but sensed she would not give a satisfactory answer. The lack of hospitality shown thus far told him the path to the Sisters of Fate would be a bloody one and that he would not be greeted with open ar
ms, only drawn weapons.
The Island of Fate lay to his left and the Steeds of Time directly ahead. From here, he could not judge how large those bronze statues of the four horses were, possibly hundreds of feet tall with their hooves extending downward to the sea and their proud heads lifted to the heavens. The dull gleam from their flanks showed corrosion and age. Wondering what use statues might be to him did not stop Kratos from venturing out. He could ride these huge horses to his goal, and none could stop him. But how? Bringing them to life was a matter to concern him later, but reaching them presented an immediate problem.
He looked down. Twenty feet below, one of the chains that served as tether for the team stretched wider than most bridges. Taking a running leap, Kratos launched himself into the air and landed hard on the metal with a resounding clang. The width of the rein—the chain—was more than triple his height.
The steeds stood quiescent more than a mile away at the other end. Kratos looked back at the island with its towering spires and immense temple, the craggy rocks below, and a magnificent waterfall cascading into the sea to the right. He might lose himself in the maze of that temple and never have a better chance of reaching the Sisters of Fate than continuing to the steeds. So far, all that Gaia had said had proven useful to him. If she meant him harm, he could have perished at any time because of a casual lie.
He turned from the island and stared along the length of chain to get a better estimate of how truly tall the horses had to be. Five hundred feet or more from the chain to the sea below gave perspective to the size of the steeds. He began running. The chain beneath his sandals never swayed from his rapid passage, so massive was the cable. When he reached the armored rear of the horses, now towering far above his head, he looked up and wondered if he needed all four or if a single horse would serve him.
But how to unhitch a single horse when they were so securely fastened with the immense chains?
Kratos walked along the traces and studied the steeds from a vantage point at their shoulders between two of them. Seeing nothing that would drive them forward—or bring the stolid statues to life—he climbed a ladder up over the mane on the horse to his left and reached a large structure. He walked around it, looking for an entrance. When he came to a large bronze door he tried to open it. The door rattled but did not budge.
“You need the Horsekeeper’s Key to enter,” came a baritone voice from behind. Kratos turned and then looked up at a giant of a man outfitted in the finest armor possible. He wore the armor of a king. A king of Athens.
“The Ghost of Sparta,” the huge warrior said, sneering. “Then what they say is true.”
“Theseus,” Kratos said, no friendliness in his tone.
“Of all the fools who try, you are the last one I would expect to seek an audience with the Sisters of Fate.”
“And you are the last one I would expect to become a servant of the Fates.”
“I serve and protect the Sisters of Fate for the glory of Zeus!” Theseus spread his arm wide and implored the skies. Kratos made no effort to hide his contempt.
“The time of Zeus is coming to an end,” Kratos said.
“Hmmm, you seek the Sisters to kill Zeus.” He laughed uproariously. “You no longer possess the powers of a god, Kratos. I doubt you are capable of killing me, much less Zeus.”
“Let me pass and I will let you live, old man.”
Theseus laughed again.
“That is your choice.” Theseus swung his staff about, the tips glowing with dancing blue magic. Wicked edges along the shaft gleamed in the sun as he spun it about easily, spinning it in a circle that came close to Kratos’ face.
“There is more to your sentry duty, Theseus,” Kratos said, circling the immense man. “What do you seek from the Sisters of Fate?”
Kratos drew his blades and squared off against the Athenian king. Theseus backed away and could not meet Kratos’ direct gaze. He lowered his staff, keeping the point aimed at Kratos’ chest. His entire body shook with emotion. He spoke softly, so low that Kratos strained to hear.
“Dionysus,” he choked out. The hero king of Athens looked up, stricken. “Ariadne saved me from the Minotaur, and I loved her. She loved me so much she risked her life to give me the twine I used to guide myself out of the Labyrinth. Her father, King Minos of Crete, allowed none to escape his prison, but I saved the Athenians before they were fed to the Minotaur. Ariadne saved not only me but also my fellow citizens of Athens,” he said. “But Dionysus claimed her.”
The king’s face hardened, and Kratos saw resolve. He knew what went through Theseus’ mind now, for it ran through his as well.
“That is your reason for being a lackey to the Sisters of Fate?” Kratos asked.
“I want Ariadne’s love and … my father’s life.”
“You sacrificed your lover for what?” Kratos said. “Dionysus is not known for his fidelity. You want the Sisters to change fate by giving him a new lover so you can again have Ariadne in your bed?”
“He forced me to leave Ariadne on the isle of Naxos and … and she cursed me as I sailed back to …” Theseus turned forlorn; then his face hardened with bitter memory.
“When I returned triumphant to Athena my father Aegeus thought I crept back as a failure. I was to hoist a white sail, but the curse turned it black,” Theseus said. “He saw what he thought was his worst nightmare, my death and that of the army, and cast himself from the cliffs into the sea.” The Athenian stood straighter and gripped the spear even tighter. “I demanded that the sea be forever known as the Aegean. And I will never get my Ariadne or my father back unless I serve the Sisters of Fate and they grant me this boon.”
“Unless the Sisters of Fate change your destiny,” Kratos said sarcastically. “How long have you waited here for the summons to their throne? What menial tasks do they ask of you, you who were once a king?”
“I am the Keeper of the Horse Key,” Theseus said, thrusting out his left arm as if it were a sword. On the forearm gleamed a golden plate intricately wrought with bas-relief horses. “It seems my duty to the Sisters is now to kill a former god!”
A spear whirled about, leveled, and drove directly for Kratos’ midriff. But Kratos had seen the resolve harden in the Athenian and was already backpedaling. As he deftly avoided the sharp thrust, he swung his swords about and deflected the shaft. Magic collided with magic. His Blades of Athena crashed into steel when he struck the shaft of the Athenian’s spear.
“If you die, perhaps then I can petition the Sisters of Fate and change my fate,” Theseus said.
“You delude yourself if you think you can defeat me.”
“How can I not? Fate is on my side.” Theseus picked up the pace of the battle, thrusting, blocking, advancing, always pressing Kratos back toward the edge of the platform on the back of the immense horse.
Kratos allowed Theseus to herd him—for a few more steps. Then his blades crossed into an X. Kratos caught the spear at the vertex and lifted hard. The spear tip pointed skyward, giving Kratos a chance to kick out. His foot landed on Theseus’ heavily armored belly. The kick staggered the Athenian. Kratos surged forward, got past the spear, and found he was too close to use his swords.
Kratos began pounding Theseus with his fists, opening cuts on his foe’s face and stunning him. When he tried to grab Theseus’ chin and wrench his neck around, he caught a knee in the groin that lifted him off his feet. He fell heavily to his hands and knees.
Theseus whirled the spear around but missed, stumbled, and then ran from where Kratos fought to regain his feet.
“Come and fight, craven!” Kratos bellowed.
It was then that Theseus tapped his spear to the ground, and a creature made of ice burst from the floor like volcanic islands pushing upward from the sea. But unlike a stolid island, the ice creature showed jagged weapons and moved with stunning speed. Theseus tapped his spear on the floor twice more, and Kratos faced a trio of the elementals. They roared and charged him, ice-splintery feet clacking a
gainst the stone.
Typhon’s Bane came easily to hand. Kratos unleashed a flurry of icy arrows to meet the attacking ice elementals. The temperature on this battlefield dropped as he moved about, shooting quickly to hold the three creatures at bay.
“You are a coward, Theseus. You let your minions do your battle!”
All he got in reply was a harsh laugh. Theseus had climbed to the roof of the structure and pointed his spear. Kratos somersaulted away from where the lambent energy touched—and a stalagmite thrust up from below. If he had remained in place, he would have been impaled.
Kratos dashed about, firing his arrows at the ice elementals and avoiding the sharp upthrusts of ice from the floor as Theseus tried to stop him. Kratos shifted his attack to Theseus again, the arrows forcing him to cease the summoning of the stalagmites.
The instant the Athenian king stopped this assault, Kratos turned to the frozen monsters. Using his swords, he attacked. The first shattered. The second and third thought to encircle him. Kratos was too cagey a fighter for that, battle-hardened and aware of every tactic. He turned and kept one blocking the other’s attack. He eventually wore down the first and dispatched it. Then he lowered both swords and thrust with them simultaneously. The final ice creature exploded.
“Theseus!” Kratos called to his opponent. “Fight me. You said I was no longer a god. Do you fear a mortal? Just like an Athenian!”
Kratos swung the bow around and got off a perfect shot. He saw the sunlight glisten on the arrow of wind and then it disappeared into Theseus’ throat. The Athenian hero grabbed for the deadly shaft, then fell forward.
He dangled by a lace tangled around his ankle, feebly struggling.
Kratos swung his sword and cut the lace, dropping the Athenian onto his head.
“You are pathetic,” Kratos said, kicking Theseus until the man curled up and tried to move away from the punishment. A final foot to Theseus’ head slid him across the floor to lie motionless. Kratos stared for a moment at his fallen opponent, feeling nothing but contempt. Kratos seized Theseus’ left arm and pulled it up so he could pry loose the golden armlet.
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