God of War 2

by Robert E. Vardeman

  Kratos held the captured war hammer high over his head and roared in triumph. Then he kicked the body to the edge of the Hades hole and finally into it.

  Kratos allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Before, Alrik had outfought him and only Ares’ intervention had saved him. Rather, it had resigned Kratos to a life of servitude to the God of War. The now dead God of War.

  He had no more time to relish the victory. The undead barbarians continued to crawl forth from Hades. He hefted the war hammer and swung it in a wide circle, knocking two back into the hole. He heard their anguished cries as they once more fell to the Underworld.

  When the last had been dropped back through the hole, it began to close. Kratos placed the war hammer on the ground and leaned on it. Blood trickled from between the spikes. Kratos swung the hammer about and slammed the head down to wipe off Alrik’s blood, causing an earthquake. He grunted without humor, and hefted the war hammer so that it rested on his shoulder. Then Kratos triumphantly slid it behind his back, where it magically reposed with the other gifts he had received from the gods.

  He looked deeper into the bog and saw the dark spire rising above the Temple of Euryale. Alrik had protected that for the Sisters of Fate. He had been promised a new fate if he kept Kratos from reaching the temple, for all the good that it did him.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” Atropos shrieked in frustration. “You were supposed to remove him!”

  “Kratos?” Lahkesis waved off her sister. “He might have destroyed my statue, but that doesn’t matter. Alrik will stop him in the Bog of the Forgotten.”

  “Oh?” Atropos stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at her sister. “How do you think that is going to happen?”

  “What do you mean? Alrik has been a faithful servant, if a foolish one. He thinks we will examine his plight and save him. Ares gave Kratos the weapons and strength to smash him. There is no reason to give Alrik any new audience.” Lahkesis laughed lightly. “There is no reason, since he does our bidding without ever demanding that we do anything for him.”

  “You think Alrik will stop Kratos?”

  “What is wrong, dear sister?” Lahkesis was beginning to feel a touch of anger at the way Atropos was acting. “Did one of your strands of fate break? You always put so much effort into making each perfect.”

  “Perfect,” Atropos said bitterly. “You should pay half the attention to your work that I do. If you did, you would know.”

  Lahkesis spun and stared at Atropos. No words came to her lips.

  “That’s right,” Atropos said. “Kratos not only fought the dead men-at-arms from Alrik’s army but he fought Alrik all mounted on his fine, prancing warhorse. He sent them all back down the hole into Hades’ arms.”

  “Kratos killed Alrik? Again? But I—that wasn’t supposed to happen.” She felt a passing dizziness. This was not the way her well-spun thread of fate should have played out. Kratos destroying her statue had been a surprise, but she had examined how she had cast his fate and saw nothing to preserve the statue. She had warned him.

  Lahkesis reached out to pluck one hair-thin string determining the fate of both mortal and god after another until she found the proper one. Kratos’ thread was a different texture. Lahkesis held down her anger directed at her sister. Atropos had meddled in what should have been a diverting fate. Kratos had always been a special favorite of hers because he did the unexpected—but he had always ended up fulfilling the fate she had decreed.

  Not now.

  Stroking the strand, smoothing the lumpy sections, tugging a bit, she worked to determine the proper fate.

  “You play with him. End his life now.” Atropos made cutting motions with her talons as she glared at her sister.

  “I have. Zeus killed him. Only Gaia’s tampering with his destiny rescued him from Hades. That will not happen again. I assure you of that.”

  “As you thought you had taken care of the matter in your temple?”

  “I toy with him for my own amusement, nothing more,” Lahkesis said. “And it is not my fault Alrik failed. Did you spin his thread?”

  “No,” Atropos said. The Sisters stared at each other. “Do you think Clotho decreed that Kratos return Alrik to the Underworld?”

  “Why would she?” Lahkesis thought hard on this matter. She was capable of seeing the interaction of thousands of intersecting destinies and keeping them straight—or knotting them permanently, although the thread of Gaia had been increasingly difficult to cope with.

  In the past, the thread had been an earthen color, tinted with greens, but recently she had tried to trace the thread—immediately after Clotho spun it—and found the task difficult. The thread had become slippery and difficult to sever. On impulse she had sliced through, only to find that her shears had passed through as if cutting mud. An attempt to re-form had been unproductive. Moreover, Atropos had come into her chamber on some errand or another, and she had hidden her attempt at the slicing.

  But how had the thread become so insubstantial? Clotho’s skills were unquestioned. Could Atropos have meddled once more where she had no business? Her sister increasingly intruded, as if spying.

  Lahkesis worried that Atropos would find her thoughtless decision to send the Warrior of Destiny against Kratos. A valued ally had been defeated. Was Clotho interfering? Weren’t there enough mortals, gods, and, yes, even Titans, to keep Clotho and Atropos busy? Lahkesis’ resentment grew that the burden of untangling the skeins of fate fell to her and her alone.

  “She might have seen how badly you handled Kratos and thought to put it right. End his life now, Lahkesis. He has gone too far. The Steeds of Time. Your temple has been desecrated. Alrik. End the thread now.”

  Lahkesis felt her hackles rise.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do? I know how to spin destinies. Better than you or Clotho!”

  “Should I do your chore?” Atropos reached for Kratos’ thread of fate.

  Lahkesis jerked it away from her sister’s groping fingers. Atropos lacked imagination and would only put an end to Kratos in a way sure to create ripples along other strands. Such a disturbance might take years to resolve.

  “I’ll do it. He will never reach us, sister. He will be stopped at the Temple of Euryale.”

  “You are sure?”

  “You insult me and my skill, dear sister.” Lahkesis made no effort to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Clever fingers plucked at Kratos’ fate. Gorgon heads. Skeletons. The key. There would be no possible way for Kratos to avoid his fate now. None.

  “HIDDEN DEEP WITHIN the spire lie the Sisters. They control the threads of fate. Gain control of your thread and you will be able to return to the moment when Zeus betrayed you.” Gaia spoke softly to Kratos.

  The Temple of Euryale rose ahead. He strained to see the spire poking up above the sad trees with the drooping limbs. He snorted in disgust. Little wonder this was called the Bog of the Forgotten. Corpses dangled from the limbs of nearby trees, and the stench of decay pervaded everything.

  “Kratos,” came Gaia’s soft voice again, this time with a hint of urgency that it had not carried before. “You must beware. What lies ahead is a trap.”

  “Why do you tell me the obvious?”

  “The Sisters will not allow you easy entry to their inner sanctum. The Chamber of the Loom is sacrosanct. No one but the trio ever enters. No one save the Priests of Fate.”

  “I fear none of them.”

  “You have done well, but you must not become careless. Hubris destroys mortals.”

  “I became the God of War, and it did not suit me. All I want is to kill Zeus for what he did.”

  He spoke only to the soughing of wind through the banyan trees and the creaking of chains and nooses around the dangling corpses.

  “Never retreat,” he muttered. He had come so far in his quest to find the Sisters of Fate and force them to send him back in time that he had nowhere else to go. Retreat? His life lay ahead.

  He started along the trail, wary of a trap
. Alrik had been a surprise, but Kratos found that he had enjoyed the combat again. The first time they’d met, when Alrik commanded his entire barbarian horde, Kratos had been weaker. His arm had been strong and his sword swift, but he had given in to Ares, pledging his servitude in exchange for victory.

  Beseeching the gods for aid gave nothing to a true warrior. He was Spartan and needed only his own skill and bravery.

  The faint dripping of water into a pool was now the only sound he heard. Even the wind had died. Clutching the war hammer he had won in combat, he advanced, rounding the bend in the trail and seeing the grim tower.

  He saw the entrance immediately. A large bronze door was the only entry point. As he started for it, stepping over skeletons scattered all around, he slowed. Gaia had warned him of danger.

  With a powerful leap to his left he sailed through the air just as a ghostly Gorgon’s head formed in front of the door. The face, limned with crackling green electricity, looked as if it was about to speak but only a deadly gaze sought to envelop him. He somersaulted and then swung about to face the Gorgon. Its eyes could not follow him due to walls forming an entryway to the bronze door.

  If he had to enter the temple, he had to find a safer way inside.

  As he stepped on a bone and broke it, he froze. The sound of the bone was wrong. The skeletons in front of the Gorgon’s gaze began shaking and sliding along the ground. Kratos watched the bones attach themselves and the skeletons begin to assume a more human form. Then the bones snapped upright, reached for discarded swords, and stood. Kratos saw several skeleton warriors still forming and knew he would be overwhelmed unless he acted quickly.

  With a roar, he charged forward, war hammer swinging. The first skeleton’s head exploded from its spine as his sharp-edged blade cut accurately. His second slash cut the legs off a second skeleton, sending it flailing backward to explode into separate bones again. Kratos avoided the Gorgon’s deadly aspect, kicked apart other skeletons forming, and heard bone grating against bone behind him.

  Kratos felt a sharp pain across his shoulder as the skeleton’s sword cut at him. He ducked low, then thrust upward through the rib cage and into the skull with the butt end of the hammer’s shaft. Once again, the skull blasted from the skeleton’s spine. Kratos saw that the second skeleton he had already dealt with had regained its legs and clumsily stood. Using the pain of the cut on his broad back as a goad, Kratos spun about and demolished his bony foe. Not stopping once he had spread its bones about, he stamped down hard and crushed the chalky arm and leg bones under his sandal. Spinning about, he dismembered the skeletons coming after him. Realizing how they re-formed, he splintered the bones until only dust remained. It was the work of moments to pulverize them, leaving only a few knuckle bones and other smaller ones that would be no further danger.

  Kratos worked his way through the ruins, jumping over pools of scummy water and finally finding what must have been an arena at one time. The walls were collapsed on one side, but higher up corridors and ledges remained. As he looked around, he heard a faint voice.

  “Warrior!”

  Kratos turned toward the far end of the arena. At a level too high for him to reach, he saw a man struggling forward, pulling himself along as if his legs were broken.

  “Warrior, help me. I beg you, help me!” Two horned creatures grabbed the man and dragged him out of sight.

  Kratos shook his head. By the time he reached the upper levels, the man would likely be dead. He looked around the floor. Puddles of orangish muck emitted vapors that caused his breath to catch in the back of his throat. He stepped back to be sure he was not falling into a trap. All he heard were the obscene bubbling sounds from the muck pools.

  The near silence was broken by a shrill horn blast. A Beast Lord emerged, a summoning horn pressed to its lips. The huge potbelly was armored, and the horned helmet hid both head and face. Its claws curled into the stone flooring and left deep scratches as it rocked back to give another long, mournful summons. As God of War, Kratos had seen the likes of him before and waited for what had to come.

  The lord tossed aside his horn as an immense Cyclops crawled up from the ruins beyond. Using hooks, the Beast Lord scaled the Cyclops and stood on the broad back, which had grapples fastened to the powerful shoulder muscles. Both Beast Lord and Cyclops roared a challenge that Kratos was ready to answer. Guiding the one-eyed monster as if he rode a chariot, the Beast Lord jerked hard on one grapple to bring his mount around.

  The Cyclops howled and charged Kratos. Seeing the real danger, Kratos somersaulted forward under the creature’s club and slashed furiously at the exposed legs. The Cyclops dropped to its knees, giving Kratos the chance to swing his swords at the mounted Beast Lord. One blade tip slid under heavy armor. The Beast Lord lost his grip and fell from his one-eyed mount to crash to the uneven paving. The Cyclops was dangerous but the Beast Lord was cunning and could direct the fight in ways Kratos wanted to avoid.

  Kratos advanced on the Beast Lord. He had injured the creature. Now he stabbed hard and drove his blade under the armpit and into important territory. A geyser of arterial blood exploded outward.

  The Beast Lord groaned and rolled away. Kratos was merciless in his attack. He pressed the Beast Lord hard, only to have his killing blow deflected. The Cyclops had rejoined the battle. Its club almost knocked the weapon from Kratos’ hand. He whirled and slashed at the Cyclops, then realized his error. The Beast Lord attacked him from the rear.

  New wounds appeared on his broad back. The pain from the deep cuts tore at his battle concentration. A lesser warrior would have died. Kratos had experienced worse pain. He was a Spartan. He was more. He was the Ghost of Sparta.

  Taking more wounds to his back, he focused entirely on the Cyclops and its swinging bludgeon. He avoided a downward swing that would have crushed him to bloody pudding. Stone splinters erupted upward as the club destroyed more of the paving stones. But Kratos was within the circle of the Cyclops’ arms, its belly exposed. Using a double-handed thrust, he drove his swords inward, upward—and outward. He carved a huge chunk of bloody flesh from the belly, causing the Cyclops to shriek in agony and drop its club to clutch its sundered abdomen.

  Kratos was now free—for an instant—to kill the Beast Lord behind him. The armored creature had continued to attack his unprotected back. Kratos felt rivers of blood tickling as they ran down his skin. He drove the Beast Lord’s face down to the stone flooring, then stamped down hard on his head, squashing it. He stepped back and sneered at the fallen creature. Kratos shook himself and sent his blood spraying in all directions.

  He turned and saw that the Cyclops refused to die. It came for him. Digging his toes in against the edge of a broken paving stone, he got purchase despite his sandals being slick from blood. He waited until the Cyclops came close enough, then launched himself forward. He climbed the front of the Cyclops by grabbing handfuls of flesh until he stared into the single huge eye. Kratos drew back, then punched hard. His fingers drove through the eye’s viscid innards, then he grabbed and yanked. The eye popped free.

  Sightless, the Cyclops easily fell to him. As Kratos stepped away from the body, he saw faint twitching in the Beast Lord’s body. He stamped several more times. It was only when he stopped that he heard the sounds of a fierce battle being waged. Kratos stepped to the archway looking over a river of sludge with circular metal islands and saw the warrior who previously had cried for his aid battling a pair of Minotaurs on the far side high atop a stony ledge.

  Kratos jumped down to the first round island, saw chains and sprockets on the side, then began pushing a long handle. The entire platform rotated and moved toward the far side of the putrid river. If he reached the far side in time to save the warrior, he would.

  If he failed, that did not matter. This was the way forward. Kratos put his back to the lever and began rotating the metal disk under his feet when the water began boiling all around and eight sentries rose out of the water and slipped onto the disk. Somehow, he
didn’t think they had come to help with the lever.

  “HE WILL TAKE ME BACK if I give him this news,” Hermes said.

  “Hold,” Athena warned the Messenger of the Gods. “Zeus is in no humor right now. The other gods are restive and … there are the Titans.” She looked around Hermes’ chosen place of exile. He punished himself unduly remaining in the Egyptian desert rather than along the Nile Delta where it was cooler and populated with people rather than sand fleas. Still, the purity of the sands appealed to her—and the absence of destruction. Perhaps this oasis free from Olympian strife, temporary though it might be, soothed Hermes.

  “What are you talking about?” Hermes stared at Athena. “Gaia? She is powerless. Cronos was exiled to Tartarus after Kratos returned Pandora’s Box to Olympus.”

  “But Typhon has been woken from his mountain sleep, and Oceanus starts to make trouble in our uncle’s domain. There is much yet that I do not understand,” Athena said, ignoring Hermes. “We must be certain what we say when we speak to Zeus.”

  So much had slipped beyond her control. Her favorite town still lay in ruins after Kratos had battled Ares. Her worshippers had begun to restore the temples and shrines devoted to her worship, but they were chary now. Sparta had spread its military tentacles—with Kratos’ blessing—and would destroy any city that might challenge its power. But there was more. More that even the usually wily, all-seeing, all-eavesdropping Hermes had missed in his frantic need to regain his status on Olympus.

  Some of her worshippers had built shrines, small to be sure, celebrating Gaia. It was as if they chose to return to olden ways they could not possibly remember. Or was there something more happening that she was unable to understand? The Olympian gods made their presence, their power, their authority known, though less often now than before Kratos had been made God of War. Somehow, the mortals sensed the unease in Olympus and sought other deities.