Kratos felt no triumph that Euryale had died. She was only an impediment to locating the Sisters of Fate and forcing them to return him to the moment that Zeus had so treacherously slain him.
As he stood, part of the wall began to shimmer and shake, then disappear. Kratos did not need to be told that Euryale had guarded this passageway and her death opened it to him. He entered a passage that soon opened out into a wide boggy area, which he ignored. His gaze fixed on a spire in the distance that might have been the twin of the Temple of Euryale—but he saw the difference immediately. The tower glistened with life.
With fate.
He imagined he saw threads running from the top of the tower, radiating outward in all directions, though this might have been a trick of light. Having killed Euryale, he had to press on. The sky-ripping spire was the obvious destination. As he started forward, he slowed, then stopped to look into the sky.
The heavy overcast hid the sun, and a sulfur stench filled the air. Kratos sniffed, turning until he located the direction of the strongest odor.
A boulder whistled through the air and crashed into a wall to his right. For a moment he could not make out what attacked him; then he saw the pile of rocks ahead move, rise, and hurl another rock the size of a man’s head at him. Kratos sneered. For every obstacle he overcame, the Sisters fated him to contend with another. His war cry announced that he was more determined to prevail than they were to stop him.
The rock Minotaur’s belly glowed with the light of flaming magma as it drew itself up to a height five times that of Kratos. Lumpy, rocky appendages groped for him, hands that were more boulder than finger. From its joints glowed molten rock, and immense horns on its head jerked back and forth as the monster tossed its head, as if unable to see its victim. Then it fell heavily, causing the ground to shake so hard Kratos was thrown down. The rock Minotaur pounded its massive arms repeatedly on the ground. Every blow produced a new quake impossible to stand against. Bounced up and down, Kratos knew the creature had to either attack him directly or tire from this ground-shaking attack.
The rock Minotaur foolishly chose to attack. As it reared up, thinking to fall forward and crush him under its ponderous weight, Kratos got his feet under him and jumped straight up into the air. The Blades of Athena bounced off rocky limbs, but he had no easy target on the arms or legs. As he soared high, he whipped the swords about and came down just in front of the stony head with red, glowing rock-melt eyes. Both blades drove deep into the rock Minotaur’s head.
It roared in pain and began to spin about. Its abnormally long arms, covered with sharp shards of stone, were the spokes of a wheel rotating around its axis. Kratos jumped again, leaping over first one and then the other deadly arm. As long as the rock Minotaur spun in this crazy, dizzying attack, he could not attack directly. If he backed off, the pounding would create earthquakes that would knock him from his feet.
Kratos kept jumping, waiting, biding his time. The horned head thrust in his direction with every rotation, but the arms presented the most danger.
When he got the rhythm, Kratos landed on one arm, then launched himself upward to again attack with his swords. One sank deep into flesh beneath the rocky hide. The other rebounded off a stone horn atop the Minotaur’s head.
The combination of deep wound with stunning blow interrupted the rock Minotaur’s attack for a brief instant. Kratos sprang. His swords raked across the rock Minotaur’s throat and caused it to rear back, further exposing its belly.
Swift cuts opened wounds on the monster’s underside. Rather than bleeding, it leaked molten rock. The bright rivers pouring from the Minotaur’s innards glowed red-hot and then trickled in orange rivers as lava leaked out and cooled. Kratos landed hard only feet from the rock Minotaur’s belly, the heat searing his flesh and causing rivers of sweat to blind him. When new gobbets of molten rock sprayed outward, sizzling and hissing past Kratos, he drove forward as hard and fast as he could to stab with both swords. The Minotaur reared up, more lava oozing from the new cuts in its body. With two powerful slashes, Kratos bored through the belly and meted out still more punishment.
As the Minotaur bellowed in pain, its guts leaking out in gouts of magma, Kratos jumped, landed on the heaving shoulders, and used his swords to hack and slash until he found the most vulnerable point. He shoved both blades deep. The rock Minotaur shuddered, began glowing between the armor plates covering its back, then crashed facedown.
Kratos stood panting from the exertion, but he did not look at the fallen creature. He looked past it to the spire rising in the misty distance. He was near his goal. He felt it. The Sisters of Fate would have to grant his request so he could kill Zeus.
If they didn’t, he would kill them and then slay the King of the Gods.
“THE THRONE SITS empty. That is not a good thing,” Poseidon said, his voice rumbling until it filled Zeus’ private quarters. “We must replace the God of War soon.”
“It pains me to agree but I must with my watery brother,” Hades said, “You make a grave mistake if you do not replace Ares.”
“You mean that I should replace Kratos,” Zeus said. He pulled a thunderbolt down and ran it up and down his fingers, then caught the lightning between thumb and forefinger as he looked up to his brothers. Both drew back, fearing Zeus would unleash his thunderbolt against them.
This flash of fear pleased Zeus. There had been too much dissension between the gods and goddesses he could not turn to his own machinations. Such rebellion could get out of hand.
“I will not allow disobedience. That is why I killed Kratos. He defied me.” Zeus billowed up and expanded, forcing both his brothers back to make room. “I will not permit that.”
“You allow too much,” grumbled Hades. “Hermes. Look at how he defied you.”
“I banished him.”
“You should send him to my kingdom,” Hades said, a smile pulling back his lips in what looked more like a rictus. “I know how to handle such disobedience.”
“Your edict, Zeus, your foolish edict prevents one god from killing another. You had to trick Kratos into draining his godly powers before you killed him.”
“Kratos was too powerful, otherwise,” Hades said.
“He was not!” Zeus leaped to his feet from the couch where he reclined and towered above Hades, who fought to hide his unease. “I could have slain the God of War at any time. I am the King of Olympus, not that upstart. I made him a god and he defied me.”
“I meant that your edict of one god killing another forced you to turn him mortal again,” Hades said.
“Do not patronize me, brother.”
“Be quiet, both of you. There is trouble in Olympus. Look around and you can see it at every turn,” Poseidon said.
“I will order all to get along,” Zeus said.
“That will certainly work,” Hades said. “It will work as well as elevating Kratos to Ares’ throne.”
“You dare mock me, Hades?” Zeus’ beard flashed with constant lightning now, and he held a thunderbolt in both hands.
“Are you so blind you cannot see what our brother Poseidon is saying?” Hades shot back. “Olympus is only an insult away from open war. A civil war among the gods. I return to the Underworld to find peace!”
“You are too close to the problem, Zeus,” Poseidon said.
“A new God of War,” Zeus said more thoughtfully, dropping again to his couch. “That would be a good thing. But who?” He pursed his lips as he considered potential warriors.
“Athena would never agree,” Hades said.
“She is a cunning bitch. Tricky.” Poseidon glared.
“Someone must be brought to the throne, as you did Kratos. But you must choose more wisely,” Hades said. “Someone from the Elysian Fields seems a poor choice. Who, being content in the afterlife, would desire constant strife?”
“Someone from Tartarus?” mused Zeus. “Why not a mortal hero? Would not my son Hercules be worthy of ascending?”
The trio
began an argument that grew increasingly heated as each suggestion was met with dual disapproval.
Watching from behind a tapestry, Hermes saw that they would never agree. The three brothers had fought over too many other matters in the past, but if someone else suggested a logical, reasonable mortal to elevate to the throne of God of War, Hades, Poseidon, and even Zeus would greet this suggestion with approval.
And a reprieve from banishment.
Hermes slipped away, clutching a magic helmet. He knew exactly which hero to champion to be Kratos’ successor to the God of War’s throne.
“LET THE RAGE of the Titans fuel your blades, Kratos,” came Gaia’s warning.
Kratos did not need such advice. He had faced wraiths before, and the ones guarding the entrance to the Great Hall of Atropos were no true barrier to one of his fighting prowess. They floated atop a black fog rather than walking on mortal legs, slender bodies elongating as they surged to attack with arms like whips. Sparks exploded from the tips of those deadly, seeking arms, but he quickly parried as if they were metal swords. With several quick cuts, he brought the keening wraiths upright, where they were easily defeated with devastating cuts from his swords. But he realized Gaia’s suggestion had merit when several wraiths closed in on him. Singly, they were quickly vanquished, but as a phalanx they proved mightier opponents.
The Rage of the Titans blasted forth. Kratos laughed without humor as he cut down one wraith after another, dispatching the final one with little sense of satisfaction at a job well done. He was a warrior; they were his enemy. He had defeated them and that was as it should be.
He turned toward the Great Hall when he heard a distant cry.
“Who’s there? Help me. I’m trapped.”
At the sound of the voice, Kratos touched the Golden Fleece. This potent defense against spells had been gained following an earlier plea for aid. Jason had been a small impediment to reaching the Sisters of Fate, but he had given up the fleece and thereby aided Kratos. Another seeking the Sisters, another failing to reach them, might provide yet another useful trinket that would guarantee Kratos’ success.
He entered the temple and looked around the high, vaulted area. Empty at first, it now held two bearded men dressed in thigh-length togas. In one hand they each held a knife and in the other a scroll.
“I seek the Sisters of Fate,” Kratos said.
“You are not wanted,” the nearer man said. “We are the High Priests of the Sisters.” He lowered the knife in his right hand and brought forward the scroll, now glowing with a faint greenish light. Kratos did not hesitate. Such a gesture could only be the precursor to an attack.
His swords swung in a high arc that ended on the High Priest’s knife. The sun-bright flare dazzled his eyes, but Kratos fought by feel, by sound and smell and a sense honed in battle that transcended mere physical hints. He pressed forward and felt the High Priest give way. Behind him the second priest closed for an attack with his short dagger.
Kratos bent the man before him back off balance, then moved swiftly to kick out one leg and drive him down to the floor. The High Priest looked at him swiftly without expression. Then a nimbus of energy boiled from the priest’s hands and sent Kratos staggering. The High Priest stood and prepared another that Kratos knew he could not endure. He reached down within himself and felt the white burning star of the Cronos Rage building. Focusing it, Kratos released the blast at the same instant the priest launched his attack.
The clouds of magic collided, roiled about, turning black and ugly and … disappeared.
The High Priest looked at his hands in disbelief, and Kratos knew why. He was drained of all energy, and the priest had to share this enervation. Four quick steps forward brought Kratos face-to-face with the priest. Before he could even draw the ceremonial dagger sheathed at his wide leather belt holding his robes together, the High Priest died. Kratos punched hard and caught the priest in the throat. He dropped to his knees, then fell to his side.
Kratos had no time to recover his strength. Another priest storming forth from his rear proved more difficult for Kratos to fight. Instead of using his weapons, he drew forth the Golden Fleece in time to deflect a shock wave of green energy. He swung about, still holding high the fleece. Step by step, he forced back the High Priest. Once the man tried to cut him with the knife, but the short weapon depended more on magical power, now robbed by the Golden Fleece, than length. Grunting to coordinate his power in both leg and arm, Kratos exploded forward and knocked the High Priest down.
The knife flew from the priest’s hand, and the scroll was half pinned under his body. A fist to the face stunned the High Priest. A second ended his life. He might as well have been hit by a steel-plated maul. Kratos went to pick up the scroll, but it turned to greasy ash with the High Priest’s death. Stepping away, he knew he had alerted Atropos, if not all three of the Sisters of Fate, with these two deaths. The Sisters had to rely heavily on their priests for defense and to keep away petitioners begging for alteration of their fate.
Kratos sneered. Men like him.
He crossed the Great Hall and scaled a ladder mounted in the wall. The Sisters had to realize he had penetrated this far into their domain. From his encounter with Lahkesis’ statue, he knew he was not going to be a guest welcomed by any of the Sisters of Fate, and killing two of their High Priests would set them to redoing his fate in an even less agreeable fashion.
Reaching an open area, he paused to study a stone bridge stretching across a courtyard far below. A stone head with eyes emitting what had to be deadly beams guarded the way across.
“Up here. Help!”
Kratos craned his neck around to see the temple walls soaring even higher from this point. Whoever begged for his aid was up there. He saw an arched doorway to his left and entered, emerging onto a large terrace looking down onto the rumps of the Steeds of Time. Seeing no way to advance, Kratos walked the length of the terrace, found a ramp leading downward, and carefully trod it. The stones were loose and slippery from seawater. He came to an immense door a dozen times his height and almost as wide. From beyond he heard cursing, probably from the man who had begged for his aid. Planting his feet firmly, Kratos grabbed a handle fastened along the base of the door and lifted with all his might. Even this was almost not enough to budge the ponderous weight, but it began to yield slowly, then with a sudden surge shot upward to stand fully open. An army could have marched through, but Kratos saw only a shallow bath, tiled in sea-greens and bright blues.
He stepped forward. He looked over his shoulder at the grating noise. The door plummeted from above to once more close.
“No!” came the cry of a warrior splashing through the pool. He pushed past Kratos, armor clanking. A shield slung on his back hid his identity as he bent forward, pounding his fists on the closed door. “That door was my only escape!”
The warrior leaned against the door, his shield gleaming and a golden helmet held in one hand.
“I have faced test after test in search of the Sisters, and now you have dashed it all away! You certainly do not live up to your reputation, Ghost of Sparta.”
“Nor do you live up to yours, Perseus. A great hero trapped in a tiled natatorium filled with perfumed water?” Kratos laughed harshly. “Trapped so completely you cry out to any who enters Atropos’ realm for help?”
Perseus pressed his hand against the door, ran it along the cool metal, and then turned to face Kratos. Their eyes locked. Kratos saw resolve harden in the hero who had fought the Graeae, a trio of powerful witches. Perseus had fought Gorgons and killed the monster that King Cepheus had tried to appease with human sacrifice. For all his deeds he looked ordinary to Kratos, but then the Ghost of Sparta was used to those soldiers of his own army. Spartans were a breed apart.
Perseus walked down the steps to the edge of the pool, studying Kratos closely. He lithely jumped into the pool and sent ripples running from where he stood calf-deep in the limpid water.
“But perhaps this is a test,”
Perseus said thoughtfully. He threw his head back as if petitioning the gods of Olympus. “Are you watching me, sisters? Give me a sign! Am I, the great Perseus, to kill this fallen god to receive an audience with you? Will that allow me to bring back my love from the grasp of Hades himself?”
“You fool yourself if you think the Sisters of Fate will grant you a boon for such a suicidal act.”
“I have dared much and will dare more to win back Andromeda! She will again share my bed. She and I have a love that powers the music of the spheres!” Perseus reached to his belt and drew out a sling. He spun it in lazy circles, the faint whispering noise it made almost masked by the sloshing water in the pool. “But you know nothing of love, do you, Ghost of Sparta?”
Kratos tensed at the taunt. In single combat angering your foe so that he no longer thought as he battled was a time-honored tactic, but this barb stung. Perseus must know how Kratos had killed his own beloved Lysandra and his daughter at Ares’ behest.
Kratos drew the Blades of Athena.
“Your weapons will not serve you this time, Kratos.” Perseus lifted the helmet. “Hermes has given me this helmet.”
“Hermes? He dares come to the lair of the Sisters of Fate?”
“He has aided me in the past. Unlike other false gods of Olympus, he knows his loyal worshippers.”
“Hermes is a fool with pretensions to greatness.” Kratos seethed at this.
“If I cannot gain an audience with the Sisters, at least I can bathe in the glory of being the one who brought down the mighty Kratos, the slayer of gods.”
Perseus settled the helmet given him by Hermes on his head. Kratos sneered as the hero vanished, his visage now entrusted to godly enshrouding magicks.
“Although I hardly think a Harpy’s fool such as yourself deserves such praise.” Perseus laughed with real joy at the possibility that the Sisters would receive his sacrifice and grant him an audience.
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