The hero’s disappearance under the helmet did nothing to slow Kratos’ reaction as a rock suddenly appeared, flying directly at his head. He twisted aside violently, the sharp stone whizzing past his face to crash into the door behind him. The stone had been hurled with such force that it remained embedded in the bronze door.
Kratos waded out farther into the pool, looking for any sign of Perseus. Through pure instinct, Kratos brought up both swords to deflect another missile. He spun and slashed—at nothing.
“Wrong!” Perseus cried. “I am over here!”
Kratos attacked where the voice had come from, farther toward the center of the pool. Again his blades found thin air. He stood stock-still and let his ears rather than his eyes tell him where Perseus was. The sighing of the leather sling warned him of another stone coming toward him. Kratos bent, let the missile pass him harmlessly, and looked for the ripples in the pool where Perseus stood. He might be invisible but he left tracks, even if they were liquid and evanescent.
A mighty slash with his blades brought the result Kratos sought. He felt one edge dig into flesh and heard Perseus cry out in pain. Blood billowed in the crystal-clear water. Using both instinct and cold logic, Kratos followed where Perseus’ retreat must lie and attacked there. Again his blade chopped at a struggling human.
Perseus tried to use the sling again, but Kratos savagely thrust and cut one leather cord. The end flopped away from the invisible warrior and floated for a moment on the water, then sank.
This victory in robbing Perseus of his sling also took away Kratos’ advantage of hearing the sling’s whine as Perseus swung it. Now the hero depended entirely on silent shield and blade.
Kratos saw the dual ripples moving in a V toward him, then ducked and thrust as if he could see Perseus’ shield. The impact of his blade rattled all the way up to his shoulder as he miscalculated and drove his sword directly into that shield. But Kratos recovered quickly with a wide slashing arc that produced more blood in the water. He watched as the trickle of blood moved away. In his mind Kratos pictured Perseus retreating, his back exposed.
Reaching Perseus would be difficult; Kratos reached down inside himself and coaxed the white point of energy that launched the Cronos Rage into a smolder. But try as he might, he could not generate more than a tiny speck from it. He had exhausted himself using it against the High Priest.
That did not prevent Kratos from releasing the Cronos Rage, feeble though it was. The shock wave radiated outward, and Kratos was instantly thankful he had not unleashed the full power of the Rage. Knee-deep in the water, he felt a sudden tingling shock that spread throughout the pool, momentarily stunning him. But if it unsettled him, it caught Perseus entirely unawares.
The hero screamed and thrashed about in the pool, causing a commotion impossible to miss.
With a mighty leap, Kratos shot from the water and brought both swords down in a double-handed thrust. If he had misjudged the hero, he would die.
Both swords found fleshy berth in Perseus’ shoulders. The hero vented a huge scream of pain. Kratos drew back and saw that the impact had knocked the helmet from Perseus’ head. His opponent was no longer invisible.
That did not mean Perseus was helpless. He swung his shield about like a discus and forced Kratos to retreat. Moving in the water slowed both their steps, but Kratos was not as severely wounded. No matter that the shield resisted his every sword thrust, Kratos had other weapons.
Kratos was momentarily dazzled when Perseus swung the shield about and reflected light into his eyes. Something magnified the brilliance until it was as if he stared into Helios’ chariot pulling the sun behind it. Kratos squinted and then blinked furiously in time to recover.
As Perseus pressed an attack, trying to use the edge of his shield to slip under Kratos’ neck and decapitate him, Kratos unlimbered his war hammer from its magical satchel at his back. The mighty killing tool rose high and crashed down on Perseus. The shield might protect against the Blades of Athena, but such a crushing attack could never be turned aside. The hammer blow drove Perseus to his knees in the water. As Perseus fell, momentarily exposed, Kratos reached out and grabbed the son of Zeus and Danaë by the throat.
A swift twist and he shoved the hero’s head underwater. At first, noisy bubbles rose. They slowed. Then Kratos yanked his foe out of the water, swung him about, and ripped the shield from his weakened grasp. Perseus sputtered and tried feebly to fight.
Kratos growled deep in his throat, lifted, and heaved Perseus with all his strength out the far end of the pool area. Perseus screamed in agony as his spine was snared by a massive hook dangling from a chain. He twitched, then sagged. His weight caused the hook to rattle and clank lower out of sight.
Kratos went to the edge of the pool, climbed up on a tiled lip, and jumped. His fingers closed on the chain, and then he let himself down to the terrace below where he had looked out over the Steeds of Time. Kratos kicked away from the chain and stared for a moment at Perseus, limp and lifeless on the hook.
“You will be with your lover now,” Kratos said. “Both of you will be under Hades’ watchful gaze for eternity.”
He turned and walked away without a glance backward. He had to find the Sisters of Fate. If Perseus was the best they could do to prevent him from demanding an audience, Zeus was as good as dead.
“YOU WERE FOOLISH, Atropos. Foolish!” Lahkesis stormed about the Chamber of the Loom, then came to a halt and stared at her sister in disbelief. “We should tell Clotho.”
“No! No, don’t tell her. This is not as serious as you make it seem.” Atropos’ long, black boneless fingers played over the skein of fates she held. Dozens of the threads ran in all directions, some colored, others plain gray and white and black. There were so many ways of determining a mortal’s destiny that she had codified them long since. Black resulted in utter despair and eventual death, usually through suicide. White provided the optimistic mortal a chance to laugh at the fate meted out, but the end was seldom different from that of the gray thread. The grays were those with lackluster lives, daily toil leading to little fulfillment or enjoyment of life and even less once they crossed the River Styx and were adjudged by Hades’ three assessors, Aeacus, Minos, and Rhadamanthys. The more brightly colored threads she left to Lahkesis and Clotho. Their fates were unusual and often annoyed her with their complexity.
“You planned this?” Lahkesis sounded skeptical.
“Cut here,” Atropos said, her long talon marking a spot on a thick skein. After Lahkesis had done so, Atropos said, “See how easily removed problems are? You are the one who claims to enjoy a diversion. What do you fear from Kratos?”
“Nothing. I fear no mortal, no god! Why should I? We are the Sisters of Fate. I end their miserable lives.” Lahkesis brought her scythe down on another skein of threads. They snapped about, then evaporated.
“An entire country, Lahkesis. We have just eliminated the population of an entire country. There is no reason to fear a single mortal, even if he had been a god.” Atropos sounded more confident than she was, but they were in control of all fate.
“You are not giving up on your little pet, are you?” Atropos pressed. “The Spear of Destiny? You told the Warrior to stop Kratos.”
Lahkesis glared, then said, “This is why we must end his life now.”
“The Warrior handled the spear too gingerly. He was afraid of the weapon. I read it in his thread.”
“You know more than I thought, sister,” Lahkesis said.
“I am not without talent or intelligence,” Atropos said haughtily. “And neither are you. Come, sister, let us deal with Kratos together and enjoy his struggle before we end his worthless life.”
“How do we control him? His thread has become increasingly slack. Look. Tug on Kratos’ thread and you do not pull him this way or that to influence his quietus.”
“He will eventually come to the end of his thread, the conclusion to his fate. It will be as we have decided.”
�
�Until then, we cannot control him. Gaia laughs!”
“Determine her fate anew,” Atropos said.
“I have followed Kratos,” Lahkesis said, “through the bowels of your temple. He sent Perseus to the Underworld. If such a mighty warrior had no chance against Kratos, who will? Especially if he possesses the Spear of Destiny?”
“He doesn’t,” Atropos insisted. “He can’t or he would have already made good on his threat to kill Zeus.”
Lahkesis turned thoughtful as she considered all her unimaginative sister said. Nodding slowly, she said, “Even if Kratos has the Spear of Destiny, he cannot know how to use it. But it must be retrieved. It cannot remain in his possession. It cannot!”
“It won’t,” Atropos promised.
KRATOS HAD GOTTEN a fair look at the islands now pulled together by the Steeds of Time and saw that the way inward would take him toward the immense spire. He did not doubt that this was the lair of the Sisters of Fate since it commanded both sky and earth from its lofty pinnacle. He made his way through the maze of rooms and finally came out on a path leading inward. The stench of decay hung heavily in the air, convincing him this was the proper path.
Jason and Perseus had both perished trying to find their way to the Sisters. Kratos felt no triumph that he had bested them and now had the goal in sight. At a trot he set off through the swampy region, slowly climbing and finally reaching an open area where Harpies fed off one another in a gory buffet. He stopped and saw what had drawn them to this spot in the first place. A huge griffin had smashed into the ground and spread its guts in all directions. But this was not just any griffin. Blazing with actinic light was the spear that the aerial rider had tried to use against Kratos. Its power drew him.
He whipped his war hammer about as the creatures moved from considering one another a meal to choosing him. He crushed first one and then another as he made his way to the dead griffin. The crystalline spear glistened as if it had been dipped in liquid light. Kratos reached out and gripped the spear’s thick shaft, then yanked it free of the griffin’s body.
The coruscating light forced him to look away. The spear burned at his hand, but he did not release it. Lifting it high over his head gave him a chance to examine it. In places he could see through the transparent crystal, but other points in the interior were milky with light. Still other sections, more like splinters, blazed with the purplish blue light that had drawn him to the weapon. He spun it about. Lightweight, quickly pointed, easily used to stab or defend, the spear held his attention—and he knew that it was a potent weapon if he could find how best to use it.
Kratos whirled it about and stashed it away as he made his way deeper into the swampy land, but he quickly came out on the brink of a precipice falling hundreds of feet down into the sea. The way across seemed obvious, but Kratos had learned this meant danger. A broken roadway stretched over the deep chasm, the sections of stone paving separated by gaps.
He walked to the edge of the roadway, stepped out—and almost perished. The road tilted swiftly under his weight. He lost his balance and slid downward and would have plunged to his death if it had not been for his quick reflexes. The swords lashed out as grappling hooks and affixed themselves into the side of the cliff. The roadway dropped all the way from under him but he swung back, hit the cliff face, and then hastily scaled it. By the time he reached the top of the escarpment once more, the roadway had returned.
It tilted but did not fall.
If one segment tilted in such a fashion, he saw no reason to doubt that all would. To cross to the far side required more than speed and balance. Kratos concentrated and called forth the magic of the Amulet of the Fates. The world boiled around him in a thick green stew as time slowed. He stepped onto the tilting road and then tried to sprint for the far side. His legs gave way beneath him, forcing him to reach down to keep from falling. Use of the amulet sucked his power quickly. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand. The greenish fog about him began to thin. His gut tightened as he forced himself to send more energy into the amulet. Then he took a step. And another. Determination kept the Ghost of Sparta moving. He would conquer!
Just as he came within a dozen feet of the other side, the spell controlled by the Amulet of the Fates wavered and began to abate. Roadway tilting beneath his feet, Kratos abandoned use of the amulet, jumped, and barely caught the edge of the cliff as the roadway skewed away from his feet. He dangled above a chasm that would kill him should he fall.
A grunt, a heave, and he stood on the proper side of the segmented road. The trail led forward. His distance-devouring stride began gobbling the terrain as he ran, fast and sure he headed in the right direction to the Sisters of Fate.
The jungle vegetation arched above him, forming a close tunnel. At times he had to duck and push through small openings, but he persisted and came to the far side of the island. In the distance he saw what had to be his destination on the Island of Fate. Again he was faced with a road across a chasm so vast he could not see the bottom. The Steeds of Time might have pulled the islands together, but the sections were a poor fit.
This road, however, lacked only a segment here and there. From the way the arches supported the road from below, he saw no possibility for a trap to be engineered into the bridge-work. He strode out onto the broad, uneven paving and had gone only a quarter of the way across when he heard the wings flapping furiously.
Kratos turned in a full circle, looking to the sky for any sign of Harpies. He hated the flying hags and would not mind working off some of the rage that had built within his breast by pulling off a few wings and then casting the flightless, still-living bodies into the great chasm to their deaths.
There was nothing in the sky, but he heard distinct flapping of wings followed by a feeble scraping as if talons tore at the bridge’s stone base. Kratos reached for his war hammer as an emaciated, ancient man crawled over the edge, but he held back a killing blow when he saw long, elegant wings seared onto the man’s back. Kratos held out his own forearms and looked where Ares had welded the chains from the Blades of Chaos into his living flesh. Had something similar been done to this poor wight?
“Go back. Go back, warrior. There is no passage here.”
Kratos looked at the man.
“I can reach that distant spire on this path.”
“Never! It isn’t possible. You will never make it across. You think you can, but you cannot.”
Kratos brushed past the man.
“I know you cannot make it,” the man insisted.
Kratos looked from the distant spire where the Sisters of Fate must have their lair to the man. The burns on his hands and face were now obvious. The wings had melted in places but were still functional. With a single backhand swat, Kratos knocked the annoying pest away.
“Do you not know who I am?”
“Why should I care?”
The man looked incredulous. “Have you not heard of Icarus? Of my father, Daedalus, and the marvelous creation he made so that I might escape from Crete?” The man turned and spread his wings, flapping them hard enough to create a small turbulent gust of air intended to blind Kratos.
Kratos pushed him away as he tried to crowd close once more. He saw that the wings had been magically fused to Icarus’ shoulder blades in such a way that scar tissue surrounded the base. The wings fluttered about, once more trying to disconcert Kratos. Despite their lack of spread, the wings were powerful.
“It is my fate to make it across. None other!”
Kratos studied the stone roadway. He could make it, no matter what Icarus said. He started to cross.
“This is my test. The Sisters will grant me an audience, not you! You will die, White Warrior. You will die!”
Icarus grabbed Kratos to hold him back.
“I will reach the Sisters of Fate, and I will use your wings to do so,” Kratos said, glaring at Icarus.
“The Sisters will not allow you to bathe in their pure light!”
Icarus let out a gurg
ling sound as Kratos seized him by the throat. With startling agility, Icarus broke the grip, ducked under arms trying to encircle him, and jumped onto the Spartan’s broad back.
“It is my fate only that I cross this chasm.” With a tremendous flap of his wings, Icarus unbalanced Kratos and pulled him back onto his heels.
Kratos reached behind to swat the annoying man, but another surge of those long wings lifted both off the bridge and sent them falling, falling, falling into the bottomless chasm.
“You will fail. You have already failed!” gloated Icarus. His cries turned to pain as Kratos pulled him around so that he fell belly-up, unable to use the wings to soar.
Kratos looked down into the man’s face. The skin was drawn as taut as a drumhead over the bones. His eyes were sunken, and thin sandy hair floated about in wild disarray as they fell. Kratos drove his fist into that face and felt bones break. He began hammering Icarus in earnest when the man refused to yield.
“Wait,” gasped out Icarus. “Perhaps the Sisters have sent you to help me. I realize that now!”
Kratos drove forward, the head butt breaking Icarus’ nose and sending up a blinding spray of the man’s thin blood.
“If I give you my wings, together we will succeed. Take my wings and help me across.”
Even as he spoke, Icarus tried to wrench free. Kratos pummeled him mercilessly as they fell faster through a billowing reddish cloud that rose from the edge of creation itself.
“We can work together, White Warrior.” Icarus grunted as Kratos landed another powerful blow to his face. “Please. Have pity on an old man. Help me change my destiny and see my father one last time before I die.”
Kratos flipped Icarus over, reached down, and wrenched with all his strength. The wings tore free, leaving behind bloody, glowing stubs on Icarus’ back. He screamed as he fell faster into the red mist. Kratos pulled the feebly beating wings about and placed them on his own back. He screamed in agony as the wings magically bonded to his shoulders. Tendrils of sensation worked their way down into his back, through his chest, and all over his shoulders, no longer giving pain but a curious itching sensation. Clapping his hands together in front of him brought the wings forward. Spreading his arms opened the wings. In seconds he learned how to use the wings and employed his powerful shoulder muscles to slow his fall, then to glide away.
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