Legacy of the Watchers Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Nancy Madore

  When an immortal’s soul first emerged from its body it was at its most vulnerable. This is when Death—that dark power to bind immortal souls to Tartarus for eternity—rushes in. For the Olympians, Death came in the form of Cronus; and for the Titans, it was Hades. In those first few seconds after their souls separated from their bodies they were completely defenseless—hardly even conscious of what was happening around them. Though Poseidon didn’t know how Hades and Cronus captured souls, he knew that they only had a few moments to do it in. That’s how long it took for the souls to return to the volcano and emerge restored. From there, they would be able to venture out cautiously in order to avoid capture until they located another body to inhabit. This applied to the Nephilim as well, only their souls had to be captured before they slipped behind the barrier between their two worlds.

  When a warrior was killed in battle, it was a race between Hades and Cronus to see who would get to that soul first. Often, the two souls of Hades and Cronus would become locked in battle against each other, in which case the fallen soul would escape. This is where Poseidon’s power was most advantageous. He was able to slay many warriors at one time with the havoc he could wreak with his trident. It was impossible for Cronus to save all of the Titan souls.

  Aside from damning these souls to Tartarus, there was no other way to be rid of them. And yet, they could be wounded. There were always methods for inflicting injury. The immortals’ souls were particularly vulnerable to certain metals—especially when combined in just the right way. These metals act on the soul like a poison, weakening the mysterious fiber that it’s made of. While an ordinary weapon would slip through their souls without notice, one formed from this metallic poison might penetrate that soul, causing irreversible damage. Any breach was enough to incapacitate it. It was as if it provided an opening through which all of their strength could escape. Such a soul would no longer be able to take on human flesh. There was very little it could do, in fact, other than to simply exist, in a perpetual state of conscious nothingness, a living ruin, hardly more significant than vapor, for the rest of eternity.

  This method of inflicting permanent damage on the immortals’ souls was discovered quite by accident. It came about when two Titans, Hypnos and Thanatos, were fighting between themselves. No one—not even Hypnos and Thanatos—remembered what the fight was about, but the battle took their flesh, and continued on, even after their souls’ had returned to the volcano. On and on they raged, though it seemed pointless—for what harm could they do to each other, now that their fleshly bodies had perished? But still they fought, hurling rocks and lava and anything else they could lay their hands on at each other. Thanatos shaped fistfuls of scalding hot lava around an enormous shard of metal he’d ripped from the volcanic wall and thrust it into the soul of Hypnos, again and again.

  And then it happened. It was almost as if Hypnos had somehow returned to flesh and blood. For a moment Thanatos forgot where he was, thinking that they were still fighting in the flesh. It took a while for it to sink in—and then even longer for Thanatos’ shock to override his rage. By the time he finally halted his assault, Hypnos’s soul was damaged beyond repair. It seemed to have shriveled to half its size—and some kind of black discharge was seeping out of each and every slash of Thanatos’ makeshift weapon.

  Thanatos carried Hypnos’ soul to Mount Olympus in horror, bringing along the weapon that had struck it down. The Titans did everything they could think of to revive Hypnos, but nothing worked. They waited for Hypnos to die.

  Meanwhile, word of what happened to Hypnos got out, and the war was momentarily forgotten as the gods contemplated this new threat to their mortality.

  But Hypnos didn’t die. And yet, his fate seemed worse than death. He existed in a kind of torturous limbo, forced to exist among the living without the ability to participate. It was worse than being sent to Tartarus, because at least there, the soul could rest in an unconscious state. In this condition, every moment dragged on interminably. It was too terrible a fate to inflict upon a god. And yet, to ensure that it would never happen again, the gods imposed this fate onto Thanatos, striking him with as many blows from his weapon as he had given Hypnos. Then they threw his weapon into the volcano and forbade the creation of any such device again. This would become the only law to ever be enforced upon the gods. In every other respect, they were a law unto themselves.

  Thanatos and Hypnos were banned from the land of the gods, though they were little more than a dark mist when Poseidon stirred up the wind that took them away. But the name of Thanatos lived on. It became synonymous with dying—though it was not to be confused with death itself. It represented the process of dying, without the eventual finality of death.

  In spite of the new law, many of the gods became terrified of getting caught without a body. They made pacts with each other to look after their souls in the event of their deaths. But Poseidon was not afraid. His soul had grown strong from existing so long outside a body. He felt immune to any attack. And he had his trident—which had also been made from the volcano. No one would be foolish enough to challenge his soul. Even Cronus made it a habit never to as much as glance in Poseidon’s direction whenever they encountered one another.

  Now that the fighting was resumed, the Olympians needed Poseidon more than ever. He was the most valuable warrior in the Olympian army. For all of their groveling before Zeus, it was Poseidon’s name the gods called out when they needed help in the battle. Of what use was it to turn to Zeus?

  And yet, Poseidon grudgingly conceded that Zeus was not a bad leader. He had a way of getting them all—even Poseidon—to work together as a group. Everyone admired him. This, in and of itself, did not bother Poseidon. But where was their admiration for him? With a wave of his trident he could take out twenty or more Titans at a time, yet he could not seem to inspire the same measure of love and appreciation that Zeus got for doing so much less. Was this fair?

  It seemed as if the war between the Titans and the Olympians would never end. Poseidon was sick of it. What was the point? For ten long years they had fought, and all they had to show for it was a pile of human corpses that could touch the stars! This did not bode well with Poseidon. They’d been brought here to help mankind. They were supposed to destroy the Nephilim race, not elevate them to the status of gods.

  Poseidon’s relationship with Uranus had grown in the meantime. He visited his grandfather on the little island whenever the opportunity arose. Uranus was also concerned by the war.

  “You must use your power to stop this,” he told Poseidon.

  “I have tried many times,” Poseidon replied.

  “Have you?” asked Uranus. “I’ve seen the little squalls you’ve stirred. And yet the power I gave you could send this entire region into the bottom of the ocean.”

  Poseidon stared at his grandfather in horror. “But…that would destroy us all,” he said. “There would be no more bodies for us to live in.”

  “Would that be so bad?” asked Uranus. “You seem perfectly fine without a body.” Uranus waved one of his dull, shapeless hands as if to brush the matter aside. “Anyway, there are always more bodies,” he said. “But if you could somehow destroy all the other gods, you would reign supreme.” He paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could get Hades to help you.”

  Poseidon was speechless. He had known all along that he was meant for greatness, but to be the only god? He had not entertained the thought before.

  And yet, it was possible!

  “The Supreme Ones will not let this go on much longer,” Uranus advised him. “Only one of you is destined to rule. The rest will be sent to Tartarus.”

  Alarmed, Poseidon went to Zeus.

  “Our grandfather tells me that the Supreme Ones want this war ended,” he said.

  “We need more power,” said Zeus. “And I know where we can get it.”

  Poseidon knew that Zeus was referring to the lost children of Uranus. He shuddered at the thought of the grotesque monsters that
Uranus had dubbed Cyclops and Hekatonkheires. He also knew that the idea to free them from Tartarus came from his grandmother, Gaia, whose heart bled for the lost souls of those abominations. Poseidon agreed with his grandfather on this. Those lost children were a blight on the gods. It was a pity that Gaia hadn’t felt a similar compassion for her more precious offspring whose souls were being stolen while they were still in swaddling clothes.

  Poseidon despised Zeus for risking the Olympian race for this whim of their grandmother’s, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to rise up against his brother. Perhaps he was still grateful to Zeus for his freedom. Or maybe he, too, was enamored by Zeus’ charms. In spite of his resentment, he couldn’t help feeling a grudging admiration for Zeus. Was it brotherly affection? Poseidon supposed it must be. For the moment, he would not oppose Zeus.

  So Zeus freed the banished offspring of Uranus and Gaia from Tartarus. Their gruesome bodies had long since been destroyed, but their souls were even worse to behold.

  Though the immortal souls were unusual and even startling, there was always some aspect that revealed the better nature of the creature within. But the souls of these monsters inspired nothing but horror. The ones Uranus called Hekatonkheires were weighted down with extra hands and heads—some as many as a hundred, people said, though Poseidon could never bear to look at them long enough to actually count them. Their bodies were squat and grotesque, with long arms and necks that extended out to accommodate all the extra parts. With so many heads and hands, the Hekatonkheires were able to spot, and capture, multiple souls at the same time.

  The souls of the Cyclopes had but one head, with one large eye situated directly in the center of it. But that eye could see great distances—and even into other dimensions. It was as if the Cyclopes’ eye had been specifically designed for finding souls, and Poseidon couldn’t help wondering if they weren’t the more suitable warriors for fighting the Nephilim, and the Olympians, their more beautiful siblings, the ‘defective’ ones.

  Three of these misfits from each group were liberated from Tartarus. From the Cyclopes, Zeus chose Brontes, Steropes and Arges, and from the Hekatonkheires, he selected Briares, Cottus and Gyges. The Olympian warriors kept their distance from these volatile additions to their army—all but Zeus, that is. Like with everyone else, Zeus had a strange power over these wild and unpredictable creatures, so that they almost seemed happy to do his bidding.

  This ability that Zeus had over others would become a bitter pill for Poseidon to swallow as time went on, but for the moment, he stuck close to Zeus, finding the proximity of the Cyclopes and the Hekatonkheires unnerving. Even when taking on a human body, these fiends could not hide their true nature. The very aspect of the body would immediately change the moment their soul came in contact with it. Mostly, it was in the eyes. A crazed look would come into their expression. An ordinary man would suddenly have the strength of ten men. The soul within it was so vicious that it almost seemed as if the body suddenly had eyes everywhere—even on the back of its head—and hundreds of hands. It fought through instinct, and it could smell a fallen body from a mile away.

  With the help of the Cyclopes and the Hekatonkheires, the Olympians were finally able to capture Cronus and send him to Tartarus forever. With their only means for apprehending souls gone, the Titans were forced to surrender. To avoid Tartarus, they swore an allegiance to Zeus. They had all lost their original bodies in battle (with the exception of Rhea, who had refused to fight against her children) but at least their souls were intact.

  The Olympians had proven their status as gods, but three would always stand out above the rest. They were Zeus, Hades and Poseidon. These gods were given the first rights to the kingdom. Having usurped the previous ‘sky’ gods, Uranus and Cronus, Zeus became the undisputed god of the sky. Hades’ ability to send souls to Tartarus made him the obvious god of the underworld. And no one would ever dare deny Poseidon’s authority over the sea. Many considered him god of the earth as well. In fact, his very name came to mean ‘earth-shaker.’

  Not to be outdone, the other gods began making claims on everything that was left. Prometheus was quick to make his bid for the sons of men, alleging that he had created them out of clay. Apollo demanded the sun, that people might praise him for its warmth and light. Ares chose war, that people would think of him in times of unrest. Artemis, who was a lover of the ‘lesser’ creatures, declared her supremacy over the animal kingdom. Demeter claimed command over the harvest in the hopes that people would thank her when their crops came in. And so it went, as the immortals decided which dominion they would rule over, often fighting amongst themselves for the object of their desire.

  There were times when domains were assigned to the immortals by the people, as in the case of Zeus’ sister and wife, Hera. She had captured their leader’s heart but so, it would seem, had everyone else. Hera clung to Zeus possessively, while lashing out at the other women he pursued. She was famous for her jealous rages against the never-ending stream of women who attracted Zeus’ eye, so much so that her exploits became more legendary than her husband’s sexual prowess. Though Hera rarely succeeded in preventing the dreaded affairs, women—particularly the married ones—could relate to her plight. What’s more, they seemed to glean some small satisfaction from the fact that a goddess—young, beautiful and powerful though she might be—could not keep her husband from straying. Hera became, for them, the goddess of marriage. Through her, their egos survived the terrible blows of their own husbands’ infidelities (often involving both men and women), taking comfort in the knowledge that even a goddess couldn’t keep it from happening. And in truth, theirs was a promiscuous nation. The presence of the tumultuous, ever-warring gods—some of whom roved about in their spirit forms—kept them in a constant state of wonder. They had come to expect the unexpected. Anything might happen at any time. They could lose everything in a sudden earthquake, or one of the gods could decide to take possession of their body. Their inability to protect themselves, along with the futility of attempting to build anything that could be snatched away without a moment’s notice, had taken its toll. People lived for the moment. It was all they had. They were at the mercy of the gods.

  Like Hera, many of the female Olympians became favorites with the sons and daughters of men. They were easier to relate to than the male gods, who seemed to be victims of their own egos. The goddesses were more compassionate. Athena was particularly loved. She was no wiser—or more talented—than the other gods, but she could be empathetic, and her little acts of kindness toward the sons and daughters of men kept them fighting amongst themselves over which domain should be given this goddess to rule. Many dominions were attributed to her, such as wisdom, justice, courage and inspiration, just to name a few.

  Aphrodite was as popular as Athena, but she was deemed the goddess of love, beauty and pleasure. Unlike Hera, Aphrodite did not aspire to keep the fires burning in one lover. She took love and pleasure where she could find it. She chose the most exquisite bodies to inhabit, and always kept them groomed and ready for erotic encounters. Though no human had ever seen her in her spirit form, it was rumored that her soul was too beautiful for human eyes.

  All of this mattered little to Poseidon, who remained in his spirit form even after the war, waving his trident about in an attempt to remind the sons of men who the real god was. But it was a strange world without the war. Poseidon was confused about what was expected of him now that there was no enemy to destroy. He was meant to be worshipped—this much he knew. And being the most powerful god in the kingdom seemed to ensure this worship would be forthcoming. But it was as if the mortals wanted something more. Here was Poseidon, able to obliterate them with a single wave of his trident and they were choosing other, lesser gods over him!

  What did they want in a god?

  Poseidon would spend the rest of his life wondering what it was.

  Chapter 34

  Poseidon was miserable. He could feel his world spinning out of control, b
ut he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. The Nephilim were to blame. They had spread through the land like a poison and, now that that fool, Zeus, had made them into ‘gods,’ they were uncontrollable. They roamed about as if the world belonged to them. The days of hiding in the shadows were over. Uranus’ mission to trap them in Tartarus was all but forgotten—by everyone but Poseidon.

  But in spite of Zeus’ interference, the Nephilim were not really gods and they never would be. They could not control the mortals. They could hardly control themselves. They were impetuous and unpredictable, often acting without any thought for the consequences. And they were weak. It was almost as if they were afraid of the mortals.

  As for the mortals, Poseidon was growing more contemptuous of them every day—even though he knew it wasn’t their fault. They needed leadership and, lacking that, they had become spoiled and selfish. The most irritating thing about it was that the mortals wanted a god to worship. They needed it, to preserve their peace of mind. It gave their lives meaning. Their willingness to believe that a higher power was directing every occurrence of their lives made them easy to rule. A true god could get more from the mortals than mere prayers and burnt offerings. A true god could get a legion of worshippers to carry out their will.

  But there were too many gods. That was the primary problem. It was impossible for the mortals to worship them all. The fatal error was in allowing the mortals to choose their gods for themselves. This error was compounded when the gods actually began competing for the honor. By giving the mortals a choice in the matter, the gods had forfeited their power.

  The Funeral Games had gotten their start during the war against the Titans. Their purpose was to honor—and assist—the ‘dead.’ In those earlier games, it was the mortals who competed for the approval of the gods. There were many prestigious prizes to be won, but none was so coveted as first prize, which was to become one of the gods. It was the highest status a mortal could achieve, and for the warrior gods, it was a way in which to replenish the bodies they had lost in the war. Through the games, the gods had access to the strongest, most capable bodies the mortals could produce. The opportunity to play in the Funeral Games was coveted by men and women alike. It was so sought after, in fact, that the contestants were actually willing to pay for the privilege. The funds collected in the games were used to provide consolation prizes for the worthy opponents who did not win first place.