God of War

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  “You’ve studied this trap. Tell me of it.” Kratos looked down into the fire and at strange spiral tubes that disappeared into the pit walls. They performed some service, but what he could not tell—and lacking that knowledge could be deadly.

  “Since I’ve been here so long, I’ve had time to study and think. The heat boils water, and the Architect uses the steam to power great engines, like those Hero of Alexandria built.”

  “An aeolipile? What does it power?” Kratos asked.

  “The Antikythera that controls the entire Temple of Pandora.”

  “I have heard of the steam device but not this Antikythera. If the fires died, would it stop functioning?”

  “There must be many fire pits like this,” the parbroiled remnant of a human being said. Kratos knew he lied. “Ceasing steam generation here would mean nothing once you reached the guts of the temple.”

  “Where do I go in?”

  “There, if you’re brave enough!” The man pointed to a huge locked door embossed with the sigil of Zeus. Kratos thought the man told the truth, but there had to be more. “Now that I’ve aided you, free me from this cage.”

  After only brief consideration, Kratos knew what had to be done. He began swinging the cage in ever broader arcs so he could reach the edge of the pit.

  “Thank the gods! I will be forever grateful to you.”

  “Be content knowing your sacrifice serves the gods’ purpose,” Kratos said. His toes found purchase at the side of the pit, and he was again on firm footing, next to a lever controlling the position of the cage. He pushed the long wooden arm on the device around so the cage dangled over the middle of the fiery pit once more.

  “No, you can’t do this. All I want’s to live.”

  “The gods require a living sacrifice,” Kratos said. From what he could discern, only this tribute to the gods would open the way to the next portion of the temple for him.

  “Please, no! Please!”

  Kratos pulled the lever. Below, burners ignited and sent up waves of rippling heat. The man screamed as Kratos lowered the cage into the consuming fire.

  “Accept my sacrifice, Lord Zeus,” Kratos intoned, “and watch over me as I go on.”

  He ignored the screams of agony from the pit and went to the doorway leading away from this abattoir. Pandora’s Box was nearly in his grasp.

  He tasted Ares’s blood already.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “HE SACRIFICED to win your favor, my lord father,” Athena said. “Will you answer his prayer?”

  “Kratos is impudent.” Zeus ran his fingers through his beard of clouds and turned from Athena to stare into the scrying pool. “He does not pay proper obeisance to me.”

  Athena noted that this was not actually an answer. “Impudent he may be,” Athena said carefully, “but his impudence pleases you. I can tell.”

  “Your impudence, Daughter, is not pleasing,” Zeus said gruffly.

  Athena saw the way he stared into the pool. She tried not to cry out in joy. Kratos had surpassed her expectations, reaching this point in Pandora’s temple far sooner than she had anticipated. So much danger lay ahead, but he fought well. Better still, he was taming his bloodlust and thinking now. The Architect had designed his traps to swallow the bold and thoughtless, but Kratos won despite them, sometimes with great difficulty, and still he pressed on toward Pandora’s Box.

  “I have considered this. The sacrifice is pleasing, after Ares has killed so many of my worshippers.” Zeus scowled as he pondered this. “Kratos is showing his true mettle.”

  “So the caged man was an adherent of Ares?”

  Zeus said nothing, but Athena read her father well. Ares had sent a mortal into the temple to claim Pandora’s Box. Her brother’s ambitions were far greater than she had ever considered. He wanted to destroy Athens, yes, but this was added proof of how his arrogance soared to the very edge of Olympus itself. The box gave great power to a god—but only Athena’s oracle had seen that it also contained the way to killing a god. Ares must not learn this secret until it would be too late for him to stop Kratos. Athena worried that, for all his speed and cunning, Kratos might be moving too slowly through the temple.

  “Your mortal fights well. Look. See that?” Zeus beckoned her to his side. Together they watched as Kratos picked his way through a succession of fiendishly inventive death traps. “He does have talent,” Zeus mused. “It’s a pity about the madness, isn’t it? Those awful visions—it’s astonishing he’s borne them for so long.”

  “He hopes for release, Father. We talked about this before, do you recall? You yourself have decreed that if he succeeds, his sins will be forgiven. And forgiveness will banish the nightmares, will it not?”

  Zeus waved a hand vaguely, now caught up in watching Kratos slice through another company of undead, Gorgons, and Minotaurs, first with the huge Hades-forged blades and then with the sword given him by Artemis.

  “This is the most diversion I’ve had in eons.”

  “Father, Kratos’s nightmares. Will they—”

  “Look, look there, Daughter.” Zeus pointed into the scrying pool again, and Athena knew she would get no answer for Kratos.

  For her Kratos, as she now thought of him. She became as engrossed in the unfolding battle as was her father, and Athena fell silent.

  TWENTY-TWO

  KRATOS STEPPED THROUGH A DOORWAY that slammed shut behind him. He had grown used to such imprisoning behavior in the Temple of Pandora. The Architect was cunning in his design, but now Kratos felt rising anger. Cheated! He had come full circle and was again in the ring corridor circling the central core. All his effort had been for naught. Raging, he slammed his fist hard against the inner wall, then stepped back as a panel slid away, allowing him entry into another annular corridor. But this one showed a more extreme curve, telling him he was now nearer the center. His anger faded as Kratos realized he was closer to completing his quest. There was no other explanation. He stepped through the door, which closed immediately behind him.

  Other than the more extreme curvature, this corridor might have been the twin to the outer ring. He began hunting for different ways inward to locate Pandora’s Box. He was close. He felt it. Then he felt something more: The floor vibrated.

  Turning, he saw that a huge roller stretching from one side of the corridor to the other had begun to spin, sluggishly at first and then with increasing speed. He quickly judged that the weight—the stark power—of the roller exceeded his ability to stop it.

  Kratos ran in the direction away from the roller, following the curving corridor. Ladders on either wall beckoned, but a quick glance at them convinced him they were traps. Their rungs would allow a man to climb only so high before they gave way and dropped him to the floor in front of the roller to be crushed.

  He realized the ring around which he ran had to provide an escape. The Architect’s stone-graven promise outside the temple would not be a lie—why bother? Kratos ran past stairs cut into the wall, leading upward. He jumped onto the bottom step as the roller rushed by, scraping skin from his arm. He looked up the steps but did not ascend. Rather, he waited, counting slowly. It was a full minute before the roller ground past again.

  Jumping back into the corridor and following the roller gave him no way out. If he flagged for even a step, the roller would continue on its inexorable path and eventually lap him to crush him from behind. Kratos ran up the stone steps to the top of the ring wall. In the center was a large pool of water, but his attention focused on a different course of escape. On the far side of the corridor stretched a walkway disappearing into the heart of the temple.

  Reaching it would be difficult, because he judged that the ladder from the corridor floor up to the walkway was as treacherous a trap as the other wooden ladders. The roller whirred past. A smile curled his lips. Kratos braced himself, waited for the roller to come by again, and jumped atop it.

  The spinning stone beneath his sandals forced him to adjust his gait to match its speed a
s it rolled about the annular corridor. As it traversed the full circumference of the ring, Kratos edged to the far side of the roller, and when the walkway came even he jumped. His powerful legs propelled him forward, and still he missed. Frantically reaching out, he caught the edge of the ladder—he had been correct in his earlier judgment. A trap. The ladder collapsed under his weight.

  Reaching back, he caught at the hilt of a blade of Chaos and cast it outward so that its curved tip embedded in solid stone. He fell a few feet, dangling from the chain fused to his wrist. Kicking, he got his feet against the wall, leaned back, and began to walk up it. Then he saw the roller returning, faster now than before. With a mighty jerk, Kratos pulled himself up to the walkway just as the roller flashed past. He had escaped being crushed by a fraction of a second.

  He ran along the walkway, taking the turn that went into a tunnel and up a long flight of steps. A puff of air warned Kratos he was going outside the temple. He slowed, then stopped, wondering if he had somehow missed the proper way through the temple, away from the concentric rings behind him. Then all chance of retreat vanished. From higher on the steps came an ear-splitting roar. Outlined against pale light stood a cursed legionnaire, its sword whistling through the air. To run from it was anathema to Kratos.

  He charged up the steps, the Blades of Chaos weaving a terrible curtain of death in front of him. His blades crashed into the long sword carried by the undead legionnaire and rebounded. Kratos dodged to the side to prevent a lowered shoulder spike from puncturing his chest as the legionnaire turned.

  It vented hideous screams as it renewed its attack. Kratos fought furiously, slowly pushing the creature into the daylight. A broad open area interrupted only by a huge box towering high over his head lay behind the cursed warrior. Kratos’s heart almost skipped a beat. Could this be Pandora’s Box? Redoubling his efforts, he forced the creature back, but the legionnaire was a doughty opponent, clever and quick and deadly—as Kratos found out when the legionnaire cut at his leg, caught a greave, and knocked him to the ground.

  The blow embedded the jagged sword edge in the bronze greave, but it also gave Kratos the chance to kick, twist, and stomp down hard against the blade. He dislodged it from a fierce grip. Sword still stuck in his greave, Kratos spun about and got to his feet in time to use his blades against a furious onslaught of bony fists and armored elbows. The spike at either elbow could have disemboweled him, but a quick turn allowed it to slash past, leaving only a bloody gouge in his belly.

  The legionnaire tried to unbalance Kratos to regain the sword still caught in his leg armor but never got the chance. Kratos abandoned his sword hilts in favor of using his fists to pummel the creature, driving it to its knees. This was all the opening he needed. Avoiding the shoulder spike, Kratos got behind the cursed legionnaire and gripped its chin and helmeted head. A powerful heave broke the undead’s neck.

  Kratos reached down and pried loose the creature’s blade from where it had caught in his greave. He tossed it aside, but the heavy body armor looked better than the cobbled-together set he had worn and discarded in Athens. Kratos scraped away dried blood and scabs from his bare flesh, lingering only on the red tattoo that showed his rank as a Spartan leader. Darkness threatened him again. Kratos refused to permit the memories to flood back, though he had little control—only willpower now kept him from deep depression and frightening nightmares. He donned the fallen undead’s sturdy bronze-plate armor and found that it came closer to fitting his powerful body than most that had not been specifically forged for him. Only then did he turn to examine the huge box, towering twice his height.

  “By the gods, can it be?” Kratos placed his hand against the unadorned side, thinking such a potent artifact would radiate power. He felt nothing. Jumping, he caught the upper edge and pulled himself to the top. A simple hasp fell open and he looked into an empty box. Before he could curse the gods for their spitefulness in giving him hope and then dashing it, a flaming arrow bounced off his newly acquired bronze armor, staggering him. He fought to keep his balance, then saw ample reason to continue his fall. He dropped behind the box an instant before a dozen more flaming arrows filled the space where he had stood.

  Tiny explosions kicked up rock wherever an arrow impacted the ground. Kratos looked at the dent in his new armor and saw that the arrow had detonated and almost penetrated.

  The cursed legionnaire had been supported by a squad of cursed archers.

  Kratos chanced a quick look around the side of the huge box and saw six archers on a ledge higher along the pathway leading around the mountain.

  “Forward,” he muttered. “By Zeus himself, never retreat!” Kratos got behind the box, dug his toes into the ground, and pushed with all his strength. The box gritted along a few inches, caught, then yielded to his constant pressure. It began to slide faster. He felt the impact of arrow after arrow against the far side of the box. Every hit caused a small explosion. To be open to this assault would have spelled his death for certain.

  Kratos pushed faster, getting the box close to the ledge where the undead archers fired down on him. When he crashed into the bottom of the ledge, he found he had only a small space behind the box to safely stand. But standing was not what the Ghost of Sparta did. He drew the Blades of Chaos and cast out the one in his right hand, swinging it at the end of the length of chain binding it to his wrist.

  The blade did not injure an archer but did cause it to turn slightly and release its arrow in front of the others. This forced them to fire off-target. All of them having to nock new arrows simultaneously gave Kratos an instant to attack. He did. Using his blades as climbing hooks, he scaled the side of the box and then jumped to the top of the ledge, where he played out the chains on his swords and spun in a furious circle. The vicious blades cut through unwary legs and arms. He drew back the blades and began a more directed attack.

  Two of the cursed archers fell. A third. The remaining archers fired their deadly arrows at him from mere feet away. The first arrow crashed into his armor and detonated, blowing him off his feet. He landed hard and skidded away. Another archer fired and missed. From his position, Kratos could not cast his Blades of Chaos or hope to evade the arrows much longer.

  He reached behind him and drew out Medusa’s head. Radiance blasted from the Gorgon’s eyes, transfixing the remaining archers and turning them momentarily to rigid stone. Kratos knew he had only seconds. He leaped to his feet, played out the chains, and spun in a furious circle. He felt his blades strike repeatedly as he whirled about; then he dropped to one knee, drew back the swords, and took in the battlefield in a single experienced glance. He had seen such carnage before, often—perhaps too often.

  His enemies were scattered about, arms here and legs there. A severed head lay a few yards distant. Two of the cursed archers’ bows had been cut into firewood. Only Kratos had survived.

  The Ghost of Sparta ran up the road carved with cruel intent from the side of the mountain atop Cronos’s back. The rocky path quickly turned again into a tunnel leading into the mountainside, and Kratos found his way inside blocked by a Minotaur warrior. The creature lifted the war hammer fastened where its left hand should have been and banged menacingly on the ground. The reverberations passed through the rock and up Kratos’s legs, giving him a weak feeling in the knees.

  “You will die if you try to stop me.” Kratos spoke not to deter the Minotaur warrior—nothing short of death would do that. Rather, he listened to the echoes of his voice, gauging the size of the room behind the massive creature threatening to pound his head to pulp if he foolishly attempted to advance.

  He widened his stance and waited for the inevitable. It came fast as the Minotaur warrior rushed him. Kratos ducked past, but the Minotaur was quicker than he had anticipated and spun behind him. With a powerful leap the creature went into the air, then aimed its hammer directly for his head as it plummeted.

  Kratos somersaulted forward, the heavy sledgehammer barely missing his skull. He slashed as he w
ent past but inflicted only minor wounds on the creature. He turned and faced it; as before, the Minotaur warrior proved more aggressive than the usual—and the ordinary man–bulls were tenacious fighters and strangers to fear in battle. Avoiding the hammer blow, Kratos hacked at any tiny target the Minotaur presented him. A wrist. The back of a knee. The man–bull’s ribs. One blow from Kratos’s blade careened off one of the Minotaur’s ebony-black horns and caused a quick head shake to throw off the effect of impact. No matter how Kratos fought, he was unable to land a death-giving blow.

  Back and forth they shuffled, dodged, and leaped. Bit by bit he weakened the bull. He ducked another heavy hammer blow, thinking to slip past the creature’s guard and drive a blade into its gut. Instead, Kratos caught a horn in his upper arm. Blood spurted and his right hand went numb. The Blades of Chaos slid from his grip, leaving him helpless.

  Thinking this was its chance to end the fight, the Minotaur charged, head lowered. The man–bull learned that Kratos might not wield the swords forged in Hades, but he was not unarmed. Kratos avoided the assault, stepped inside, and wrapped his left arm around the bull’s neck. The Minotaur reared, tossed its head, and tried to throw him to the side. Grimly, Kratos held on, his hand finding a wicked horn. He threw his right arm over the Minotaur’s sloping shoulder, got leverage, and jerked powerfully. His first effort only enraged the creature.

  Far from being injured, it even tried to crush him with its hammer. The effort only made the Minotaur damage itself as it tried to strike him. Kratos used the war-hammer blow against the Minotaur’s own shoulder to get a better grip. By now both of his hands were functional. With his right arm around the heavily muscled bull throat, he grabbed a horn again and arched his back in extreme effort.

  “By the gods, die, die, die!” Kratos went spinning through the air and crashed into a far wall. He came to his feet, dazed but ready to continue the fight. There was no need. He had broken the man–bull’s neck with his bare hands. The immense creature lay on the floor, bleating piteously and kicking out its last moments before finally succumbing to death.