by James Hunter
I wasn’t sure, but I’d find out soon enough.
After twenty minutes of grueling work, the fires burned fierce and hot. I was sweating like an NBA All-Star in the championships, so I threw off my blood-stiff shirt and worked in my flight suit and combat boots. And I left the helmet on, of course.
Holding the glowing hammer, I checked the forge’s temperature. The readout was climbing from a thousand degrees Fahrenheit to fifteen hundred to nineteen hundred to two thousand degrees. Perfect.
A long-handled shovel-like instrument hung on the wall. I set the hammer down and retrieved what was known as a peel. I’d worked at a pizza place, and my fat manager had insisted I call it a pizza peel rather than a pizza shovel. Just a little bit of knowledge I’d gained before becoming the god of war. Little had Ed Fartsworth known that he’d be helping me create a person back when I worked at Little Peppe’s Pizzeria. I slid the flat-faced peel underneath the figurine and then gently laid her on a stone slab in the middle of the fire.
Immediately, on my Amazon Creation menu, I saw a variety of options. I could alter her physical attributes—make her taller, smaller, thinner, thicker, change her hair and skin color. It was kind of like the character generation menus from most of the mainstream MMOs I’d played. Located beneath the physical features menu was a character sheet, similar to mine. I pulled it up and looked it over. As with her physical attributes, it appeared I could tweak her stats if I wanted to.
I frowned, then closed out of the creation menu without changing a thing. A small part of me wanted to change the settings—especially in the physical attributes department—but I finally decided against it. These were going to be my generals, so it seemed like a good idea to just stick with the presets Ares had used. I was pretty new to this whole god of war thing, so I was just going to trust that Ares knew what in the hell he’d been doing when he made these three.
Mentally, I hit the “create” button, and immediately the animal parts burned up into thick gray smoke, which swirled and danced around the clay rather than escaping up the chimney. The rancid animal fat dribbled away to the side, and I watched as the remaining precious metals coalesced into a heart shape forged from copper, bronze, and platinum.
The clay figure hardened, and she was ready.
I used the peel to remove the Asteria statue from the fire, then gently placed her on the pitted surface of the anvil. This next part was iffy, but the blueprint was clear on what I needed to do. Three hammer strokes to create Asteria.
I figured if I hit that clay figure with the hammer, it would shatter, but what did I know? I wasn’t a god … not yet.
How cool was it that I was creating a character, both in the real world and in my game menu? The amalgamation of video game and real life was so wickedly awesome!
I planted my feet next to the anvil, squared my shoulders, and lifted the hammer high, feeling a rush of power from the godstone in my chest. I took a deep breath, exhaled through my nose, then slammed the blunt hammer face down onto the clay figure. The hammer landed with an explosion of white-hot sparks, and the figurine grew a foot bigger as the clay turned blue. Hair sprouted from the head of the little doll, and lifeless features appeared on its face. The precious-metal heart folded into what was part skin, part clay.
My hammer menu flashed. Two strokes left. But my Essence Points had dropped from ten to nine, and I felt my strength weaken. Damn, but I hoped I had enough Essence Points to finish my generals before hunger, exhaustion, and lack of mojo put me on my ass.
I hefted the hammer again and slammed it once more into the foot-long doll. Another round of sparks blasted out, and this time the figurine tripled in size while my Essence Points dropped again—this time from nine to eight. Asteria’s facial features were more distinct now. Her lips and eyes were clear, and her fingers and toes had appeared as if by magic. Her head and legs hung off the anvil, but her chest remained on the iron slab.
Those eyes, partially formed, opened, and her lips parted as she struggled for air.
I lifted the hammer one more time, feeling a little unsure about this whole process. The woman on the slab wasn’t quite alive—not yet—but she looked human enough to make me uncomfortable with the idea of smashing her in the chest with a magic sledgehammer.
But I needed to trust the process. With the hammer streaming blinding light, again, I slammed it down on the heart buried inside the blue-skinned woman. She grew again, this time to about five and a half feet tall, suddenly too big to stay on the anvil. She rolled off, but I caught her, dropping the hammer, which clattered to the floor, spilling pools of light across the ground.
Suddenly, I was holding a fully grown naked woman in my arms, blue-skinned and heart-achingly pretty with her short bob of dark hair and her golden eyes, which caught the flickering firelight. She reached a slim hand to touch my helmet.
“Ares, what happened?” she whispered, voice silky and sultry. “Am I alive? I had a dream we perished in the temple and that I would never see you again. And yet here I am, alive and breathing. But this now feels like a dream. Remembering anything is”—she reached up and rubbed at her temple, eyes hazy—“very difficult,” she finally finished. “You, however, I know you. I can feel your strength.”
“Uh, might not be my strength you feel,” I replied shyly. I eased the helmet back so she could see my face. “I’m Jacob. Ares didn’t make it.”
Tears filled Asteria’s eyes. “Ares is dead?”
I nodded.
She flung her arms around me and sobbed. Tears streamed down her blue cheeks from her newly created eyes. Awkwardly, I felt her naked skin on mine.
I pushed the thought away as a wave of weariness poured over me like a flash flood. I’d started with ten Essence Points and was down to seven. If Myrina and Phoebe each required three hammer strokes apiece, I’d wind up with a single point remaining. That was cutting it close.
First things first, though. I had a weeping Amazon in my arms. “It’s okay, Asteria. I’m taking his place. I can do this. In a lot of ways, I’ve been preparing for this moment all of my life. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you. I promise.”
She relaxed in my arms, fast asleep. I felt like I’d soothed a newborn baby back to sleep.
In a lot of ways, I had.
I found a pile of straw—near the forge so she wouldn’t get cold, but out of the way enough so she could rest. A few ragged cloaks hung from the wall, and I took one and draped it over her so she wouldn’t be embarrassed when she woke up.
Back at the forge, hammer in my hand, helmet on my head, I figured I’d make Myrina next. I was feeling more confident. Asteria had turned out all right—ten fingers, ten toes, and a broken heart—though she’d mentioned having trouble remembering her past life with Ares. Not sure how that would play out in the long run, but for now, at least, everything was okay.
Okay. On to Myrina. The night deepened, as did my hunger and my exhaustion. Now wasn’t the time to call it quits, though.
Browsing the blueprints, I saw what I needed for Myrina, a Battle Warden and my primary general. More clay from the bucket, plus gold, silver, platinum, iron dust, and a shard of bronze. It seemed Myrina was all heavy metal. Rock on. Working quickly, sweating buckets in the heat, I sculpted Myrina’s figurine, got her in the fire, and then watched as the metals melted and ran across the hardening clay to form her heart. The hammer menu told me when she was done and ready to be forged.
Again, I had options for her build and class, but I knew the defaults would be the best bet. Still, I couldn’t resist at least glancing at her character sheet:
I smiled—I had more than enough gaming experience to know a melee tank when I saw one, and Myrina with her high Strength, Health, and Attack Damage? Yeah, she was a tank all the way.
Time to get busy. The first hammer strike transformed her from a clay doll into something partially living. The second stroke surprised me. Three feet long, she burst out into a baby’s squeal, part of her body clay and the
other part flesh. Immediately I realized her skin wasn’t going to be blue like Asteria’s, but an olive color, like modern-day Greeks’. I raised the hammer for the third stroke, but once again hesitated. That baby’s cry, it sounded like my niece. Could I really lay that hammer down on a crying baby?
Yes, and I couldn’t miss. I had the idea that if my hammer blows weren’t exact, I’d have to do them again and spend an extra Divine Essence Point. I had none to spare.
I focused on the glowing bit of cooling metal embedded in her chest, right where her heart was, and swung the hammer down to finish the task. Myrina doubled in size, significantly taller than Asteria—topping out at about six feet—her limbs long and lean and strong. I tried to catch her as she tumbled, but her weight surprised me. Catching her was like trying to catch a professional linebacker. Seriously, she must’ve weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds, easy.
The hammer fell to the floor with a clank, and we joined it.
The next instant, however, Myrina leapt to her feet, fists up, brow furrowed, eyes shining in fury. “Who are you!” she barked, her voice feminine but harsh, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Where is Ares?” she said, not a question but a demand.
I wasn’t ready for this. Tears, maybe, especially after her baby cries, but this fierce naked woman in front of me was ready to scrap.
“He’s dead,” I said, scrambling to my feet. Stupid me, I let my guard down.
And she clocked me in the jaw for my troubles. The right cross felt like a baseball bat to the teeth, and the force of her attack sent me spinning to the wall. I shook my head, banishing the stars dancing across my vision as I wheeled around.
She was crouched, five feet away, and she had my K-Bar up and ready. Well, this was not how I’d expected things to play out. I raised my hands, showing her I meant no harm—apparently, she took it as a sign of aggression. In a blink she closed the distance between us, batting Ares’ helmet from my head, then latching onto my hair. Her other hand shot to my throat, pressing the razor-sharp blade against my skin.
“Ares is dead, and you killed him. Now, I am going to kill you!”
NINE
Blackout
The fire in the forge cracked and popped. The smell of coal smoke floated around the room. Sweat dripped off my nose. “Wait, Myrina, let me explain!”
The newly born Amazonian general wasn’t about to chat with me. “There is nothing to discuss, intruder. That is the helmet of Ares, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“And that is the Hammer of Hephaestus. The same hammer Ares and Phoebe used to forge our army, is it not?” she asked, this time her words as sharp as the steel against my neck.
“Yeah, but—” The edge of the knife bit into my skin, and blood seeped down my neck.
“Are you a minion of Hades? Why did you create me? Speak, worm, before I cut your throat.”
“Uh, well, Myrina, I’ve been trying to get a word in edgewise, but you’ve made it a bit difficult. I didn’t kill Ares. He gave me his godstone, it’s in my chest, and I’m slowly gaining the power to stop Hades and Praxidike. If you kill me before I make Phoebe, just you and Asteria will have to protect the last sigil and figure out a way to seal the rift for good.”
Her eyes widened in a combination of surprise and dismay. “We failed, then?” she mumbled, more for her than for me. “My recall, it is muddy like a mountain stream in springtime, rushing and unclear. In the temple, the final battle, Hades used his magic and his spiked bone club to smash our forces. We fell back … slain.” She faltered. “Oh, by the thunder of Zeus …” She stumbled back, the cold steel easing away from my skin.
Wheeling, I caught her before she fainted, and my knife clattered to the floor.
Despite the smell of the smoke and coals, I noticed Myrina’s strong scent—equal parts fresh rainwater, rustling springtime grass, and sweat. She was losing consciousness, still weak after her birth—I could totally sympathize. After all, I was a newly born godling, with only four Essence Points left and an empty belly. Though she was heavy with muscle, now that she was on her feet, I managed to keep her upright, though barely.
“So, you would take on the war god’s mantle,” she gasped. “And of course, like him, you would forge us without clothes. I’m sure your appetites are equally passionate and unquenchable.”
Before I could reply and defend myself against her cutting accusations, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she was out like a light. I sighed and tried to ease her to the floor. Then, because she was heavy and unwieldy, I sort of accidentally dropped her like a load of bricks. For a moment, I just stood there staring at her, breathing hard. Picking her up, yeah, not happening. So instead, I got a cloak under her and dragged her through the forge and onto the straw next to Asteria. And try as I might, I couldn’t stop looking at her exposed skin—gorgeous didn’t even begin to cover it.
Ares definitely made these women to be appealing to the eye.
But her words made me feel just a tad bit uneasy. She’d mentioned something about clothing. Maybe that was worth checking into.
Back at the forge—the hammer in my hand once more—I checked, and sure enough, there in the character creation menu was a wide array of outfits and armor. I’d missed that because there were just so many damn features, and the tutorial was less than stellar. Great. Myrina thought I was a pervy monkey just like Ares had been. Nope, not this guy. I mean I like women—I really like women—but I wasn’t a ladies’ man by any stretch of the imagination. And this whole situation was way too weird for me.
So for Phoebe, I’d create her with clothes. It would save us all some embarrassment, though neither Asteria nor Myrina had been modest.
For my last general, I needed more clay, of course, plus a generous heap of platinum and iron dust. Oddly, I also needed to create a little system of clockwork gears to serve as her heart. After rummaging through a bunch of drawers, I found a box of pins and bronze-toothed gears. With a little bit of elbow grease and tinkering, I managed to whip up a steampunk cosplay gadget for her. It wasn’t functional, but it seemed to check the box just the same. As I finished with the contraption, my belly rumbled and gurgled while my throat felt like someone had poured sand down it.
I checked my watch. One in the morning.
I needed a little break.
Outside, the air was still warm from the jungle, but after the terrible heat of the forge it felt absolutely amazing. At the fountain, I drank water, then thought about what I’d accomplished so far in my short tenure as god of war. I’d created two people. Two real live people. One had cried in my arms. The other had about killed me. I couldn’t help but grin. The jungle perfume smelled good, life felt good, and while we had hordes of monsters to fight, I’d beaten the odds in getting as far as I had. I checked the skies for harpies or my Fury friend with her whip, but only stars shined down.
Would the United States military be looking for me, I wondered idly. Almost certainly, though it would probably be a fruitless search. I was on Earth, true, but Lycastia was well protected and guarded, most likely by divine magic.
That thought wasn’t as troubling as it should’ve been. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t want to be found. Back in the real world, I was a Marine fighter pilot, which was no small thing, but I was also an outcast in my battalion. The gamer dork. The guy who got stuck scrubbing toilets and pulling endless weekend watches because the higher-ups didn’t like me. Here, though, I was more. While I wasn’t sure I could pull off the god of war stuff, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play a real-life video game.
And I remembered how Ares had talked about his generals. How much he had loved them. A part of me also wanted to get to know them.
And dude, Jacob Merely of Rockford, Illinois, saving the motherfucking world? Hell yes!
I took one last slurp of water, then wandered back to the forge, confidence flowing through me.
The last step in making the Phoebe doll—who would become my master crafter�
��was to douse her with olive oil and wine. That was going to be a problem. Shifting around bottles, I finally found some olive oil. Though it was black sludge in a wide-shaped bottle, it would have to work. The wine was even more problematic. The leather wineskin I found was cracked, and the contents were little more than dust. Would wine dust work? That seemed a helluva lot iffier. Unfortunately, I wasn’t spoiled for options, so it would just have to do.
As the Marines are fond of saying, improvise, adapt, and overcome.
With a grimace, I shook the dust onto the doll, now gleaming with old olive oil. The Phoebe figurine turned a reddish color like freshly turned mud. I was so glad I was making Phoebe last since she seemed the most complicated.
Using the peel, I slid the statuette into the fire. The smell of burning alcohol and scorched olive oil hit my senses like a pillow to the face. I wrinkled my nose at the stink and watched apprehensively as the gears spun on the chest of the doll, whirled around by the hot air of the flames eating away at the coal. The platinum and iron dust melted to form her heart as the gears kept rotating. Why the tiny cogs didn’t melt, I had no idea, since bronze has a melting point below both iron and platinum.
Magic, I suppose.
I checked my hammer menu. Once Phoebe was ready, I quickly scanned her character sheet:
From the look of things, Phoebe was a support player, not meant for the front lines of battle. No, she was an engineer, working behind the scenes. I quickly accepted the defaults. This time, though, I included a toga for her.
I maneuvered the peel under the doll, then laid the figurine on the anvil. With that done, I raised the hammer and slammed it down with flawless precision, the ring of metal on metal filling the air. First swing, and a foot-long doll appeared. When I hit the gears on her chest, they stopped spinning for a minute, but the instant I lifted the hammer, they whirred up again. On the second blow, she grew to three feet long, and her eyes opened wide, brimming with infinite interest in what I was doing.
