The Horsekeeper’s Key.
He turned from Theseus and went to the door, a solid bronze plate with intricate bas-relief horses cavorting across it. Kratos ignored the artistry as he ran his hand over the cool, sharp-edged metal until he found the keyhole. A quick move inserted the key. A savage twist opened the lock, allowing the door to swing open a handbreadth. Before Kratos could step through, Theseus groaned and slid forward, leaving a bloody trail, fingers groping. One weak hand grabbed Kratos’ ankle. Rather than kick him away, Kratos jerked hard and slid Theseus forward.
Kratos opened the door, then twisted free as he slammed it hard against Theseus’ head. Blood spattered. Kratos slammed it even harder. Over and over until Theseus was almost decapitated, his head in gory ruin.
He slammed the door on Theseus’ head one final time before stepping into the room beyond the door.
“SHE LIES!” Hermes stamped his foot and crossed his arms over his chest. His almost beautiful face carried worry lines and the cloud of permanent anger. “I want her dead!”
“Zeus still adheres to his edict. No god may kill another,” Athena told the deposed Messenger of the Gods. The earthly sylvan glade was at odds with the fury vented by Hermes, and she had to admit she shared it. Watching Iris insinuate herself into Zeus’ every decision had been painful to watch, but now the Goddess of the Rainbow had attained far too much power. Zeus refused to rule without first consulting her.
“All Olympus is in an uproar over this,” Hermes said. “They want me back but are too fearful to petition Zeus.”
“With Iris at his right hand, such a petition, even by all the gods, would fall on deaf ears,” Athena said. “She claims her messages are delivered more quickly and accurately than yours and without bias.”
“Without bias? That’s all she does. I heard one she delivered to Hades. It was packed with innuendo and caused Hades to consider declaring war on Helios. She sows discontent like dragon’s teeth!”
Athena could not argue but saw no way to either depose Iris or cure the malady afflicting the Olympian gods. Fights were common. The gods were increasingly fearful, especially of being spied upon and betrayed through such ill-gotten knowledge. Even Aphrodite had taken a vow of chastity, though Athena was doubtful it would be kept long.
Since Kratos had been turned back into a mortal, conditions among the gods had worsened. Or had the cancer started growing when he killed Ares? Or even before? Athena had been used by Zeus to eliminate Ares. She saw that clearly enough now and worried her father would try to use her again, but to what end? The damage had been done, and now the gods were openly suspicious of one another.
Athena laughed harshly. They had never been friendly, for all the familial relations, but the outright hostility was new and growing like a poisonous weed.
“Help me, Athena. You have always liked me, I know.” Hermes tried a lewd wink but did not succeed. “Help me, and I will finally let you have your way with me as you have always desired.”
“If I did desire an end to my chastity, Hermes, it certainly would not be with you.” Her ire rose at such a blatant lie by a god whose trade ought to be in the truth. She caught herself, wondering at the source of this growing anger. It wasn’t that Hermes insulted her. He spoke as he always did, and with his situation as desperate as it was, she could afford even more latitude in his speech. There was something more at work.
He reached over and took her arm, gently shaking her.
“You must help me get back in Zeus’ good graces.”
The touch broke her thoughts. She pulled away from him and nodded.
“I will do what I can. What have you found?”
“Many of the gods refuse to even acknowledge my existence,” Hermes said in a conspiratorial tone, as if this was important news. His voice merged with the soft wind blowing through the elder trees and scattering the white blossoms and pinnate leaves like tributes to the gods. Athena looked around to be sure that Artemis was not hiding in a nearby stand of trees, spying on them. Artemis had become fast friends with Iris, the pair sharing a love of rain and the smell of a shower-drizzled forest. Athena was not sure Iris appreciated the animals and forests, but there was no denying her rainbow could not exist without a storm.
That started Athena thinking in another direction. Could Iris be removed if the Anemoi could be turned against her? The wind gods seldom entered Olympus, Zeus decreeing only sunny days at a temperature that pleased him throughout the home of the gods. Would it matter, since Boreas and Zephyrus were so lacking in power and prestige?
“Your pet mortal tries to change his fate.”
“What?” Athena’s thoughts had uncharacteristically become unfocused, but Hermes shocked her into attention now. “He has reached the Sisters of Fate?”
“He must venture to their Island of Fate, but he is close. He fought their Warrior of Destiny and defeated him.”
“Then the Sisters know he seeks them out?”
“They must,” Hermes said, shrugging. “What if he succeeds in winning their support? Zeus’ life would be forfeit.”
“Kratos or Zeus,” Athena said, thinking about the difference of one or the other on the throne of the King of the Gods. “Is one better than the other to rule Olympus?”
“Only if Kratos will reinstate me,” Hermes said.
“Zeus will see the error of his ways and retract your banishment,” Athena assured the fretting god.
“You think he will? Soon?”
Athena was not certain this would happen soon, but a sense of impending doom filled her and made her wonder if an oracle might assauge her growing fear of the future. Or would an oracle only make her fear worse?
“I must return to Olympus,” she said. “Before Zeus notices I am gone.”
Hermes impulsively clutched her. Athena forced herself away, then spun about and returned to Olympus. Heartsick, she quickly realized that the atmosphere of distrust had magnified even in the short time she had spent speaking with Hermes.
KRATOS STEPPED FORWARD, only to jerk back when he got a shock from the Horsekeeper’s Key and the spark it emitted. The dancing blue energy from the key spread rapidly until the entire door was bathed in the potent energy. Kratos glanced over his shoulder at Theseus’ body, now limned with the energy from the door. Flesh sizzled and burned from his skeleton. Realizing this was likely his fate, too, if he tarried, Kratos entered the low-ceilinged room.
Only quick reflexes saved him from being skewered by a rising spear of ice, matching the ones Theseus had used outside. Kratos watched carefully for a pattern, but could find none. There must be a safe path, if only he could find it amid the small facts that he knew. He stepped back and studied the key in the lock. New markings appeared on the visible portion of the key.
“There are many ways a key can unlock the path,” he said aloud, grabbing the shaft of the Horsekeeper’s Key and yanking it from the lock. A jolt slammed into his hand, his arm, his shoulder, but the deadly blue glow faded. In seconds only cool metal rested in his grip so he could hold it up to study the engravings more carefully. Kratos turned it around in his hand, then lowered it until the broad part of the key was parallel with the chamber floor. A simple turn matched the pattern to the one there. The voids on the key offered a map to the safe areas on the floor. He moved quickly, stepping on the areas not afflicted with stabbing icicles.
Kratos worked his way deeper and found that the air inside the room was close, musty, as if the door had not been opened in years. A low stone altar at the far end held a bowl shimmering with flame. Words had been chiseled into the stone, but Kratos was unable to read them from this distance. He approached it carefully, studying the sigil and the text embedded on the front of the altar.
As he came within arm’s length, a white fog began to coalesce behind him. The fog swirled and sizzled and took form.
Cronos’ immense head spoke.
“Our destiny has brought us together, warrior. For the good of the Titans, I now bestow on you
what is the last of my power. Use my Rage against Zeus.”
Kratos tried to move but found himself transfixed by the twin ravening beams of energy pouring from Cronos’ eyes. He was lifted from his feet and arched his back as the power blasted into his body, forging a hot spot near his heart. Turning slightly as he was suspended in midair, still held captive by the twin beams, Kratos felt as if he grew in stature. Any weakness within disappeared, and he trembled with newfound ability.
The eyes winked out, freeing Kratos from his rictus. He collapsed to the floor, landing on one knee. Hand braced on the floor, he recovered his senses, then stood. The white fog had vanished, taking along with it Cronos.
Kratos turned back to the altar and saw six Guardians crowding into the room, carefully avoiding the spots where icy spears might erupt. Each was as tall as he and carried wickedly curved swords, helms dull and body armor shining. Kratos sneered at them. More garrison soldiers. They looked good in formation but they were not likely good fighters.
His opinion of their prowess changed when they split into two groups, three coming at him from the left while the other trio on the right waited to see how he attacked. Whichever group he fought first would draw the other to his exposed back. He appreciated their tactic, but fighting so many slowed him. He felt an urgency growing to have the Sisters of Fate give him what he needed, what Gaia had said could be done, or to force them to alter his destiny and that of Zeus.
Unbidden, the white-hot star burning in his breast burst forth and exploded in the midst of the leftmost trio. They stopped their advance, stunned as the power of the Titan coursed through them. Kratos let out a cry, drew his swords, and made quick work of them before the other three could recover from the shock of seeing their companions so easily defeated. Before the last soldier collapsed dead to the floor, Kratos turned and once more unleashed the Cronos Rage.
The remaining Guardians staggered under the blast, disoriented and unable to fight. Kratos killed them with contemptuous ease. He kicked one corpse out of his way as he returned to the altar. Bending down, face close to the sigil, he deciphered the words. When he stood, he knew how to use the Steeds of Time to reach the Sisters of Fate.
He stepped over the bodies and shook off blood he had gotten on his sandals, then stepped out into the bright light of day. Somehow, Cronos’ gift to him made his step lighter and his sword arms stronger even when he was not unleashing the power against enemies. Kratos ran to the yoke between the two center horses and saw that four winches had to be turned to release each horse in turn and then the brace for the platform where he stood. Applying his mighty strength to the first crank produced a river of coruscating red energy down the martingale of the horse to his left. The horse began to stir and strain at the harness. Kratos repeated the release for each of the other three horses until they reared, struggled in harness, and neighed loudly.
He bent, grabbed the bar in front of him, and heaved. The brace rotated forward like the helm of a ship. Then the platform dropped precipitously, making Kratos think he had fallen into a clever trap. But the platform rotated around, came up and then down into place at a higher level, almost level with the backs of two of the horses. A crackling noise came from a box to one side. Kratos kicked it open and saw curled up two long whips of the purest yellow flame. He grabbed the handles and swung them about, one in each hand.
The whips of fire cracked loudly and the horses responded immediately, pulling forward. He used the whips against their armored flanks and sent bits of bronze flying in all directions. He ducked, then applied the whips to both nearby horses with a fury until not only the pair he lashed but all four began pulling in unison. Kratos continued to crack the whips, and the Steeds of Time began straining to pull harder. The chains that made up their harnesses creaked ominously, as if the steel links might not be strong enough to endure the pressure.
Kratos glanced behind and saw the Island of Creation being pulled along at the far end of the chain. Rocks tumbled into the sea, and the temple perched on its rocky pinnacle trembled but remained intact, save for small bits of wall that crumbled from the nisus of the gigantic team. The Steeds of Time neighed and every step sprayed up curtains of water from the sea. He continued to use the whips until the horses stopped and no amount of urging on his part stirred them to greater effort.
Behind, the islands had been pulled together, like sewing one piece of cloth to another.
“You must return to the islands, Kratos. Return to the Temple of Lahkesis,” Gaia said.
“Where I first landed on the island? What will I find there?” He received no answer, nor did it matter. The Sisters of Fate had to be convinced—coerced—into returning him to the instant that Zeus killed him. With that aim burning like a coal in his brain, he jumped from the platform between the horses, found the immense links that made up the chain, and began running back, the distance now twice as long as the way out before.
As he neared the temple, huge portions of the wall collapsed. If he had been only a few feet closer, he would have been carried from the chain and dashed against the rocks at the base of the island. He edged past and worked his way through the rubble to climb into the temple itself. The Temple of Lahkesis, Gaia had named it, for it being sacred to one of the Sisters. It lay partially in ruin from the Steeds of Time drawing the islands together, but Kratos felt that there had been few people here to maintain it prior to the destruction he had caused.
From the sentries who had tried to stop him to Theseus and the Guardians intent on keeping him from finding how to use the Steeds of Time, it was apparent visitors to the Island of Creation were not highly valued.
He advanced into the huge vault of the temple. A statue dominated the far end, its hands held out as if in supplication. A diadem shone in the center of its forehead. Light from the sky silhouetted the head, but Kratos was more interested in exploring the temple itself. It took some time before he came to the conclusion that no obvious exit presented itself in the temple, other than the way he had entered.
He circled the statue, looking for the best spot to begin his climb on the smooth stone. A single footstep changed his plans for using his swords to climb the slick statue. As he stepped onto a pressure plate at the end of a long elevated walkway leading to the replica of Lahkesis, the statue arms lowered and the hands were outstretched as if begging for tribute. By riding upward in those hands, he could emerge on the statue’s shoulder, behind which opened the wall to the sky beyond, the only way forward through the temple.
Kratos ran when those supplicating hands began to rise once more. He halted far short of reaching the base of the statue, returned to the pressure plate, and stood on it. Again the hands lowered. Even at his fastest run, he could never reach the hands before they lifted back up. He bent and examined the plate. It might be possible to cram a thin blade between it and the surrounding stone to hold it long enough, but all he had were the Blades of Athena. If only he had a corpse as before, or at the very least some more fool sentries with which to make a fresh one. He rubbed his hand across the plate and made out faint lettering. Closer examination revealed a short message he did not understand: THE AMULET OF THE FATES.
He had heard of such a magical amulet but had no idea how it could be used to hold down the plate. Kratos stood, stepped on the plate again, and watched the statue’s hands lower.
The intent was obvious. The way of achieving it was not. He went to the base of the statue and looked up, thinking once more to scale it. His swords did not penetrate the stone but bounced off, ending any hope of using them as climbing hooks. He looked over the side of the elevated walkway and saw dusty floor below. He jumped, hit, and rolled, and came to his feet in front of a steel grating.
Beyond stood a life-sized statue with a gleaming stone clutched in one hand. He stared at it, and felt a tiny tingle deep within his breast as if the stone somehow tickled the Cronos Rage, yet the prodigious power was not unleashed. He stepped back and the tingling sensation faded. Whatever the green
stone might be, its magical properties and those he had acquired from Cronos were compatible.
“Might this be the Amulet of the Fates?” he wondered. Seeing nothing more he could do, Kratos grabbed the metal bars, bent his legs, and heaved. He might as well have tried to move the entire earth. The grating refused to budge. He tried his swords on it but could not even nick the solid metal.
He snarled at being thwarted in this fashion. The statue in the barred room held what he thought necessary to continue his quest to reach the Sisters of Fate, and he was being locked out. Kratos paced like a caged animal, studying the small chamber and the flooring just in front of the statue. He saw what might be a recessed pool.
Judging distances, he took a deep breath, expanded his barrel chest, and then dived cleanly into the pool. Quick strokes took him to the bottom, but a wall blocked him from swimming in the direction of the statue room. Running his fingers up the surface of the barrier, he spied a fine crack in the wall and used the pommel of a sword to shatter it. Before the debris had finished floating down to the well bottom, he scissor-kicked twice and used his powerful arms to stroke ahead. He burst out into the room, on the proper side of the grating.
He pulled himself up and studied the statue. Seeing no reason not to take the green-glowing gem in the statue’s outstretched hand, he swung a blade and severed the entire limb. He caught the arm before it, with its precious gem, could strike the floor. Kratos held up the green jewel and examined it. It would have looked striking on a gold chain nestled between Lysandra’s breasts. She wore so few jewels, even when he brought back the spoils from a defeated king’s treasure-house, because such trinkets mattered less to her than love of family, of country. Like her, he had no lust for precious stones, either as decoration or for what they could buy. He had been a god and needed only to ask to receive anything he craved. When he had fought for Sparta—when he had been Ares’ lackey—wealth had meant nothing to him. Battle prowess had been all he sought, all he cared for to achieve victory.
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