But the Titans? Athena could not understand this. The Great War had been fought and won. Zeus had forever banished all the Titans for what Cronos had done to him, even disgracing Gaia despite her role in raising him. The King of the Gods’ fury knew no bounds. That burning rage no longer smoldered in his breast but increasingly burst forth.
Did the mortals sense how easily he might destroy them and thus seek out other gods to protect them?
But the Titans!
“I can tell him of Kratos and how he has reached the Ruins of the Forgotten.”
“What?” This startled Athena. “He has gone so far?”
“You won’t tell Zeus? Will you? The more I can give him, the less likely he is to favor Iris.”
Athena heard the suspicion in Hermes’ voice.
“No, I will not tell him what you have learned.” She saw that her promise did not ease Hermes’ concern. It would take very little for him to turn on her. If he thought Zeus would restore him to his previous status between the gods and goddesses, betrayal would come as easily to his lips as his winged sandals carried him faster than thought throughout the world.
She needed to be on guard. And Kratos? Should she aid him when he sought only to kill their Sky Father? Athena shook her head. Peace among the Olympians—with Zeus on the throne—was their only hope for survival against such mortal determination as the Ghost of Sparta displayed.
“Wait until I speak with the Sisters of Fate and plead your case,” Athena told Hermes.
“You would do this for me? You would ask for their forgiveness?”
Athena felt a coldness within as she thought of approaching the trio whose weaving of fate controlled the entire world of both mortal and god. She could plead for Kratos.
Or she could plead for Zeus. She thought that her father needed succor far more.
THE SENTRIES CIRCLED Kratos and backed him to the lever he had been pressing to move the circular metal island. His blades sang out and forward, but the muck-dripping creatures were too quick. They easily danced back out of range of his fiercely swinging weapons.
When the lever nudged him and the chains linked through the sprockets on the side of the metal island began to groan, he realized his progress to the far side of the swampy river would be for naught. Only constant pressure on the lever kept the circular plate from returning to the wrong side of the river. The longer the fight raged, the farther he got from the shore he desired.
A quick glance up to the stone ledge high above showed the warrior still battling. Then Kratos ignored the fighter’s plight because of his own. The sentries moved forward again, their swords and scythes hissing as they cut the air.
Kratos closed his eyes to concentrate his power, then released the Rage of Cronos. The magicks radiated outward and momentarily stunned his attackers. With a mighty exertion, he swung the Blades of Athena and cut through the midsection of the closest four sentries. Two quick steps put him into position to dispatch three more. With only one remaining, just out of reach, he squared his stance for the final lunge, only to find that the magic had already faded. The sentry bellowed and rushed him.
Catching the creature’s blade in the X of his own crossed weapons, Kratos fell backward, then lashed out. One foot looped around the sentry’s ankle. The other viciously kicked against the kneecap. The dull snap of breaking bones could be heard over the soughing of the defiled river around the island. But the next snap—as Kratos lifted the struggling creature high over his head and then dropped him over his knee—came as loud as any thunderbolt.
Kratos kicked the body into the water and returned to his task of pushing against the river. He quickly reached the far side, hopped lithely up, and scrambled forward, going deeper into the ruins. Barely had he reached a decaying, vine-draped area than he heard the faint moans of a human. He looked around.
“Warrior, help me.” The plea was so faint even Kratos’ keen ears almost failed to hear it. He turned in the fetid jungle and, amid the thick vegetation, saw movement both bright and shining. Kratos ran forward, pushing his way through the vines. When he saw the warrior who had called out to him before, he stopped.
The warrior wore Athenian armor, a bright red plume on the crest of his helmet. A quick look around convinced Kratos this soldier was not bait for a trap. He advanced, dropped to his knee, grabbed the soldier by the cuirass, and brought him to a sitting position. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds, any of which would be fatal. Kratos had seen the soldier battling Minotaurs. A deep gouge in the belly showed where one had gored him, then left him for dead. Kratos shook the man to loosen his tongue before his soul departed for the Underworld.
“God of War,” the Athenian grated out. Blood gurgled in his throat, another sign he was soon to be ferried across the River Styx. He tried to point. “Jason … that beast took him!” The soldier clutched Kratos’ forearm with surprising strength. “All our men are dead. Jason has the fleece to turn back the Gorgon’s stare. You must save him!” Blood trickled from the corner of the wounded man’s mouth, and Kratos caught the stench of imminent death. The man sagged, exhausted from the effort of giving Kratos this warning. Kratos shoved him back to the ground and stood, looking down as the man gasped for breath. Every intake of air was raspy and tortured. For an Athenian he had fought well.
Kratos turned and looked down the path the soldier had indicated.
“Help him,” came the faint cry, almost inaudible.
The fallen soldier had said Jason fought some creature. Drowning out further entreaty came a lewd sucking noise, a gobbling, a vile feasting.
Kratos ran down the path toward the sounds of an animal rending flesh, only to dodge to one side as a Gorgon Assassin reared up on its snake’s tail to block the path. The eyes on stalks weaved about, this way and that, as the ineffectual hands reached out for him while it slithered closer. The deadly eyes swept past him. He foolishly looked and felt his arm turn to stone. One instant it had been muscular, powerful, capable of wielding any weapon. The next saw it numb and cold as if he had been sculpted from marble. A powerful flexing of his shoulder and upper arm shattered the stone and restored his arm, but it felt curiously weak. He flexed it again, drew his blades, and rolled forward, ducking under the Gorgon’s deadly stare. He slashed furiously with both swords and produced an earsplitting shriek that almost froze him as surely as the Gorgon’s gaze.
The Gorgon reared again on its snake tail, towering over him. He thrust, drove one tip a few inches into flesh protected by a horny hide, then tried to scream as the gaze fell upon him fully. His arm had lost circulation before. Now his entire body did. A moment of panic passed as he realized he was encased in stone, not turned to stone. With a mighty heave, he arched his back and brought his arms around. Bits of flying stone tore at his flesh as he broke the enshrouding marble. Kratos paid no attention to such minor injuries. The true danger lay in front of him as the Gorgon reared back and brought around the twin beacons of death. Capture him in stone again and he might be unable to break free.
He leaped into the air and brought both blades down on the Gorgon. The creature sinuously wiggled away, only slightly injured. With his sword edges trailing fire from the force of his attack, Kratos again hacked at the monster. And again, his body became cold and immobile. The gaze had bathed him in hideous transforming green light. Kratos crashed to the ground, solid from the Gorgon Assassin’s glance.
Luck kept many a warrior alive. So it was with Kratos now. He had landed heavily on a rock in the swampy path. The rock cracked the casing around him and once more afforded him a way of breaking free. Shards flew in all directions, but another stone imprisonment could spell his end.
With full fury, Kratos attacked, jumping high into the air. The Gorgon’s eyes followed him. He drove the tips of his swords downward into those blazing watch fires of death, blinding the Gorgon. It screeched and tried to flee.
Swords no longer good enough, Kratos grabbed the Gorgon around the neck and squeezed. He felt snake-cool scaled fles
h beneath his fingers. He squeezed. The Gorgon choked. He squeezed harder as the creature thrashed about, then gave a savage jerk and beheaded the monster.
He swung the Barbarian King’s war hammer around and smashed into the gears, reducing them to dust. The calls for help came louder now that the way had been cleared of the gears.
Kratos stopped in front of an iron grating. On the other side a broad-chested, dark-furred Cerberus tossed its center head and ripped an arm off a fallen man. Blood rained down in the sandy arena, and the gobbling sound made by the three-headed monster drowned out the moans of pain from the now one-armed man. The monster saw Kratos and roared. Its claws ripped at the ground and its spiked tail whipped back and forth in anger.
Kratos bent, grabbed the bottom of the grating, and heaved, sending the gate upward. Kratos thought all three heads smiled, even the one still holding the severed arm, as the monster shuffled around to face him.
Turning his back to the dark Cerberus, Kratos held the war hammer in a loose grip. He lowered his head and waited. The Cerberus was puzzled at his lack of aggression. Impatience caused the three-headed dog to race forward. Kratos tightened his grip, tensed his muscles, and began a swing. By facing away, he had given himself a full half circle’s added momentum. He spun and sent the hammer with all his prodigious strength into the head still gobbling at the human arm. Blood exploded in all directions as the spiked hammerhead met the Cerberus’ head.
The dark Cerberus stumbled and leaned to one side. Kratos recovered, swung his hammer in a wide arc, and again connected squarely, this time just behind the dog’s muscled shoulder. The shock went all the way up into his arms, forcing him to step back to recover his balance.
Kratos almost died.
The dark Cerberus spat out a fireball from its second head. Kratos lifted the hammer and deflected a portion of the liquid fire aimed at him. The foul, fiery sludge coated his hammer and burned at the haft. Taking two quick steps, he somersaulted and avoided another fireball attack, coming up next to the one-armed man.
“Kill it, God of War,” the injured man urged. Kratos looked at him without curiosity. “Kill it and you will have the thanks of Jason of the Argo.”
“You have the Golden Fleece?”
Jason shook his head. With his remaining hand he pointed. “The Cerberus swallowed it. Get it back. You have to.”
Kratos roared and attacked. The Cerberus swiveled its heads about and finally spotted him. He saw that the creature had momentarily blinded itself with its own blood, but its eyes were clear once more. Knowing the dog moved sluggishly to the side because of its four-legged stance, Kratos forced it to pivot on its back legs by circling. With a powerful double-handed grip on the war hammer, he slammed it into the ground between him and the Cerberus.
The hammer blow to the ground sent ripples earthquaking in all directions. Kratos staggered and went to one knee, but the temblor toppled the dog. It crashed to the ground and bounced about as the quake died down. On his knee, Kratos swung again. The war hammer crushed the second head. Only the third head remained. From the piteous howls coming from that head, Kratos had wounded it grievously.
The creature struggled to regain its feet so it could rear back and spit forth another deadly fireball; Kratos shot to his feet and surged forward, taking advantage of another fiery attack that exposed its throat. His swinging hammer caught the dog just under the jaw. Its head snapped back.
Being too close to use the long-hafted hammer, Kratos grabbed with both hands and clawed out gobbets of flesh from the dog’s throat. The Cerberus went berserk, thrashing about, clawing with taloned legs, trying to snap at him with its remaining head. An agile twist brought Kratos closer. He rammed one forearm into the dog’s throat and reached around behind its head with his other. Catching it in a deadly grip, he used every ounce of strength to jerk. A sound like thunder filled the arena as its neck snapped under his stupendous killing move.
Kratos stepped away when the Cerberus crashed to the sandy ground, twitching violently as death slowly possessed every inch of its muscular body. Not waiting, Kratos gripped the jaws and forced them open, then plunged his arm down the monster’s throat. His fingers tingled as they touched a thick wad of fleece from the magical ram. With a quick yank, Kratos pulled out both the Golden Fleece and the dog’s esophagus, which he cast aside. He held the fleece above his head, stared at its shimmery golden strands woven into shoulder bracers for armor, and felt the power filling his entire body.
“You’ve done it, Ghost of Sparta. You’ve recovered my fleece!”
Jason made his way painfully toward Kratos.
“Return it to me and be blessed by the gods.”
Kratos spat.
“I want nothing to do with the gods of Olympus other than to kill Zeus.”
The words shocked Jason. His eyes went wide and his mouth tried to form words. He clutched at his severed limb with his good hand. Blood oozed around his fingers.
“You cannot mean this,” Jason said. “The ram that bore that fleece was slaughtered in tribute to Zeus.”
“Just as Zeus will be slaughtered in tribute to me.” Kratos slowly rotated the fleece so that it shone like a small golden sun.
“The fleece is a holy relic. You cannot pervert it to your needs, God of War,” Jason said.
“I am not the God of War!” Kratos bellowed. “The Sisters of Fate will grant me a different destiny—one that sees Zeus dead! Never again will I sit upon the throne of the God of War!”
“It is my fate the Sisters will amend. Why else would they block the path with a magic that only my fleece could destroy?” Jason said, his voice stronger. “My Argonauts and I dared a dragon and treachery to steal it away from Aeëtes of Colchis. It is mine!”
Jason made a clumsy grab for it. Kratos stepped away and let the Argonaut fall past him, landing on his knees, propped up on his good arm, on the sandy ground. Jason looked up, imploring Kratos for mercy. He knew nothing of the man he beseeched if he thought charity or even a spark of compassion burned anywhere in his tortured soul.
“I must possess it to reach the Sisters of Fate!”
Kratos stepped away from the man as he struggled to his feet. He had no cause to bandy words further with Jason.
“My fate must be changed. The fleece will gain me entry and be my gift to them to change my destiny.” Jason’s jaw tightened and a hardness came to his aspect. His remaining hand tightened into a fist so hard that his fingernails cut into his callused flesh and caused drops to fall into the thirsty sand of the arena floor.
Kratos touched the spot on his chest where Zeus had run him through with the Blade of Olympus. If his resolve had ever faded in his quest to reach the Sisters, this memory had renewed his determination. Zeus would die at his hand.
“Medea.” A small catch came to Jason’s voice. “She was my lover, my all. She was a witch and the only woman who ever truly loved me.” Jason straightened. “She killed her brother to aid in the theft of the Golden Fleece. She convinced my uncle’s daughters to murder and eat him when Pelias thought to betray me because of a false oracle’s prophecy.”
Kratos lowered the fleece and held it at his side, watching the Argonaut closely.
“Medea convinced my cousins that the murder of my uncle and devouring the chopped-up pieces would rejuvenate him from serious illness.” Jason’s lip curled. “He—they—deserved their fate.”
“So why do you wish the Sisters of Fate to change it? You have changed your mind?”
“Never! Medea did this for me and I forsook her. I pushed her aside for the daughter of King Creon. Creusa was to be my bride, but Medea sent her a wedding robe that burst into flame that none could extinguish, which consumed her on our wedding day.” Jason squared off as he faced Kratos. “After she cut the throats of our children she fled to Athens.”
Jason paused, ground his teeth together, then said, “I would have her back. I want the Sisters of Fate to return me to Medea’s bed.”
“To kill
her?”
“No! I was a fool to believe Creusa could love me more. I miss my children, and Medea haunts my dreams, her smile, the soft touch—” Jason reached behind, drew a wickedly sharp dagger, and launched himself at Kratos. Years of fierce battle had honed Kratos’ reactions. The gleam of the blade that should have driven deep into his chest missed by a hairbreadth. He reached out and caught Jason by the throat, squeezed, and then heaved, lifting the Argonaut off his feet. Jason stabbed out with the dagger, but it was a feeble attempt. Kratos’ powerful grip turned the blade around and drove it into Jason’s heart.
When the man stopped struggling, Kratos cast him aside.
“It is best to die in combat,” he said by way of obituary for the dead hero.
He lifted the fleece and spread it across his shoulders in a golden display.
ATROPOS MANIPULATED her projected image to twice her real height and looked down her nose at the god. She wanted more fear in him, but there was only a curious eagerness, or perhaps it was anticipation. With a single pluck on the thread that bound Hermes to her loom, she could change his destiny, but he did not look as if he worried about his own fate.
Yet he did. Otherwise, why would he be on his knees in the Egyptian desert to petition the Sisters of Fate?
Atropos looked around, wondering if Lahkesis and Clotho would come to see the god and make him grovel. Lahkesis enjoyed venturing away from the Island of Creation through her projections, but Clotho was loath to do so, preferring to remain in her chamber, both in body and in spirit. She was a little uneasy ever since she had learned that Lahkesis had sent forth the Warrior of Destiny and Kratos had vanquished him so easily. Oh, it had been a hard-fought aerial battle but the griffin the Warrior had ridden was an inferior mount; it should have been far more agile in midair than the Pegasus Kratos had used to reach the Island of Creation. What had Lahkesis been thinking?
“You know my plea, sister,” Hermes said, bowing deeply. The wings on his sandals whirred softly, keeping his feet just above the desert sands as if he was too good to walk where camels did.
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