God of War 2

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “She would have brought down the wrath of Zeus on my head,” Hermes said. “Thank you for hiding me.”

  “I did not do this out of friendship,” Athena said sternly. “I want something from you.”

  Hermes turned wary.

  “I would speak to Kratos. Arrange this for me.”

  “But he is on the island! The Sisters of Fate control all there!”

  Athena looked down the corridor.

  “I can bring Iris back.” Athena beckoned, and the remnant of the rainbow swirled about and formed a perfect ring in midair.

  “I … I will do as you request, Athena. Are you certain Zeus is not on Olympus?”

  “He prowls the world of the mortals. That is why I deemed it safer for you to come here than for us to meet below.” She frowned. More than this, her departure from Olympus would alert Iris. The less the new Messenger of the Gods knew, the better. Besides, Hermes was crafty making his way to Olympus and through the palace undetected, having spent so many eons in assignations with so many of the goddesses. She would never have dared suggest this to Hermes had Zeus been present, but affairs occupied him elsewhere.

  “You have always been my best friend, Athena.”

  She laughed at this. Hermes had tried to seduce her for centuries. The challenge grew after each failure. As gods went, he was harmless enough in his pursuits. Athena pushed aside his not-too-subtle flirting since it was less about coupling than it was about position and power on Olympus. This caused her thoughts to soar with plans and importuning for the Ghost of Sparta. He was the axle about whom the troubles in Olympus rotated, and only he could put things right again. Her friendship and support for him had to sway his anger away from Zeus and toward more … innocuous pursuits.

  “I will return as quickly as I can.” Hermes settled his toga about his trim young body as if marching to meet his executioner. “If the Sisters allow me to return at all.”

  With that his winged sandals carried him out a tall, arched window and downward to the earth, leaving Athena to worry about Zeus. And Kratos. Always Kratos.

  KRATOS BEGAN WALKING along the stone roadway and reached the spot where Icarus had confronted him. He looked over the brink and into the red swirling mist that hid the edge of creation. Below, far below, Atlas stood in his chains, balancing the world on his broad shoulders and waiting for his chance to again live in the upper world. Zeus and Hades had been brutal, but Kratos understood that. Kindness and charity had no place on the battlefield or when dealing with enemies.

  He held out his hands and looked at them, feeling the gift Atlas had bestowed upon him. Gaia guided him, Cronos had given him his rage, and now the Atlas Quake quivered within Kratos’ grasp as he tightened his fingers into a fist. He assembled the might of the Titans, and all he had to do was reach the far side of the road and persuade the Sisters of Fate to change his destiny to put those powers to their full use. Gaia had aided his escape from the Underworld so he could kill Zeus. No matter that she and the other Titans wanted Zeus dead for their past humiliation and Kratos wanted it for his own reasons. Betrayal was only part of his need to see Zeus impaled on the Blade of Olympus.

  Barely a dozen paces toward the far side of the chasm caused the stone beneath his sandals to crack. Another stride and a large section tumbled away and threatened to take him with it. Spreading his arms caused the wings of Icarus to billow and cut through the air. He flexed his shoulders as the wings began to beat steadily. He found the knack of leaning forward as the wings took downward strokes to accelerate his journey until the wind whipped past his face and threatened to rip the air from his lungs. Before that could happen, he shoved his feet downward, spilled air from the wings, and set down lightly on a stone-paved terrace leading into the temple.

  Although he did not know for certain, his instincts told him he had found the Palace of the Fates.

  He entered and slowly turned in a full circle to appraise the palace. One possible doorway led deeper into the building but when Kratos stepped toward it, spikes shot up from the floor. He danced away. Any one of those spikes would have driven through more than his sandal and foot. Each was waist-high.

  As he watched, the spikes sank back into the floor. He thought to go around this section but discovered more spikes popping up to block his path. Only by retreating to the center of the room could he avoid those deadly nails shooting upward with such vicious force.

  A soft sighing brought him around. Dark Nymphs floated into the room and tried to cast webs over him. Dual sets of translucent wings began to hum so loud that he could barely think. This was part of their attack. Bodies only a few feet long and slender, they posed little threat otherwise—except for their sticky nets spat from between vicious mandibles. He caught one strand on his arm and jerked, bringing the Nymph to him. He grabbed at the wings, swung it around in a high arc, and slammed it down onto spikes rising from the flooring next to him.

  More spikes thrust upward, forcing Kratos to use Icarus’ wings to flutter above them, but this made him a better target for the Dark Nymphs. Their sticky webs sailed through the air to entangle him and bring him to the flooring where the spikes would end his life. Kratos hit the floor, jumped, and grasped one Nymph’s wings. He tore them off and discarded the shrieking creature.

  He looked and saw that the exit from the room was now blocked. The same circular locking pattern that had prevented easy entry into this room now prevented easy access. The walls moved steadily, giving him hope that the openings would align again soon, but until then he had the Nymphs to fight.

  A pair of them was crushed together as Kratos grabbed one in each hand and drove them into each other.

  He kept moving, anticipating the upward thrusts of the spikes, until he saw his opportunity and took it. The circular walls slid around and once more opened a hallway to him. Diving over a new segment of rising spikes, he hit the floor beyond, rolled, and came to his feet. Kratos looked back as the walls continued to spin, blocking the Dark Nymphs from pursuing him.

  He brushed off gore and the sticky webbing cast by the Dark Nymphs as he explored deeper into the palace. The corridors wound around in a circular pattern, and several times Kratos heard walls grinding along tracks. Occasionally he saw rooms open to his left or right, but nothing in them caught his attention or seemed important until he reached an open-air atrium looking out over the sea. The stone pedestal in the center drew Kratos. Open on its inclined holder lay a book.

  He stared at the words on the page, but they meant nothing to him. He could not even decide what language the book had been written in. Placing his hand on one page warmed his palm and sent tiny tremors up into his shoulder. There was power locked within these pages, if only he could decipher them.

  Looking to his right he saw a long open walkway, but the scent of burning candles mingled with the salty sea air. He went down the walkway to find a small turret. Inside knelt a robed man before an altar to one of the Sisters of Fate. Kratos had seen Lahkesis’ phantasm briefly, so he decided this might be one of the other two. The man sat on his heels, bowing repeatedly as he uttered invocations to the Sisters.

  “You,” Kratos said. “Can you read the book?”

  The robed man looked up, startled.

  “I am the Translator but—” He let out a yelp of surprise as Kratos scooped him up and carried him over his shoulder. The Translator struggled but to no avail against Kratos’ strength and determination.

  Halfway back along the walkway to the atrium Kratos slowed, then stopped. Ahead, blocking entry to the atrium and its book, two tall soldiers with war axes moved to fight.

  “Stop them!” cried one soldier.

  “Stop them?” scoffed the other. “Kill them both! You know our orders.”

  “No one can speak to the Translator,” agreed the first soldier.

  “No, you can’t let them kill me. You must protect me!” The Translator clutched fearfully at Kratos’ arm.

  Kratos cast the Translator aside. The man hit the
edge of a railing and sat heavily. His eyes were round with fear and his mouth moved, but no words came out now.

  The two soldiers attacked in unison. As one axe rose to lop off Kratos’ head, his comrade’s axe drove for Kratos’ legs. Only an agile twist and leap into the air saved the Spartan from losing either a leg or his head. As he came down the pair launched a new attack. Both swung their axes for his head, forcing him to block using the Blades of Athena. Sparks erupted from the contact, and Kratos was pressed back.

  “They’ll kill me. You can’t let them!” cried the Translator.

  The soldier on Kratos’ right was momentarily distracted by the Translator’s plea for mercy. Swinging his swords in a furious arc, Kratos cut off first a hand and then a leg. The soldier staggered, then fell over the railing. If the dismemberment did not kill him, the fall past the edge of creation would.

  His comrade’s death caused an instant of hesitation in the other fighter. Against the Ghost of Sparta this meant only one thing: death. He judged his chances and saw no hope. Instead of engaging Kratos, he rolled and tried to reach the Translator to slay him. Kratos swung his war hammer high and dropped it squarely on the soldier’s helmet before he could make a fatal thrust through the Translator’s breast. Blood exploded out the eyeholes as his head was turned to pulp within the bronze confines.

  “You … you’re going to kill me. I know it. You can’t. Please! I have forgotten the words.”

  Kratos grabbed the Translator by the scruff of his neck and lifted him so his toes dragged along the bloodstained stone. They returned to the atrium, and Kratos shoved the man forward onto his knees in front of the opened volume.

  As the Translator tried to shy away, Kratos laid his open palm on the back of the man’s head and slammed his face forward.

  “Read the words,” Kratos commanded.

  “Hear me, Sisters who control the thread …”

  “Keep going.”

  “Another searches for what only the Sisters may give. He is worthy—” the Translator began. Then he writhed in Kratos’ grip and turned a frightened, bloodless face to the Spartan. “No, don’t make me read the words. I’m not ready.”

  Kratos slammed him into the volume again, this time causing blood to spurt from a deep cut on his forehead. The blood dribbled across the book and onto the floor, where it collected in blood gutters radiating outward from the stone pedestal.

  The Translator pushed away, his blood dripping onto the book, before running off to the grooves in the floor.

  “I know this is what you have asked of me, my exalted sisters, but is there no other way?”

  “Read,” Kratos said. He gripped the back of the man’s neck hard, found nerves, and pinched down. The Translator danced about, unable to control his own legs or arms.

  “G-great Sisters of Fate …”

  “Keep going.”

  “I come before you to humbly request an audience.” He swallowed hard before he continued. “To prove my resolve is true … no, please, no! I can’t do it!”

  “Read it!”

  “I … I offer this sacrifice of … m-my blood.”

  Kratos rammed the man’s head so hard into the book that his neck snapped. Blood gushed from his nose, mouth, and ears. Kratos stepped away and let the Translator fall to the floor.

  He watched in fascination as the blood flowed in the grooves in the flooring. He had not seen the pattern before but with blood flowing freely, it became apparent. For a moment, his attention lifted from the atrium floor to the mountain some distance away directly in line with the pedestal and book. Like a chrysalis opening, it seemed to spread immense wings.

  “Wings,” Kratos said. He drew in his breath. The pattern now limned in blood on the floor was that of the Phoenix. But there was more. A red-hued apparition of a lovely woman floated a few inches above the floor. She wore a winged helmet and sported a long robe that dragged along the floor. Her toga hung open to expose her left breast; in her right hand she clutched a scepter. She wore a girdle that hung in front, leaving her legs bare.

  “Well done, warrior. With this sacrifice you have proven your resolve to seek out the Sisters of Fate. However, this is but a small step in your quest to gain an audience with us.”

  A gateway opened behind the ghostly figure, who turned and pointed with the scepter. Then the apparition faded into nothingness, leaving Kratos to seek out the other trials necessary to win if he wanted the audience with the Sisters of Fate.

  Without hesitation he went through the door and plunged deeper into the Palace of the Fates.

  “I HAVE NO TIME for you,” Zeus said. He scowled and looked away from the goddess who had once been his favorite daughter.

  Athena would have none of it. She took a step up toward the raised throne, drawing his immediate reaction.

  “I did not grant permission for you to climb the dais!”

  “I did not ask,” Athena said, forcing her voice to remain calm. “When does a daughter need sufferance to speak with her father? Her loving father?”

  “You—” Zeus cut off his accusation, but Athena read it in his face. There was nothing but growing hatred, and it was directed toward her.

  “You wound me with your belief that I seek anything but your welfare and that of Olympus.” Athena took another step. She turned slightly and saw movement from the corner of her eye. Iris spied on this audience. So be it. Let the snoop spread what was to be said.

  “You’re like the rest. You plot against me. Even my wife seeks to—” Again Zeus cut off his accusation.

  “Hera values you above all others. If you think otherwise, Sky Father, you deceive yourself.” Athena considered shifting the blame to Iris, then decided not to. In his current state, Zeus would never believe his new Messenger of the Gods worked against him at every turn. Athena had to believe Iris’ hold over Zeus extended to more than supplying false or biased news. Her father had never been one to consider abstinence a virtue, and for that Aphrodite had always hailed Zeus as a great ruler.

  Athena had heard even Artemis had been ignoring her forest and animals, turning reclusive, never venturing into her beloved wilderness. Things in Olympus were increasingly awry.

  “Father,” she said, “your worshippers are slipping away.”

  “Impossible. I am Zeus, King of the Gods! What mortal would deny me in their supplication?”

  “More every day leave to secret shrines to the Titans,” she said.

  “How do you know this? Iris said more give sacrifices to me every day than the day before.” Zeus stroked his beard, once white and cloudy but now filled with roiling lead-gray storm clouds.

  Athena dared not tell him that Hermes flew constantly across the face of the world as he hunted for the news that would restore his place in Olympus. She wished that Hermes had found something worth presenting now, because she felt her welcome at the throne of Zeus slipping away. If he banished her as he had Hermes, her influence would disappear—and that of Iris would be transcendent.

  “I see how my worshippers pray in Athens,” she said, cloaking the truth with a half lie. “Those who once sacrificed to both of us do so less often.” She hesitated, then blurted, “They once again pray to the Titans.”

  As the words escaped her sepia-tattooed lips, she knew she had committed an error from which there could be no return.

  “The Titans!” Zeus exploded to his feet and kept growing until his head pressed into the high dome of the audience chamber. His shoulders rippled with muscle and his eyes frosted over, then turned to burning white pools without definition. Athena had never seen her father so wroth.

  Zeus clapped his hands together, and thunderbolts exploded. Athena threw up her arm to shield herself from the assault. If it had been directed solely at her, she would have died.

  “He is responsible for this. If he had shown the good sense to remain in the Underworld and not allow Gaia to bring him back to this world, the Titans would still be where I put them. In Tartarus! In the deepest realms
enduring Hades’ tortures! Must I return him to Hades’ grasp myself? Again? I am king but none will serve me by removing Kratos!”

  “Kratos is an annoyance, but you cannot hold him entirely responsible.”

  “The Titans use him. He thought Ares was a liar and knave. Kratos has no idea how the Titans can lie and deceive and manipulate! Cronos thought to kill all his children. His own children!”

  “Gaia raised you,” Athena said, again damning herself for letting her true thoughts reach Zeus. “Your fight was with Cronos, not the other Titans.”

  “They all deserved to be destroyed, but I chose to allow them to live.”

  Athena fought to keep her words bottled up, but the pressure became too great.

  “You made Kratos an enemy, Father. If you had not duped him into draining his godly powers into the Blade of Olympus, he—”

  “He still opposes me. A mortal! After I put him on the throne of the God of War! How dare he?” Zeus grew even larger and caused the ceiling and walls to tumble. Lightning flashed about, mirroring Zeus’ wrath.

  “Father, please …” Athena looked up and saw that Zeus paid her no heed. His fury consumed all reason.

  “He will suffer in ways he has never considered possible. I will destroy everything he holds dear!”

  Athena turned as Zeus vanished in a flash of light so intense that it would have blinded her had she watched. She didn’t need Hermes—or Iris—to tell her what would happen now that Zeus was willing to unleash his fury into the world.

  Tears formed in Athena’s eyes for what was happening to the Olympians.

  COLD FURY DROVE Kratos. Lahkesis had told him he had taken a small step toward an audience with her and the other Sisters of Fate to plead his case. Being denied was a slap in the face when he had Zeus to kill. He would do whatever it took to drive the Blade of Olympus through Zeus and make the King of the Gods suffer the way he already had.

  Kratos entered a curving corridor, paused when the door slid shut behind him. The only way to go was onward—but that was where he intended to go. He ran around the circular path, stepping over rails mounted in the middle. The stench of burning metal reached him an instant before grinding gears sounded and a metal wall ahead creaked on the rails and then accelerated toward him.