God of War--The Official Novelization

by J. M. Barlog

  Saying the words kindled a thought in Atreus’ mind: “Are you the last of your kind? Is that why you do not like to talk about it?”

  “My kind?”

  “I mean, your family. Before Mother and I? Where you came from…”

  “Now is not the time for such a discussion,” Kratos snapped.

  * * *

  Within a few more hours of traveling, they reached the boat at the caldera dock. “You remember the way back to the witch from here?” Kratos tested.

  “That way, toward the big statue of Thor. And row under him.” Atreus pointed in the direction they needed to go.

  “Correct,” Kratos acknowledged, rowing toward the witch’s abode with Atreus keeping a lookout.

  “I know she is really powerful, but do you really think the witch can actually bring a head back to life?”

  “She seems capable in her craft. And we have nothing to lose.”

  “If she can’t bring it back to life, can we keep the head anyway?”

  “No. But you may feed it to the fish.”

  Kratos drew the boat to the water’s edge, steering to the dock. From there, they trekked through the dense forest until they came to the hag’s cottage. As they entered, not bothering to knock or call out, the place appeared unoccupied.

  “She is dead,” Atreus said breathlessly, his words so crestfallen that they leeched under Kratos’ skin.

  “Who is dead?”

  The voice came from a ladder in a dark corner, where the witch busied herself hanging herbs from her garden to dry. Her face brightened with a welcoming smile at the sight of Atreus.

  “It is so good to see you again! I knew you weren’t dead,” Atreus said.

  He ran to hug her, which caught the witch unguarded. She had no idea how to react. “Hello to you, too!” she laughed. Her gaze drifted to Kratos to welcome him.

  “Oh, can you bring a head back to life?” Atreus asked.

  She stared down at him still embracing her, stunned and more than a little confused. “I am… not sure I understand what…” She shoved Atreus away, forcing the lad to arm’s length. “Where did you get those?” Her tone turned sharp, more than just accusatory. The sight had clearly angered her; when she examined the mistletoe arrows in his quiver, her face turned ashen.

  “They are just arrows. Why do you look at me that way?” Atreus said.

  Kratos advanced to place himself between his son and the witch.

  “Those arrows. Give them to me. Now!” she demanded, her glare never straying from the shafts.

  “Why? They were a gift.”

  “Do as she demands, boy,” Kratos commanded. He read a grim determination on her face that convinced him to trust her, though he had no idea why at that moment.

  After Atreus reluctantly handed over the bundle of mistletoe arrows, the witch immediately crossed to the fireplace, where she tossed them into the flames, making certain not a single shaft escaped.

  “Those arrows are dangerous, wicked. Should you find any more, destroy them. Promise me you will do that?” she said with a stern jaw.

  Confused, and with his mouth wide open, Atreus just stared at her.

  “Do you understand? Say it!” she shouted at him, with a streak of meanness neither had seen before.

  “I understand! If I see them, I promise to destroy them!” Atreus shouted back rudely.

  Relief washed across the witch’s face. She scrutinized his expression before her expression softened.

  “It is all I ask. Forgive me.” There was a long pause. “Please, take my arrows in their place. I have no need for them anymore.”

  Atreus crossed cautiously to the witch’s quiver, hanging nearby. He glanced back at her, making absolutely certain he could take them. She offered a nod of reassurance.

  “Now, what’s this about a head?”

  Kratos removed Mimir’s head from his bag, elevating it so the witch might see it clearly. Aghast, the witch stepped back in shock at the sight. A few drops of blood dripped from the severed sinew and dangling blood vessels.

  “Do you have any idea who this is? Did you kill him?”

  “At his request. He claimed you could revive his head,” Kratos said.

  “Me? Are you certain you heard him right?”

  “Please,” Atreus begged, with an innocent look she could not ignore.

  The witch just sighed, studying the head, as if still deciding whether she should fulfill their wish. “Take him to the table,” she said finally.

  Filling her arms with jars of ingredients from her shelves, she moved them to the table beside the head.

  “It has been a long time since I practiced the old magic. Hold him there so I can have a look.”

  This time she examined the head more closely. If no maggots or drill worms had invaded, she might just be able to pull it off.

  “How long dead?”

  “Three days,” the God of War responded.

  “Cut looks clean, no infestation of any kind, and very little decay,” she said.

  The witch set about mashing her ingredients into a thick paste. Filling one hand with it, she slathered the neck wound with her concoction. She had no idea if her efforts might work, or if returning the head to life was such a good idea. Leaving the dead to remain dead was most often the wiser course to follow.

  “Cutting off his head, of all people. I sure hope you know what you are doing,” the witch muttered, while she worked her magic at the base of the skull. Next, she dumped grubs from a jar into Mimir’s open mouth, afterward jamming it closed. Without speaking, she gestured for the cauldron of water sitting near the fireplace.

  “Now hold his head submerged, and don’t let go. I mean it.”

  Kratos plunged the head into the cauldron. The water immediately began to bubble and froth. A pattern of bright light wavered over the water. Moments later, the water calmed.

  The cottage fell silent for a seemingly unending moment.

  “I have done what I could. You expect far too much from me. The old magic has not been used for a hundred years. What can you possibly…” her rambling sputtered out.

  “May we take some food for our journey?” Atreus asked, while they waited.

  The witch nodded, indicating the wooden box across the room.

  Atreus opened the box to fill a sack with biscuits and fruit, along with what dried venison existed there.

  After a few more moments, she nodded for Kratos to remove the head from the water. He held it up until the dead eye was level with his own. The clouded orb remained unseeing with the face utterly motionless.

  “Anything?” she asked, hopeful.

  Atreus stared at the head, mumbling under his breath, as if trying to pray for the magic to work.

  “I failed. The old magic is too complicated…”

  Then Mimir’s eye blinked. The clouded iris turned clear. The head gurgled up a mouthful of grubs, spewing them down the front of Kratos’ chest.

  “It worked!” Atreus whispered in amazement.

  “Let me see him. Mimir, you there?” she asked, shifting around to stand beside Kratos so she could look at Mimir’s face. A smile played across his face.

  “Yes,” Mimir said simply and without fanfare.

  Kratos angled the head to allow the witch to see him.

  “Good,” was all she said, though relief was evident in her voice. Then she spit in his face.

  “Oh, hello Freya. Been a long time! You do look well.”

  Freya’s look revealed disdain; her lips drew a thin, tight line across her hardened face. “What I did, I did for them. As far as I am concerned, death suits you better.”

  “You know I would bow if I could, your majesty. Forgive me, had I known the witch in the woods was Freya herself, I never would have suggested this,” Mimir said.

  “Freya? The goddess Freya?” Atreus uttered in awe.

  “You did not know either?” Mimir asked Atreus. “Forgive me,” he then said to the goddess.

  “Do you
not understand? When word gets out that Mimir is free, the wrath of Odin will not be far behind,” she said.

  Kratos looped Mimir’s head onto his belt by his hair.

  “You are a god,” Kratos said, feeling betrayed by her deception.

  “Leader of the Vanir once, yes, but no longer.”

  “You did not think it important enough to tell me?” Kratos said, with anger seething through his teeth.

  “Are you really going to lecture me about that?”

  Kratos examined her for a long moment.

  “We are leaving, boy.”

  “But…” Atreus said.

  “Now!”

  Atreus’ glance bounced from Freya to his father, before he shuffled out of the door. Kratos shot Freya a grim, disappointed face as he trailed his son out.

  “You’re welcome!” she shouted, slamming the door behind them.

  “Why did you do that?” Atreus questioned, having progressed no more than a dozen strides from Freya’s cottage. He stopped in his tracks.

  “We cannot trust her.” His father stopped also.

  “Because she is a god?”

  “Have I taught you nothing, boy?”

  “But she has helped us. A lot.”

  “She lied.”

  “I do not understand. Why do you hate the gods so much?” Atreus persisted.

  “Some people value their privacy, brother. Best not to judge,” Mimir said.

  “When I require your counsel, I will ask.”

  “Fair enough. Get me to Týr’s temple, in the Lake of the Nine, and I’ll get you to Jötunheim as promised.”

  “We know the temple. What’s there?” Atreus said.

  “Only the last living giant in Midgard. Who better to tell us the way?”

  “The World Serpent? Wait—do you know how to talk to him?”

  “Indeed. He speaks an obscure tongue, more ancient even than these mountains. None are left in Midgard who can speak it. Except for me, of course.”

  Kratos marched toward the dock. After a few moments, Atreus resumed his progress, but lagging behind intentionally. His father remained silent while they climbed into the boat and he took up the oars.

  “Let us just hope the snake remembers me.”

  “The same way Freya remembered you?” Atreus asked.

  Kratos continued to row, growing more confident with the head on his belt. If anyone could reach the serpent, it was Mimir.

  “Head, why does this Baldur hunt us?” Kratos asked.

  “I have been trying to puzzle that one out. Odin must want you badly for him to send his best tracker after you. And there’s few things Odin wants as badly as a way to Jötunheim.”

  Atreus blinked at this. “But… how could he have known we were going to Jötunheim? We’ve only just found out that’s where we need to go!”

  “Yes, well…” Mimir paused for a time, appearing confused, or perhaps lost in his thoughts. “Odin’s a tricky one. Give my brain a little time to wake up and I’m sure I can explain it properly. Dying is a disorienting business.”

  Kratos murmured something indecipherable to both Mimir and Atreus, who shifted from the bow to settle beside Mimir, wanting to scrutinize the head more closely. Pressing the nose rotated the head sideways.

  “Could you release my nose?”

  “This is nasty. I can see the hole where food goes down,” Atreus said.

  “Perhaps you would like to feed me something, to see what happens?” Mimir offered with a laugh.

  “Do not waste our food, boy,” Kratos said.

  “Sir,” Atreus replied, disappointed.

  “Spoilsport,” Mimir said to Kratos.

  * * *

  An hour passed, Kratos rowing in silence into a glaring midday sun, shining down on verdant hills lining both shores. Atreus decided to return to the bow of the boat. “I cannot believe I actually met a god,” he said.

  Mimir smirked at the child’s naivety. In time, he would come to learn the truth about “the gods”. Then he would think differently of them.

  “Hey, why did she spit in your face?” Atreus asked.

  Mimir took a few moments to compose his response.

  “Well, Freya blames me for many, many things. Some justified. Some not.”

  “She was leader of the Vanir. Why is she now a hermit in the woods?” Atreus asked. “That is quite a tale in itself, actually…”

  “Mind yourself, boy,” Kratos interjected. “Her past is her own.”

  “No, he is right. Best not to gossip,” Mimir admitted.

  “Mimir, what is that weird window I noticed in Freya’s house?” Atreus said suddenly.

  “Yes! I noticed that as well! It appears to be a window created from Bifröst crystal, aligned to the realm of Vanaheim. Odin’s punitive magic prevents her from leaving Midgard and returning home. That window may be the next best thing, tormenting her with unattainable visions of what she has lost.”

  “Why did Odin do that?” Atreus said.

  “Plain and simple: he’s a sonofabitch, that’s why. And Freya was leader of the Vanir, the Aesir’s mortal enemies.”

  “She must miss her home,” Atreus said.

  “Could be worse. She could have ended up a head dangling from someone’s belt,” Mimir chided.

  Reaching the caldera array, Kratos eased the boat to the dock, where they disembarked. A hundred paces from the dock they encountered small, blue Brok, sitting beside a campfire with a large spit of meat hanging over the flames. The little man gnawed away at the fleshy leg bone of some creature.

  “Brok! Brok!” Atreus said. He was famished.

  The little man remained focused on the fire, displaying no response.

  “Brok!”

  “What?” he screeched. “I’m on a fuckin’ break. You don’t hear me screechin’ at you whenever you’re twiddling your short and curlies, do ya?”

  “Come, boy,” Kratos scowled.

  Kratos pivoted to walk on, though his stomach rumbled. He figured his son was also hungry. A dejected Atreus followed.

  “Oh, fer… You already spoiled my solitude. Ya may as well join me.” Brok’s voice seemed anything but accommodating.

  “We are not hungry,” Kratos lied. As a god, he never allowed himself that human failing of becoming obligated to anyone for anything.

  “Good. That is not what I was offerin’,” Brok fired right back.

  Setting the meat on the anvil to wipe his hands along his legs, Brok released a rare glimpse of a smile as they walked over.

  “Eat. That’s some good meat.”

  Atreus wasted no time pulling at another meaty bone, tearing it into two, one for him and the other for his father. Ripping off a chunk, the lad chewed it down quickly, so he might clear his mouth to speak. He smiled. The meat wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t deer or boar, and, for sure, it wasn’t badger. The little man had cooked it a bit too long over the flame, but it was still quite tasty.

  “None for me, thanks,” Mimir said.

  “Saw your brother again!” Atreus said.

  “Well, con-grat-u-la-tions. They giving out some kind of medal for that? I’m sure you let him go and roger my axe good and plenty again, didn’t ya? Let me check the damage.”

  Kratos tossed him the Leviathan axe, which Brok flipped over so he could examine the double-edged head, mumbling to himself something that neither of them could understand.

  “Little canker-throat wouldn’t know proper weight and balance if it were dangling off his chut,” Brok said louder and more clearly, wanting to make sure Kratos heard. “You know what a chut is, boy? Oh, never mind.”

  Brok carried the axe with reverence to his makeshift workbench a few paces away. “He eatin’ well enough?” Brok asked Kratos.

  “The boy?” Kratos responded.

  “No, why would I ask about your little spit weasel?”

  “I guess,” Atreus said.

  “Good,” Brok replied under his breath.

  The blue man hammered at the
axe.

  “You doing what I think you are about to do, means you’d better have the best axe I can make.” Brok motioned to the sack hanging at Kratos’ belt.

  Atreus tore more meat from the roasting carcass to offer his father, keeping a large charred chunk for himself.

  “Times he gets so wrapped up in his work, Sindri hasn’t the sense to sip or sup. And if he does remember, good luck getting him to cook his own meat. Guess I got all the stomach in the family, along with all the smarts,” Brok said, offering a rotten smile.

  “Whatever happened between you two could not be all that bad. Can’t you two just patch things up? You are family,” Atreus said.

  “I don’t need no lecturin’ about family from a half-size speckle-frosted yapper. I ain’t the one what forgot what our name stood for. What we made—the weapons we made—were legendary across nine realms. You just don’t throw that away on account of one bad—”

  Brok abruptly stopped talking, as if remembering something painful. Just as quickly, he shook it off and returned to the work at hand.

  “There. All better now,” Brok said, returning the weapon to its true master.

  “Hey! Where’s Fuckin’ Gratitude?” Atreus asked suddenly.

  Brok indicated the meat on the spit.

  Atreus dropped his chunk, spitting out what remained in his mouth. His face soured. “What is wrong with you? It’s ruined now,” Brok sniped.

  “Me? What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you?”

  “What? Her milk ran dry.”

  Kratos discarded what remained of his meat, marching off.

  “She was your friend,” Atreus muttered back, as he caught up to his father.

  “Then she’ll be happy I’m so well fed. Don’t go getting all sentimental…” were the last words they heard from the dwarf.

  “Head, how do we speak to the serpent?”

  Silence. Kratos turned the head to face him on his belt. He shot Mimir a look that demanded a response.

  “All right. There’s a horn on a platform at the middle point of the bridge. Take me to it.”

  After wending their way up to the bridge, they approached a giant brass clarion horn resting on an ornately carved oaken frame.