God of War

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  He shook the gore from his blades as he looked about for new enemies—new victims—but found only flames and carnage. Fires sprouted like unholy weeds, devouring the city.

  He started back up the road to the Parthenon, each step stronger than the one before. The Blades of Chaos, in taking life, nourished him and allowed regeneration. Stiffness remained in his back as a reminder of the foolhardiness of taunting a god. Kratos used his blades at times as walking sticks to help him up the increasingly steep road. The soldier had said Athena’s oracle was in a temple near the majestic structure, which now stood blackened with soot and lit by the burning city below.

  Kratos heard a rising-whistle sound he knew too well. In an eyeblink, he had thrown himself into a headlong dive that cleared a low wall one instant before another of the god’s fireballs splashed liquid flame throughout the neighborhood. A wave of fire broke over him, and he ran deeper into the courtyard, seeking cover under the tiled eaves. One touch of such anguish was all he could endure. He found a half-full fountain choked with weeds. He leaped into it and rolled in the damply rotting muck. The stagnant water smelled of dead fish, but it smothered the last of the burning gel that had clung to his skin.

  “By the gods,” he said, gritting his teeth as a final wave of pain passed through him. Then he stood and knew he could fight on. For honor, for Athena—and because it was all he knew.

  Returning to the paved street revealed only new obstacles. Fireball after fireball blasted all the roadways leading to the summit, making of them rivers of flame. As if he had divined Kratos’s destination, Ares closed every path.

  Kratos cursed and threw himself once more into a sprint. He moved to circle the Acropolis—there must be some gap in the war god’s ring of fire.

  His new energy took him into a quieter section of Athens, one that so far had escaped the worst of the destruction. People peered fearfully from windows as he passed, but no one lay dead in the street, though this was merely temporary; on the far side of the neighborhood, he met an undead patrol.

  The skeletal horrors stalked the roadways, swinging scythes that looked as though they could slice through the columns of the Parthenon itself. And these particular creatures, Kratos noted, wore armor—armor that was blackened with soot but showed no other evidence of fire. Armor that could protect the undead from Ares’s fires was exactly what he needed.

  He fell in behind the well-armored skeletons and increased his speed, closing quickly. Some unholy instinct must have warned the creatures of his swift approach. They spun about, the long, wickedly sharp blades of their death scythes angled to taste Spartan blood. He blocked the swing of the nearest with his left blade. Sparks and flame exploded like the green pine in a campfire. He swung around to the creature’s flank, keeping it—and its armor—between him and its companions.

  Legionnaires crowded around him, hacking again and again; Kratos was too busy blocking to counter—especially because he didn’t want to damage their armor, which was after all the only reason they were worth fighting.

  The clash of weapons sent showers of flame in all directions. The house at Kratos’s back caught fire. He ignored this; he saw an opening for attack. In one motion he released the Blades of Chaos and leaped forward to seize the haft of the nearest undead’s scythe. Flames from the burning house began to blister his exposed, tortured back.

  He needed that armor.

  Instead of wresting the weapon from the creature’s grasp, Kratos used his leverage to swing the undead bodily into the attacks from the others. Death scythes bit deeply through the creature’s torso, and in the instant their weapons were hung up by their comrade’s body, Kratos reached back and drew the Blades of Chaos once more. One lethal flourish, and undead heads fell like catapult stones. The bodies continued to jerk and wave their weapons convulsively, but the loss of their heads left them blind: easy prey.

  Kratos dissected them with brisk efficiency, hacking off the arms and legs, leaving only the torsos. These undead, though, were no Spartans—it would take at least three of their corselets to make one sized for Kratos’s massive chest. Kicking away severed parts, he picked out the least-damaged corselet, unfastened it, and then strapped it across his back; another, only slightly more ripped, he belted over his front. The coverage was imperfect, but then, he wasn’t going to use it to defend himself against Ares’s monstrous legions, only against the killing heat of the war god’s fire.

  A shrug of his shoulders settled the armor in the best fit he could achieve, but before he could once more search for a way to the summit, he saw another undead enter a house.

  He’d fastened the armor barely in time when two more legionnaires attacked—and these held out magic shields. Kratos let out a cry of rage as he retaliated. The Blades of Chaos bounced off the shield of the lead undead and caused Kratos to stagger back. This instant of unbalance provided the opening for both legionnaires. Holding their gold-glowing shields high, they charged.

  Kratos fought for his life. More than providing protection from his Blades of Chaos, those shields drained his strength. Every blow he landed sapped his power. Kratos retreated until his back pressed into a ragged stone wall. The two legionnaires parted slightly to come at him from different angles. With a loud scream of rage, Kratos launched himself directly forward, between the shields. Somersaulting, he came to his feet and reversed positions. He now had the undead backed against the wall.

  He still faced swords wielded from behind shields impervious—detrimental!—to his own magic blades. Kratos dropped his Blades of Chaos and allowed them to snake behind his back as he dived low. The undead he targeted lowered the magic-blazing shield, but Kratos had anticipated this and twisted at the last possible instant. The shield exploded with eye-dazzling fury as it crashed into the ground. Kratos strained, his fingers wrapping around the undead’s ankle.

  Against the wall, the legionnaire could not retreat. Kratos squeezed as hard as he could and crushed the undead’s leg. It stabbed at him with its spear. Kratos ignored the pain as the spear tip penetrated his arm, but the point did not sink deeply. The chains from the Blades of Chaos protected him from real damage.

  Kratos grunted, lifted, and upended the undead before its companion could rush him from behind. A stomp to the head ended the threat from the fallen legionnaire. Kratos ducked as the other thrust at him. The spear dug into the stone wall, giving Kratos yet another opportunity. Getting past the enervating magic shield was impossible, so he caught the one dropped by his first foe. He spun it like a discus into the legionnaire struggling to pull its spear from the wall.

  The magical edge severed the undead’s legs and brought it crashing down to join its companion. Kratos’s fist repeatedly smashed into the back of its head until it was reduced to dust.

  Kratos kicked the magic shields aside. He started to continue on his way when screams from inside a building drew him to peer through the open door. A man and woman clung to each other as an undead legionnaire drew twin knives and clacked them together, as though savoring their terror.

  Using the pommel of his sword, Kratos rapped sharply on the door frame. The undead glanced over its shoulder, then back at the man and woman. When it turned its face once more toward the Ghost of Sparta, it discovered only the edges of the Blades of Chaos in the final instant before being cut in two from collarbone to crotch.

  Kratos stepped back and let the pieces fall. The legs kicked at him feebly. He ignored them.

  “We are truly blessed by the gods!” said the man. “You have saved us!”

  “You’re not saved. I have only delayed your death a moment or two.” Kratos turned to go. “Your energy would be better spent in running away.”

  “We were paying tribute to Aphrodite,” the woman offered, showing him a small carved wood box in her palms. It was filled with vials of fragrant oils.

  “You should be on the walls defending your city.”

  “There is always time for tribute,” she said, looking at her man, who was obviously
an artisan and not a soldier.

  “Maybe for you,” he growled, and strode away toward the street.

  Before his sandal could touch the paving stones, Athens vanished before his eyes. The world shimmered about him, and he felt as if he might be soaring into the sky.

  Brightness blossomed into blinding empyreal glory … and out from that Olympian splendor appeared a woman of such full-bodied perfection that the sight of her hit him harder than any foe ever had.

  Kratos had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. “Lady Aphrodite.”

  “Greetings, Spartan. I wish to bestow upon you my thanks for the rescue of my disciples.”

  “Goddess,” Kratos managed to choke out, bowing his head, “it is an honor to serve you.” He coughed and cleared his throat again. “However you might desire.”

  “Kratos.” Aphrodite spoke his name as softly as a lover’s caress. “Zora and Lora have spoken of your talents.”

  “Zora and Lora?” Kratos blinked. “The twins—they speak to you?”

  “Not as often as they should,” the Goddess of Love purred. “But then, every parent has a similar complaint, I suppose.”

  “You’re their mother?” This explained so many different things at once about the twins that Kratos found himself with no idea what to say next.

  One slender finger from that slim hand traced the curve of his lips to silence any comment. “Athena asked me to contribute a gift of my own, to aid you in your quest.”

  “The only gift I need is freedom to complete my task.”

  Her laugh was like the chime of silver bells. “What you need, Spartan, is to be grateful for whatever a god chooses to bestow.” She caressed his cheek gently. The fingers turned cold as they stroked. “You will perform a task for me as well.”

  “I am already engaged—”

  “You will slay the Queen of the Gorgons.”

  Kratos frowned. “But why her? Why now?”

  “You are so adorable,” the goddess purred, “that I won’t have you eviscerated for daring to question me—this time. You must kill Medusa and bring me her head. The gift I will bestow on you is the power of the Gorgons: to turn men to stone!”

  The goddess gestured and, with a wave, wiped away tranquil Olympus.

  KRATOS TRIED TO SPEAK but had no breath, tried to see but had no light. He tried to move and did not know if the wild, whirling chaos he experienced was all around him or inside his head. Or both.

  He crouched in a cold, dark place and heard the soft hissing of snakes.

  He stood. The sooner he satisfied Aphrodite’s thirst for Gorgon blood, the sooner he could return to Athens and find the Oracle.

  The gloom around him hid the slithering serpents. He took a few blind steps to one side, sloshing through ankle-deep water. His hand found a slimy rock wall. Pressing his ear against the wall, he waited through many slow, measured breaths in an attempt to detect any vibrations. Nothing.

  He sighed. What had he expected? That Aphrodite would just point and make Medusa appear in front of him?

  As his eyes adjusted to the murkiness, he began to make out his surroundings. The goddess had transported him to the juncture of three low-roofed tunnels hewn from living rock. No light shone down any of the tunnels; the light by which he now saw was the product of faintly luminescent moss clinging to crevices in the rock.

  The tunnel straight ahead proved to be a dead end. Kratos shoved hard against the wall blocking his progress. His anger mounted. More wasted time.

  The Oracle was in danger of death or worse if Ares captured her. Kratos didn’t care if the Oracle lived or died, so long as he learned her secret.

  Kratos recalled campfire discussions among his officers before battle; some impious types had been speculating that the gods needed human worship the way a tree needs the sun. Could a god exist without worshippers? The way things were going in Athens, Kratos guessed he just might find out.

  Would Athena’s power decline? Would she simply disappear? Zeus might prohibit one god from killing another, but Ares might have found a way to sneak around the ban.

  In the past, Ares had always chosen brute force over subtlety, but perhaps he had learned his lesson. While the siege of Athens had the trappings of Ares’s old rage, he might have a different strategy in mind. Kill Athenians and Athena lost followers. Kill enough and her worshippers might abandon her for other gods—and who better to worship than the God of War, who had defeated their goddess?

  Shows of strength in this uncertain world brought people to Ares’s temples. Kratos had, once upon a time, been the author of many of those shows and had himself been the earthly symbol of Ares’s might. Kratos’s officers had believed that a god without worshippers simply faded away like mist in the morning sun. If such a fate befell Athena, Kratos’s only chance for vengeance upon his former master would evaporate with her.

  And the nightmares would continue unabated, rending sanity.

  A few more blows upon the wall proved that it would withstand even his prodigious strength. Kratos turned and retraced his path. The water ahead began to ripple ominously before he reached the juncture where Aphrodite had deposited him. Kratos had to bend almost double to slide the Blades of Chaos off his back and bring them down in front of him. Barely in time.

  Up from the dark waters struck a serpent whose head was larger than Kratos’s fist. Its fangs flashed as it struck. The venom dripping from their needle tips smoked in the gloom and caused the water where it fell to boil. Kratos blocked the strike with one blade while he struck back with the other. The snake’s head and a span of its neck flipped through the air. Its body thrashed wildly as it died, but the head continued to snap at him, its black eyes glaring with malice. Kratos pressed both blade tips into the head and waited for the viciousness to fade and die. Eventually, it did.

  He looked up in time to see more ripples approaching: snakes swimming just under the murky surface, too many for him to avoid. One caught him, its fangs driving hard into his greaves, chewing as though it thought to drive its fangs through the heavy bronze. Kratos didn’t wait to find out if it was right. The pommel of a blade crushed a fragile skull. The fangs and jawbone remained clamped on his greave. The water ahead boiled as more snakes swarmed toward him, too many to count. Kratos slashed repeatedly down into the water in front of him, a blinding flourish that turned the blades into a shield of death. He drove grimly forward until he reached the juncture again. The water churned crimson with the snakes’ blood. And then the water calmed.

  The dripping of moisture off the walls was all he could hear.

  Kratos looked into the water and saw movement, but not of snakes. He lifted his foot and brought it down, thinking to crush any creature just below the surface. He felt his foot slide into the outline of a boot cut into the stone. Curious, he scooted his other sandaled foot about and found a corresponding indentation. For a moment he stood with both feet in the underwater impressions. As he started to step forward, he felt a tiny vibration that built and passed upward until it shook the chains embedded in his wrists.

  Kratos saw the phosphorescent moss writhing on the walls. He lifted one foot from its indentation and the moss stopped glowing. Replacing his foot caused the moss to glow once more.

  Curious, he reached out to touch the moss. Like a snake, it writhed sinuously away from his fingers. He growled deep in his throat. It was the only sound save the slow drip of moisture.

  Stabbing out with his finger, he forced the animated moss to go around his digit. It spun about, encircling the spot on the stone wall where he pressed, as if the moss showed him an exit from an otherwise featureless tunnel. Leaning slightly, he applied pressure. Nothing happened.

  He stepped from the outlines under his feet, and the moss ceased glowing. Kratos stomped to the end of the tunnel and found only another blank wall. Extensive investigation proved to him that there was no exit from the subterranean tunnels—none that he could find. He reached for both of the Blades of Chaos, then stopped
.

  “Two hands. There might be something in using two hands.” He returned to the indentations, slipped his feet into them, and moved his finger around on the right wall until the moss once more circled one specific spot. He pressed. Nothing.

  Reaching to the other wall and repeating the movement produced another curlicue of green-glowing moss. This time, he moved his finger about and found a spot much higher on that wall before the moss stopped writhing and presented him with a specific spot.

  Kratos pressed outward, fingers probing each of the marked spots.

  “Mighty Zeus,” he whispered. His eyes went wide when a portion of the ceiling began to descend. Rather than jump back to defend himself, he stood his ground until the trapdoor had opened and lowered, giving him a ladder leading upward. Moving his fingers from the spots and stepping quickly, he reached the ladder just as it began to retreat aloft. Hanging on, he let the closing trapdoor carry him upward into a room whose floor was a foot above a sluggishly flowing stream. A channel of tightly placed stones held the stream in place. He shook himself dry. The snake with its fangs buried in his greaves came free when he scraped down his shin armor with the edge of his blade. He had not even realized it still clung to him with such tenacity.

  These poisonous water snakes were nothing compared with the prey he sought. Not only must he face a monster who would turn him to stone if he so much as glanced at her face, he had to find one Gorgon in particular. Queen Medusa ruled her sisters, but unless she wore a crown or carried a scepter, Kratos had no simple way of picking her out from the rest.