God of War

230 Pages·2010·1.17 MB·English

by  Matthew Woodring Stover

FOR SCOTT AND JEN
—ROBERT E. VARDEMAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people worked long and hard on this book. William Weissbaum at Sony
provided precisely the right solution to sticky plot problems as well as astute
guidance throughout. Marianne Krawczyk’s sharp eye and knowledge of the
game are truly appreciated. Tricia Pasternak was the best editor—ever. “Raven
Van Helsing” assisted in ways he never intended via YouTube. Finally, thanks to
my agent, Howard Morhaim, and my stalwart coauthor, Matthew Stover, for
giving me the chance to help out on such a great project.
—ROBERT E. VARDEMAN
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
About the Authors
Copyright
PROLOGUE
AT THE BRINK OF NAMELESS CLIFFS he stands: a statue in travertine, pale as the
clouds above. He can see no colors of life, not the scarlet slashes of his own
tattoos, not the putrefying shreds of his wrists where chains were ripped from his
flesh. His eyes are as black as the storm-churned Aegean below, set in a face
whiter than the foam that boils among the jagged rocks.
Ashes, only ashes, despair, and the lash of winter rain: These are his wages for
ten years’ service to the gods. Ashes and rot and decay, a cold and lonely death.
His only dream now is of oblivion.
He has been called the Ghost of Sparta. He has been called the Fist of Ares
and the Champion of Athena. He has been called a warrior. A murderer. A
monster.
He is all of these things. And none of them.
His name is Kratos, and he knows who the real monsters are.
His arms hang, their vast cords of knotted muscle limp and useless now. His
hands bear the hardened callus not only of sword and Spartan javelin but of the
Blades of Chaos, the Trident of Poseidon, and even the legendary Thunderbolt of
Zeus. These hands have taken more lives than Kratos has taken breaths, but they
have no weapon now to hold. These hands will not even flex and curl into fists.
All they can feel is the slow trickle of blood and pus that drips from his torn
wrists.
His wrists and forearms are the true symbol of his service to the gods. The
ragged strips of flesh flutter in the cruel wind, blackening with rot; even the bone
itself bears the scars of the chains that once were fused there: the chains of the
Blades of Chaos. Those chains are gone now, ripped from him by the very god
who inflicted them upon him. Those chains not only joined him to the blades and
the blades to him; those chains were the bonds shackling him to the service of
the gods.
But that service is done. The chains are gone and the blades with them.
Now he has nothing. Is nothing. Whatever has not abandoned him, he has
thrown away.
No friends—he is feared and hated throughout the known world, and no living
creature looks upon him with love or even a hint of affection. No enemies—he
has none left to kill. No family—
And that, even now, is a place in his heart where he dare not look.
And, finally, the last refuge of the lost and alone, the gods …
The gods have made a mockery of his life. They took him, molded him,
transformed him into a man he can no longer bear to be. Now, at the end, he can
no longer even rage.
“The gods of Olympus have abandoned me.”
He steps to the final inches of the cliff, his sandals scraping gravel over the
crumbling brink. A thousand feet below, dirty rags of cloud twist and braid a net
of mist between him and the jagged rocks where the Aegean crashes upon them.
A net? He shakes his head.
A net? Rather, a shroud.
He has done more than any mortal could. He has accomplished feats the gods
themselves could not match. But nothing has erased his pain. The past he cannot
flee brings him the agony and madness that are his only companions.
“Now there is no hope.”
No hope in this world—but in the next, within the bounds of the mighty Styx
that marks the borders of Hades, runs the river Lethe. A draft of that dark water,
it is said, erases the memory of the existence a shade has left behind, leaving the
spirit to wander forever, without name, without home …
Without past.
This dream drives him forward in one final, fatal step, which topples him into
clouds that shred around him as he falls. The sea-chewed rocks below
materialize, gaining solidity along with size, racing upward to crush his life.
The impact swallows all he is, all he was, all he has done, and all that’s been
done to him, in one shattering burst of night.
THE GODDESS ATHENA STOOD in full armor before her mirror of burnished
bronze, nocked an arrow in her bow, and drew back the string slowly. She
watched her every move in the mirror for proper form. Athena raised her right
elbow slightly. Any deviation in the proper angle would cause the arrow to go
awry. She sought perfection in all things, as befitted the warrior goddess. She
held the string back taut, feeling the muscles in her arms and shoulders begin to
strain. The sensation buoyed her, made her aware of not only herself but also of
everything around her. A half turn, witnessed in the mirror, a small correction to
her form, and she aimed the arrow across her chambers at a huge tapestry
showing the Fall of Troy. The arrow slipped from her fingers and flew straight
and true to sink into the threaded figure that was Paris.
What a flawed hero, she mused. She had not made such a poor choice. She
had risked much because the fate of Olympus hung in the balance when her
brother Ares had flown out of control. Did Kratos experience such a moment of
hesitation, just before the arrow flew from his bow? Doubt? Sureness?
Uncharacteristically, she felt a stab of panic. Had all her machinations been for
naught, gaining his services from Ares in an all-too-clever ploy?
A small puff of air sent her spinning about, another arrow fitted to bowstring,
then drawn back until the golden bow moaned with the strain. She considered
her actions, then slowly eased her pull on the string, the arrow unflown.
Lounging half naked on her couch of wine-red cloud, without the slightest bit
of shame, lay a stunningly beautiful youth. His wickedly charming smile was not
at all dented by having the arrow of Athena pointed at his forehead. “Lovely to
see you,” he said. “Celebrating your victory, are you? You know what would
make this occasion really special? Shed that perpetual virginity of yours. Don’t
look so solemn. Don’t be so solemn. Let’s explore untrammeled territory. I am
quite a good explorer and can show you the way down unfamiliar paths.”
“Hermes,” she said through her teeth. “Have I not warned you about spying
on me in my chambers?”
“I’m certain you have,” the Messenger of the Gods said indolently. He rubbed
his bare back along the couch, wiggling sinuously with pleasure. “Ah,
wonderful. I had such an itch. In fact, dear sister, there is another itch I have—
one that you can help me with, which is only fair, since you’re its inspiration.”
“Am I?” Athena’s face might have been carved of marble. “Shall I scratch
your itch with my sword?” The bow in her grip vanished, replaced by a wicked
razor-edged sword.
Hermes let himself sink back in the couch. He laced his fingers behind his
head and spoke soulfully to the skies about Olympus. “Forever gazing upon
what I cannot touch.” He sighed. “Such cruel fates should be reserved for
mortals.”
Athena had learned from centuries of experience that Hermes was so
intoxicated with his own charms that, when he started flirting, the only way to
deflect him was to change the subject. She used her sword to point at his sandals.
“You’re wearing your wings. Is this an official message?”
“Official? Oh, no, no, Zeus is off doing … something.” He smiled wickedly.
“Very likely someone. Another mortal girl, I’m sure. The Fates alone know.
Really, I can’t guess what he sees in mortal women, when any normal god
would sacrifice an immortal private body part or two just for a chance to slip one
past Hera’s girdle—”
“The message,” Athena said. “Your excuse for invading my chambers?”
“Oh, there is a message.” He produced his caduceus and waved it at her.
“Really. See? I have the wand.”