God of War

FIFTEEN

LOST IN THE BLINDING SAND, Kratos had no idea where to go.

His eyes watered so hard that he might have been swimming in the sea, were it not for the grit in his mouth and the way the dust filled his nose. Kratos put his head down and slogged forward. He was keenly aware that there were an infinite number of wrong directions, and only one right one. He hoped.

He could not know if there even was a right direction to walk.

The Oracle had summoned the visions that haunted his nightmares. The revulsion at what she had seen in his head had been writ plain upon her lovely face. He found it all too easy to imagine that she might have decided a man as corrupt and evil as he knew himself to be was best taken forever from the company of humankind. She might have sent him to this terrible desert to die.

Worse, she might have sent him to this terrible desert to not die.

He had heard tales of the punishments of the Titans in Tartarus. This endless desert, endless slash of sand, endless heat, and endless thirst seemed all too similar to such tales.

He cursed the gods as he trudged along, then added their oracles. If there had chanced to be a rift in the sandstorm through which he could glimpse the sun, he might have gauged the passage of time. Or, at least, he might have discovered whether time did indeed pass in this awful waste or if this had become his eternal fate. As it was, all he knew was growing heat and the ever-present wind laden with blinding sand.

Above the howl of the wind came a shrill keening. He reached for the blades but did not draw. Slowly turning, he aimed himself toward the sound and advanced warily. Ares could lay a hundred traps in such a storm. Worse, Kratos knew he might be lured away from his true destination. The only hope he had was to get a fix on the sound and find what it might be. The sound was the first hint he’d had of anything other than his own sorry soul trudging through the storm.

A bright light flashed once, twice, then shone to rival the sun. His stride lengthened. Whatever lay ahead had to be better than stumbling blindly through the desert. As he neared, he saw that the twin beacons were eyes in a statue of Athena.

“Athena,” he said angrily, staring into the goddess’s gray eyes. He felt abandoned, and she was only the most recent of the Olympian pantheon to use and then discard him. “Why have you brought me here?”

The statue spoke. “Kratos, the journey forward is perilous but one you must complete if you are to have any hope of saving Athens.”

“The Oracle spoke of Pandora’s Box. Can it be real?” “The box exists. It is the most powerful weapon a mortal can wield.”

“Can I defeat Ares with it?”

“With the box, many things become possible. And so it is hidden well, far across the Desert of Lost Souls.”

For a brief instant the clouds of roiling sand cleared, and Kratos saw to the horizon. As quickly as the window opened, it closed.

“There is safe passage through deadly sand, but only those who hear the Sirens’ song will discover it, for only the Sirens can guide you to Cronos, the Titan. Zeus has commanded him to wander the desert endlessly with the Temple of Pandora chained to his back, until the swirling sands rip the very flesh from his bones.”

“How do I find him?”

“Stay true to the song of the Siren, Kratos. Your journey begins here. Pray it leads you back to Athens-with Pandora’s Box. Remember this: Seek the summit for only death awaits you below. There is no escape without the box.”

“How do I resist the Sirens’ song?” he asked. Athena’s statue did not answer. He moved closer and saw the eyes were featureless orbs of marble. The spirit of the goddess had left-and had left him. He held down his rising wrath. Hints, nothing but hints!

HE GRITTED HIS TEETH and trudged on. It was not given to mortals to understand the whys and wherefores of the gods. That was what his mother used to tell him, back before he turned seven and was taken from her to begin his training. He had always assumed that it meant nothing more or less than “Hush and do as you’re told.”

As he set forth, he saw that the statue had changed. Now the right arm was raised, pointing into the desert. As he turned to follow that direction, he heard the faint keening once more. He stood a little straighter against the wind. Now he knew that sound to be the song of the desert Sirens.

Athena had set him on his path but, as usual, had not even hinted at how he might overcome the Sirens. He assumed she trusted him to figure it out for himself-or, if his cleverness was unequal to the challenge, he could always rely on his native savagery and the Blades of Chaos.

Odysseus had stopped up the ears of his crew with beeswax, while he remained chained to the mast of his ship. Kratos had nothing that would block the insistent, seductive sound. Even at this distance, he felt his heart quickening and his body responding to their call. If he succumbed, he would be their dinner.

As he walked along, Kratos clapped his hands over his ears, hoping to muffle their insidious song. That failed. He found himself walking faster, hunting through the sandstorm for the creatures, wanting them as he had never wanted another before.

The heavy flapping of wings caused him to look upward. Through the dust clouds he saw a harpy struggling to carry a dangling body in its claws. The monster veered and disappeared in the storm, but Kratos knew it took the body to the Sirens.

Once, on a battlefield outside Sparta, he had come across two Sirens and had ordered his men to fill them full of arrows. The Sirens had been dining on the dead of both sides, greedily gobbling up human flesh and smearing the blood all over themselves. Their death cries had cost him three expert archers. As the Sirens had died, they screeched at such a pitch that the men’s heads exploded. Kratos had ordered the Sirens’ carcasses to be carved into pieces so small that even crows would ignore them and then be flung to the four winds, so that the monsters’ shades would wander forever restless upon the earth.

He pressed his palms harder against his ears. The Sirens’ song grew ever more enticing. The wind slackened, and their evil song lifted and filled him with irresistible lust. Soon he stared across a sandy dune marked with wavy ripples from the wind. Beyond lay the ruins of an ancient temple-perhaps where the Sirens made their home.

And then he saw them: four tall, spectral creatures floating about the plaza before the ruined temple.

The Sirens’ seductive sound turned Kratos weak. Sheer sexual allure pulled him forward like a shade in Hades shuffling toward Charon’s boat. Every move he made was slow, unsteady, and increasingly uncoordinated. One of the Sirens had seen him now. Drawn by his mortal blood, she turned toward him, and her part in their song rose.

Kratos tried to draw his swords but found he could not. The Blades of Chaos were never meant for creatures so lovely. The Siren who’d seen him slithered down the slope, her face unbearably beautiful as she smiled. The sharp yellow teeth that rimmed her gaping maw didn’t bother him in the slightest. Lovely, she was so lovely, and she became more so as she neared.

“Come to me, lover. I want you as much as you want me.” Her voice carried the Siren’s song. Kratos knew the song for what it was-knew it sang the melody of his doom-but still he could not resist. With a mighty exertion of will, he forced one hand back to his shoulder, fingers brushing the hilt of one blade.

The Siren didn’t flinch. She knew well the power of her vile song. “There is no need, lover. Come to me and love me. I love you. I want to feel you in my embrace.”

His resistance faded as he went to the most beautiful woman in the world. His arms wrapped around her as he pulled her close. Kratos jerked as he felt a bite.

“A love bite, my dearest,” came her cooing words. “You like it. You want me to give you more, many more!”

He felt blood running down his chest from the neck wound, but he knew she loved him-and he desired her above all others.

Even above Aphrodite’s twin daughters. Even more than Lora and He pulled back, struggling in the warm embrace of a woman he treasured.

“No,” he said. “I can’t…” His ears filled with song, shrill at first and then so melodious that he wept. His lover sang for him. She sang a haunting song of love and desire. For him and him alone.

“Another love peck,” she said.

Again he recoiled as blood spewed from the other side of his neck.

Blood, blood spilled in battle, not in a lover’s tryst- He straightened his arms and shoved hard. The Siren let out a screech of pure rage, momentarily breaking the spell. Kratos saw the Siren for what she was, and then she sang to him. Sang a melody so lovely and beguiling he knew she wanted him above all others in the world.

But she is not my wife… my wife and daughter… Those memories hammered at Kratos’s mind even as he felt more love bites. The pain offset the pleasure. He had known pain, so much pain, and he concentrated on it. And his wife. And his daughter lying dead at his feet Again he pushed away, but this time he heard other voices.

“Share! You are greedy!”

“Hungry! We’re all hungry. You must give him to us!”

The voices turned strident, and the lovely, loving melody faded in his ears.

My wife! My daughter!

Kratos lifted his hand and felt energy flow. The Thunderbolt of Zeus built… but against his lover, his lovely, caring lover. He couldn’t. Not this way…

The cacophony of demands to dine on his flesh grew as the Siren’s song diminished. Kratos reached down deep within, the visions-the nightmares-powering his determination. The thunderbolt erupted from his palm. A force greater than anything he had ever felt lifted him from his feet and threw him high into the air, spinning, turning, and tumbling. He crashed into the sand, dazed. When he looked up, he saw Sirens scattered about, lifeless.

He shook himself and stood, aware that he had destroyed only a few of the creatures with the power of Zeus. Three other Sirens rushed toward him. Kratos had never seen creatures so lovely or loving-but he did not fall under their spell. Within a moment he understood why.

The Sirens had begun to fight over him. His hand went to his neck and found fresh bite marks, all bleeding freely. His nightmarish vision had allowed him to break their spell to fight, and when he had blown them apart with Zeus’s lightning, the thunder had partially deafened him. He might not have the beeswax that Odysseus carried, but he had a makeshift method of temporarily blocking the Sirens’ call. His hearing was already returning, though-had he waited too long?

He raised his right hand again, but his body betrayed him. His hand trembled, rebellious flesh refusing to grasp the lightning. The Sirens soothed and cajoled him to relax, not to use his weapon. They loved him. He wanted them more than he’d ever wanted anything.

A final twist of his will curled his fingers into the proper form, but his weakened arm could no longer hold his hand upraised. It fell to his side, and the thunderbolt in his grip blasted the sand in front of him to glass. The thunderclap and shock wave staggered him. Two steps back, three. He launched another thunderbolt. Again came the blast-but this time he could barely hear it.

“Well, all right, then,” he did not hear himself say. He set out toward the desert monsters at a walk-with purpose but without haste. The Sirens drifted back from him, exchanging glances that seemed to cry, “How can this mortal resist our power?” Suddenly the Sirens were uncertain that Kratos was human at all. They howled at him, pitching their voices in various harmonics-one chord could set a man afire, another could blind him, still a third could cause his skull to explode like a chestnut in a bonfire.

Kratos kept walking. He didn’t even bother to draw the blades.

The Sirens spread out as though to encircle him. But Kratos had dealt with Sirens before-and these Sirens, to their misfortune, had never dealt with Kratos.

They had never seen Kratos move faster than a walk, and they had no idea just how swiftly those powerful legs could drive his massive body. He allowed them to close in around him until he judged they were near enough, then, in a blindingly swift uncoiling of his mighty thighs, he sprang at one of the Sirens the way a tiger pounces on a goat.

With one great hand, he seized the Siren’s long, flowing hair, while with the other he punched her in the chest so hard that her sternum and clavicles shattered and ripped the upper part of her spine out her back.

He wrenched off her head and swung it by its hair like a flail. The nearer of the remaining two took her sister’s head square in the face, hard enough to shatter every monstrous bone in her skull and drop her dead on the sand. The last Siren turned to flee, but Kratos whipped the remains of the first Siren’s head around his own and hurled it like a throwing hammer. The severed head struck the fleeing Siren between the shoulder blades, hard enough to shatter her spine. Splinters of bone shredded her lungs, which put a stop to her hideous keening cry.

Kratos stood over the dying Siren for a moment, with nothing resembling pity on his face. He crushed her head with a stomp of his sandal.

He hurried up the steps into the razed structure. Oddly, though the place appeared to be a ruin, the stairways and corridors were all lined with burning lamps, so he had not the slightest difficulty seeing his way. He followed the light…

… and eventually burst out into daylight again, on a balcony of dizzying height, looking upon the endless sandstorm raging across the Desert of Lost Souls. Kratos paused to examine crude reliefs carved on the walls to either side. One depicted gods appearing before Pathos Verdes III, commanding him to build a mighty temple to house the greatest weapon on earth or Olympus. The other showed the temple being chained to the back of Cronos-a disrespectful way for Zeus to treat his own father, even if Cronos had tried to eat Zeus as soon as the future king was born. Chained to the stone at the far lip of the balcony stood a horn larger than Kratos’s whole body. Curious carvings raked backward along the length of the horn; precious jewels rimmed its far end. Heavy chains fastened the horn into place at the edge of the balcony. Kratos went to the smaller end of the great horn, put his lips to it, and blew.

A mighty blast roared from the horn’s opposite end, harrowing apart the swirling desert sands before Kratos and somehow holding them at bay to open a path before him. Far in the distance along this path, he glimpsed another structure, a grander and more curious one. As he squinted at it, trying to make out details, that mighty temple began to move toward him. Kratos sucked in his breath as he saw Cronos arch and cause the Temple of Pandora chained to his back to shake and rumble. Then the Titan, on hands and knees, turned and passed close to the edge of the balcony where Kratos watched.

Kratos had no time to think. He reacted. A heavy chain dangling from the Titan’s side swept past. With a powerful leap, Kratos launched himself into the air. His fingers closed about the chain, and then he was whipped about as Cronos changed direction and plunged back into the depths of the sea of sand.