Matthew Woodring Stover - God of War

F OR S COTT AND JEN

R OBERT E. VARDEMAN

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 Krawczyks sharp eye and knowledge of the game are truly appreciated. Tricia Pasternak was the best editorever. 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.

R OBERT E. VARDEMAN

A T 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 friendshe is feared and hated throughout the known world, and no living creature looks upon him with love or even a hint of affection. No enemieshe 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 worldbut 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 thats been done to him, in one shattering burst of night.

T HE 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. Dont look so solemn. Dont be so solemn. Lets 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?

Im 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 haveone that you can help me with, which is only fair, since youre its inspiration.

Am I? Athenas 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. Youre wearing your wings. Is this an official message?