Taking a deep breath, Kratos watched the blades whirling about and judged the “safe” rings-but he knew they could never be considered islands of refuge. The rings did not spin at uniform rates. Some above went faster, while those on either side rotated more slowly. Once he started the climb, there would be no turning back, no rest, not an instant of hesitation.
Two quick steps and a jump took him above the first ring of curved blades. Kratos almost found his escape from Lord Hades’s grip at an end as the blade under his left foot cut off part of his sandal. He jerked upward and almost foolishly looked down.
No rest. No stopping.
The blades above came fast at eye level. Scrambling, finding purchase against the ever-moving rings, a toehold and a hard push upward barely allowed him to escape decapitation. He slowed, then shot upward, fingers finding the right gripping points to avoid the next ring of blades and the next and the next. Then he saw that the ring above rotated against the others and forced him to retreat. Kratos dropped down, but surged up when a break came in the deadly ring.
He found a rhythm to the climb, a certain logic to the seemingly random whirl of death around him. But a screech from behind warned him of a harpy coming at his back. Not daring to take his attention from the segmented tower of blades, he kept climbing.
Blood spattered his back and ran in thick rivers to drip down to the spot where he had begun the climb. The harpy had incautiously attacked him and ignored a set of blades coming from the opposite direction; it paid the price. A quick glance showed the headless body tumbling away in one direction. He never saw the head. He was too occupied with preventing such a fate from befalling him.
Twice, the flashing blades almost lopped off vital pieces of anatomy. One wound was minor, but a steady gush of blood came from a deep cut to his ribs just as he saw the top of the deadly column. Sanctuary in sight spurred him on, and wind whistling from the blades chilled his body as sweat evaporated from his exertions.
Close to the pinnacle, with only one ring of blades to pass, Kratos surged upward, let a sharp edge graze his leg, and then tumbled flat onto the top of the column. He immediately found himself faced with a tall legionnaire armored in flames. Kratos somersaulted, came to his feet, and brought the Blades of Chaos into his hands. The climb had set his pulse racing, and every sense was heightened. The legionnaire had no chance against his quick cuts and sudden leap high into the air. He hurtled downward, the blades preceding him. The legionnaire exploded in a ball of fire as the tip of one blade drove down hard onto the back of the undead’s skull.
Kratos stood, staring at the pile of ash that marked the legionnaire’s final resting place. He kicked the ash over the edge, sending it floating eventually to drift on the river Styx.
Looking around, he saw nowhere to go from the apex of the column. Kratos looked back down through the blur of spinning blades. If he had to retreat and find another way, he would. As he stepped to the edge to begin his descent, a new sound filled the air, drowning out the cries of those unfortunates falling to the underworld. He jumped back in time to avoid being crushed by a heavy block.
A grim smile curled Kratos’s lips. Tied to the block was a rope that vanished upward. He might have to deal with harpies, but the spinning blades of the column beneath his feet were a danger past. Gathering his strength, he bent his legs and exploded upward, grasping the rope as far above as possible. Hand over hand, he continued his escape as he went through dozens-or thousands-of weapons looted from the corpses of his enemies. Though a shade, he could be hurt by these enemies, he discovered, but victory healed his wounds.
The underworld behind him vanished as he clambered higher, finally seeing a ceiling above. Kratos wondered at what appeared to be roots dangling from the bottom. As he got closer, he saw that they were roots-roots of living plants from the world above. The living world above!
Kratos climbed faster and followed the rope into a hole that blocked all senses. His shoulders brushed dirt, and then the hole narrowed even more-but the rope still stretched taut above him. Ascending more slowly, he felt himself being crushed and smothered, and he knew the smell in his nostrils and the taste in his mouth.
Dirt. Clay.
Earth.
He spat out a mouthful of grit and sealed his lips. With an effort greater than he’d ever before believed he could summon, Kratos forced his hands and then his arms to move. He pressed his limbs outward, using his great strength to pack the smothering earth away from him, opening a little room to work. He began to move his legs as well, struggling to bend his knees or widen his stance. His heart hammered, and his lungs burned for air…
He told himself repeatedly, Shades don’t need to breathe.
Without pausing to marvel at this miracle or to ponder the question of its source, Kratos clawed his way upward, snarling and gasping and forcing his weakening limbs to move, to climb, to rip apart the dirt above him and break through to light and air. Just when his pounding heart seemed to be choking him to death, his hand broke through.
Fresh air gusted into his face. His fatigue vanished. Furiously, he attacked the imprisoning earth until he could see a night shrouded by clouds glowing blood-red with the light of fires below.
“Athens,” he croaked. “I’m in Athens…”
He pulled himself up to the mouth of the hole he had dug and discovered there were still six more feet to go.
He stood in an open grave.
TWENTY-NINE
IN THE OPEN GRAVE, Kratos’s skin prickled as though he had felt a sudden chill. He turned and looked up, and, yes, he was where he thought he was: the grave that had been dug beside the Temple of Athena.
Kratos vaulted from the grave and looked out over the burning city. In the distance he saw the immense shape of Ares striding through the city, stomping buildings at random.
“Ah, Kratos, right on time. I finished digging only a moment ago.”
The unexpected voice startled Kratos into a whirl. He crouched, ready to fight for his newly regained life, but there was no danger here. Behind him stood only the old gravedigger.
Now, though, the gravedigger did not look so old or nearly so decrepit, and his voice had none of his formerly senile quaver. Intelligence burned brightly in his once-murky eyes.
“Who are you?”
“An interesting question, but one we don’t have time to answer, my boy. You must hurry. Athens needs you.”
“But… but…” Kratos gestured in helpless bafflement at the empty grave. “But how did you know… how could you know I would-”
“Athena isn’t the only god keeping watch on you, Spartan. You have gone far to prove your worth, but your final task lies ahead of you.”
Kratos turned as a thunderous roar erupted from the direction of Athens. Ares towered above, meting out destruction and laughing in triumph. Kratos felt his rage building. Without turning to the gravedigger, he asked, “Who are you?”
Kratos spoke to empty air. The gravedigger had disappeared like smoke in the wind. There came an answering whisper, a zephyr blowing in his ear. “Complete your task, Kratos… and the gods will forgive your sins…”
The Spartan shook his head grimly. “How can I do this without Pandora’s Box?” For all the weapons he still carried, Kratos knew that they would hardly even muss Ares’s flame-laced hair.
He gazed across the burning ruin of Athens to where the God of War stood shouting his triumph to the heavens. Kratos steeled himself as he remembered an old maxim: Spartans fight with the weapons they have, not the weapons they want.
The hour of decision had finally come. Time to kill.
Time to die.
Kratos started walking. A strangled, gasping moan came to Kratos’s ear as he headed for the chasm he had only barely crossed as the lone bridge was destroyed. It came from within the Temple of Athena. It sounded like a woman moaning in agony, gasping for a last few breaths.