THE CHAIN SNAPPED tight around Kratos’ thickly muscled neck and yanked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, and then was dragged behind an immense galloping paint horse. The patches of color on the horse’s flanks were fire-bright. The hooves kicked back at Kratos, but the chain was long enough to hold him at a safe distance—if safe could ever be used to describe being strangled to death by the ever-tightening chain.
He grunted as he hit a dead tree and flew high in the air. He landed hard but caught a quick glimpse of the rider. The man wore a barbarian’s armor, heavy metal leaves across the shoulders and chest, bare arms save for furred wristlets, leggings that might conceal greaves but probably not. Despite the barbarian not wearing a helm, Kratos failed to see his face. What mattered more was the speeding terrain under his belly, ripping at his flesh as he was pulled faster and faster behind the warhorse. Kratos grabbed the chain with both hands and pulled, trying to dislodge it from his throat. He felt the links cutting into his flesh—and cutting off his air.
The world turned a bit darker as the horse sped along a trail. For a boggy stretch he landed only on hard spots. Rocks, stumps, debris, it all tore at Kratos’ flesh and distracted him from the one act that would save his life. If he didn’t get the chain unwrapped from his neck, he would die.
The horse jumped over a fallen tree; Kratos slammed hard into the log and then was airborne. For this brief instant, the tension slackened in the chain. He ducked his head, unwrapped a turn of the metallic leash, and shoved his right arm up so the chain snapped tight on his forearm instead of his neck. Then he hit the ground, and the air gusted from his lungs on impact. He was dragged for another hundred yards and then regained his senses enough to reach back, draw a sword with his left hand, and then bring it down with all his strength against the chain.
One instant he was sliding along—then he was sitting up on the path, trees on either side and the fire-branded horse galloping into a glade without Kratos’ weight holding it back. The rider sawed on the reins, forcing his mount to dig its hooves into the soft earth. Dirt flew up into a cloud, then the rider swung about and trotted back to where Kratos now stood with a blade in his hand.
“By the gods, it is true!” the rider marveled, staring hard at Kratos. “The Sisters are smiling upon me today. I have fought my way through the Guardians of Hades, crawled my way out of the fires of torment, all for a chance to change my fate. And what better place to start than by taking the life of the man who stole mine?”
“You,” Kratos said, sneering. “How many times must I kill you?”
The Barbarian King threw back his head and roared in defiance. As his head tipped back, Kratos saw the white scar on the barbarian’s throat. He had severed the warrior’s head and sent it into a mud puddle when last they had faced each other. The thick black beard once more hid the scar caused by decapitation as he lowered his chin to peer at Kratos from under beetled brows. Kratos could hardly see the eyes in those hollowed pits, but he thought they burned with more than bloodlust. There was cunning focused solely on his grounded foe.
“For my efforts the Sisters shine their light upon me, delivering the very object of my vengeance: Kratos!”
Kratos staggered slightly as the world spun about him, the dim light of fading twilight and the noxious rising bog gases replaced by the heavy scent of spilled blood. A battlefield ankle-deep in dirt, turned to mud by so much spilled blood. He had been ripped away from the world he inhabited and sent into that of dream—of nightmare!
Kratos was part of the illusion and yet stood away from it, facing the Barbarian King as he had once before.
“Alrik,” Kratos cried. “I will shorten you again! Come to do battle!”
“You will fall this time, Ghost of Sparta. You drank the ambrosia and robbed me of my father’s life.”
“With him dead, you became king,” Kratos said. “Could it be that you let me do your killing for you to save yourself the trouble?” Kratos sought to goad the barbarian into thoughtless attack. It worked.
The Barbarian King rushed forward, but the battle did not go as Kratos expected. Alrik was immense and immensely strong. He swung his war hammer with skill and power, driving Kratos back and then to his knees. Alrik swung the haft around and caught Kratos under the chin. The Spartan’s head snapped back, and he flopped onto his spine so that he stared up at Alrik as he used both hands on the war hammer to lift it high. Muscles rippled as Alrik prepared to bring it crashing down onto his foe’s skull, but all Kratos could see was the intricately braided beard and the human knuckle bones woven into it.
Kratos called to Ares for succor and relived the unholy bargain he had made with the God of War. And the fight swiftly changed. Ares slew the barbarians freely, easily, and Kratos found himself possessed of renewed strength—and the Blades of Chaos welded to his arm bones by lengths of chain. The fight became one-sided, and Kratos sent Alrik to the Underworld where he belonged.
He stumbled and found that he no longer waded about in the ankle-deep bloody mud of nightmare. Reality now matched his hallucination.
Alrik had returned from Hades’ clutches.
“We have some things in common,” Kratos said.
“Hatred of each other?” the Barbarian King called.
“Yes. And we have both left the Underworld behind.”
“There is one more thing we have in common,” Alrik said.
Kratos said nothing. He clutched his swords, evaluating his best attack of this mighty warrior returned from Hades.
“My father’s death! I will not die until you pay for killing him,” Alrik said.
Before Kratos could attack, the center of the glade began to change. The rapidly opening hole warned Kratos he had no time to spare. Leaping over the gaping maw that stretched all the way down to Hades, he swung, but Alrik was too intelligent a fighter for such an obvious attack to succeed. He galloped away, out of Kratos’ reach.
Kratos reached behind and drew Typhon’s Bane. He began firing the arrows as quickly as he could. Alrik batted away one or two of the icy missiles, but a few more embedded in his heavy armor. The attack produced a deep-throated laugh.
“Is that the best you can do, Ghost of Sparta?”
The horse galloped toward Kratos, its rider wielding the mighty war hammer. Kratos somersaulted to the left side of the fiery steed, forcing Alrik to swing the hammer across his body. This shortened his reach and afforded Kratos a few inches—which saved his life. The spiked hammerhead grazed his back, but then it was too late for Alrik to attack in any other way. The Barbarian King depended on his horse to carry him out of range for any attack Kratos could launch.
Kratos used his swords on the horse’s legs, chopping the hooves off just above the fetlocks. The cannon bones snapped and the horse fell headfirst onto the ground, sending its rider flailing through the air. The horse’s body prevented Kratos from instantly following up his attack and putting an end to Alrik once more.
Single-mindedly, he went around the mutilated horse, his eyes only on Alrik. This almost brought him death.
Alrik swung his war hammer in a whistling arc to hold Kratos at bay. He clenched his teeth, then let loose a heart-stopping roar. “Attend me, my warriors. Come to your king and fight once more beside me!”
A sudden stench filled the air, which made Kratos’ nose wrinkle. The smell was too familiar. It was present in cemeteries and on battlefields and anywhere else that death held reign. In front of him opened the hole again, allowing the dead barbarians slain by the Spartans to creep out from the Underworld. One grabbed Kratos’ leg and tripped him. With the agility of a cat, Kratos hit and rolled, came to his feet, and swung the Blades of Athena with deadly accuracy. The dead barbarian’s head exploded from his shoulders, bounced once, and then disappeared back over the edge and down to Hades. The body continued to fight. Kratos kicked out, tripped the flailing soldier, and sent it after its head.
He recovered in time to see Alrik shaking off the effect of his fall. With contemptuous ease, he swung his war hammer about. The spikes embedded in the head glistened with fresh blood. Kratos wondered where it had come from, then realized it was his own. Alrik had not connected squarely with his blow but had drawn blood. Kratos felt the large round spot on his back beginning to throb from the injury.
Kratos started for Alrik, then stopped. The Barbarian King placed the haft of his hammer on the ground, then tapped it several times with deceptive gentleness. The earthquake that radiated outward would have knocked Kratos from his feet if he had not jumped as hard as his powerful legs could propel him. When he landed, the ground still shook but the worst of the quake had passed.
A well-aimed sword cut opened a long gash on Alrik’s cheek, but the Barbarian King paid no heed. He swung his ponderous war hammer about and knocked Kratos’ swords away. The defensive move left the huge man’s body open to Kratos’ sudden rush forward until the two men were within inches of each other. Kratos slugged him with the pommel of one sword and his right fist. The solid blows forced Alrik away. Kratos followed, this time with both swords swinging.
The two crashed together in fierce combat, each strong, both determined to kill the other. Locked together, straining, Alrik grated out, “The Sisters promised to change my fate. I won’t let you, Ghost of Sparta, steal away my chance for life!”
Kratos heaved, sending Alrik back. The barbarian was too strong for him, and the risk of what he had to do seemed suicidally high. With blades in front of him, he marshaled his energy and let the burning white spot deep within his breast grow. As the power focused in that scintillant spot, his legs wobbled.
“You fear me, Kratos? I knew it!” Alrik rushed forward.
His arms mimicked his legs as the muscles turned to water. The barbarian shrieked his battle cry and lifted his war hammer for the killing blow. Too weak to do more than wobble on his feet, Kratos looked within his body and spirit and unleashed the Rage of the Titans. The powerful shock wave knocked Alrik back so hard it took him off his feet. He sat down and skidded back a few more feet. For the first time, something more than hatred glowed in the king’s eyes.
Kratos saw fear.
“You won’t get past me to the Temple of Euryale. I will stop you and claim my reward for serving the Sisters of Fate!”
Blades swinging in a deadly arc, Kratos pressed forward and left bleeding gashes in the Barbarian King’s arms. Seeing his chance, Kratos reached up and grabbed the shaft of the war hammer in an attempt to wrest it away. He shoved his feet into Alrik’s chest, then straightened his body as he wrenched the hammer free of the warrior’s grip. He flew through the air and landed heavily.
Before he could regain his feet, Alrik swarmed over him, a heavy knee pressing him into the ground. Alrik snatched back the war hammer. Kratos rolled over and over until he was some distance away and got to his feet. He was barely beyond the radius of the hammer’s swing. Hot air gusted against his face as the spike-studded hammerhead passed within inches of his face. If the blow had landed, his head would have been turned to gory pulp.
Kratos attacked, his swords flying faster than any war hammer could possibly block. Alrik exerted his immense strength and used his long arms as effective levers to change the direction, but it was too late. Kratos was inside the giant’s guard. His swords stabbed forward and into the Barbarian King.
Alrik never reacted to these wounds. But he did when Kratos once more grabbed the haft of the war hammer and wrenched it away. Real fear mingled with utter hatred for a brief instant before Kratos swung the hammer about and caught Alrik on the side of the head. The blow knocked him facedown to the ground. Kratos squared his stance, judged distance, then brought the hammer down in the middle of Alrik’s shoulders with every ounce of energy locked in his battle-hardened body. Blood spattered as the spikes dug in and the spine cracked. Kratos swung again. This time he aimed lower. The spine broke. But still Alrik flopped about. Another blow. Another and another left Alrik still on the ground.
Kratos held the captured war hammer high over his head and roared in triumph. Then he kicked the body to the edge of the Hades hole and finally into it.
Kratos allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Before, Alrik had outfought him and only Ares’ intervention had saved him. Rather, it had resigned Kratos to a life of servitude to the God of War. The now dead God of War.
He had no more time to relish the victory. The undead barbarians continued to crawl forth from Hades. He hefted the war hammer and swung it in a wide circle, knocking two back into the hole. He heard their anguished cries as they once more fell to the Underworld.
When the last had been dropped back through the hole, it began to close. Kratos placed the war hammer on the ground and leaned on it. Blood trickled from between the spikes. Kratos swung the hammer about and slammed the head down to wipe off Alrik’s blood, causing an earthquake. He grunted without humor, and hefted the war hammer so that it rested on his shoulder. Then Kratos triumphantly slid it behind his back, where it magically reposed with the other gifts he had received from the gods.
He looked deeper into the bog and saw the dark spire rising above the Temple of Euryale. Alrik had protected that for the Sisters of Fate. He had been promised a new fate if he kept Kratos from reaching the temple, for all the good that it did him.