God of War E-Book

J.M. Barlog

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 448

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The novelization of the highly anticipated God of War 4 game. His vengeance against the Gods of Olympus years behind him, Kratos now lives as a man in the realm of Norse gods and monsters. It is in this harsh, unforgiving world that he must fight to survive… and teach his son to do the same. This startling reimagining of God of War deconstructs the core elements that defined the series—satisfying combat; breathtaking scale; and a powerful narrative—and fuses them anew.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Midgard

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Alfheim

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Midgard

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Helheim

Chapter 38

Midgard

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Helheim

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Midgard

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Jötunheim

Chapter 56

Midgard

Epilogue

About the Author

THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION

THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION

J. M. BARLOG

Thank you to the God of War Writing Team,Matt Sophos, Rich Gaubert, Orion Walker,Adam Dolin, for making this novelizationpossible, and a very special thanks to CoryBarlog, Game Director, God of War.

TITAN BOOKS

GOD OF WAR: THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION

Print edition ISBN: 9781789090147

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789090154

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition: August 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

©2018 Sony Interactive Entertainment Llc. God of War is a Trademark of Sony Interactive Entertainment Llc.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Did you enjoy this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at [email protected] or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

www.titanbooks.com

Being a parent sucks. And yet being a parent is so totally amazing. The struggles and uncertainty are constant, while the rewards seem to be spread very far apart. While those highs may be few and far between, they are so incredibly potent that they tend to carry you easily to the next high.

I also think the creative process is a lot like being a parent. You go into it with all the enthusiasm and passion of a person who clearly has no fucking clue what is in store for them. Very quickly the reality of the situation settles in and the marathon stretch of emotional turbulence and sleep depravation kicks your butt so hard your forehead is stamped with Adidas. After what seems like an eternity of total confusion, surprise punches to the face, and a little voice in your head that gleefully reminds you that you have no earthly clue what you are doing, you get a single euphoric moment of clarity. You cling to that moment like it’s a life raft and you are stranded in a vast empty ocean blanketed by a permanent starless night. In a way it is the thing that is going to save you, because those moments of certainty don’t last very long. Pretty soon the sharks of doubt and fear start circling below the murky water, brushing against your naked legs and scaring the ever-loving shit out of you. It might seem a bit melodramatic, but trust me; when you are treading water in the middle of a dilemma whose answer simply will not present itself—it feels like freaking sharks preparing to eat you from the toes up.

Over the many years of your journey you collect the good and the bad moments. If you are lucky it is far more of the good than the bad, but no matter the final count, it always seems to feel like you have more bad. As the years advance, something amazing happens, the black of night gives way to the gentle twinkle of the stars. Then, as if by some kind of dark unknown magic, the horizon ignites with the white-hot burst of the coming sun. Suddenly, you can see things a whole lot clearer. You’re still clinging to a tiny life raft in the middle of an endless ocean. But, hey, at least it’s not dark anymore.

It’s the little victories—in life, and in the creative process.

One of the conceits of the creative and the parental journey is in knowing that you don’t know. This is a lesson I found the hardest to learn in my life. It is so incredibly hard to say, “I don’t know.” Especially when another person looks to you for answers. The real tragedy of this lesson is that, as a parent, you struggle with trying to project to your child that you have it under control. You are the stabilizing force for them. You are the rock. But deep inside, you’re just as uncertain of the future as your child is. It is not until you are placed in the situation where you must project a confidence in the unknown that you truly realize that we all have no idea what we are doing. But knowing is, in some ways, overrated. It’s not about knowing how everything is going to turn out, but being open to every moment as it comes, and working together to discover those little victories. It is about being willing to cede control, as much as take charge, to see each other for who you are at that moment, rather that who you think you should be in the future.

Because along the path of life and parenting—as well as the process of creating—it is not about the destination; and it really helps to understand that you are not doing it alone. I could never have made it here without my father. I am every bit of who I am because of our journey. Now I begin this wandering with my own son, armed with the lifetime of lessons from both my father and my mother to guide me on this road. The most important of all these lessons: I know that I don’t know.

The adventure that Kratos and Atreus go on in this story was inspired so much by my own life and the lives of those who worked so hard to create it. If you look close enough, you might even be surprised to see a bit of your own journey reflected back at you in these pages.

Cory Barlog

Atreus shut his left eye, easing the bow down until the arrow tip aligned with the sixteen-point tawny stag’s shoulder. He steadied a quivering arm while narrowing his concentration on his prey.

One shot. He would get it in one shot.

Inhale, focus, exhale, release. The words drummed through his brain with a cadence that pounded like the blood vessels in his forehead. His heart raced so fast it fractured his focus, forcing him to reset and draw another breath before he might be able to release the feathered shaft.

He had to do this. He had to show his father he could do this. An avalanche of debilitating doubts stomped helter-skelter through his mind. What if he failed?

Atreus shifted his right arm slightly left. The stag continued grazing, still ignorant of their clandestine presence. They had strategically crouched upwind. Fire only when the animal is looking down, he recalled from his mother’s training.

“Feel your heartbeat. Slow it down. Time your release between the beats,” a stern, gruff voice came again, this time right beside his ear.

Despite his surging heart, Atreus focused just behind the shoulder. If his aim held true, his shot would find the beast’s heart. Despite the brittle air, a trickle of sweat found its way into his eye. He was running out of opportunity. The stag’s head started up.

Atreus’ eyes closed without him realizing it.

“Hold,” Kratos issued like a command.

Atreus released, praying the gods were watching over him.

The pine shaft sailed wide, lofted left by an unaccounted-for puff of wind. It found an elm’s bole nearby, sending the startled deer into flight.

“What are you doing!” Kratos exploded, steely gray eyes on fire, ashen skin as white as the clouds. Scarlet tattoos swirled across his torso as if the result of a hand’s wide brushstroke. A similar tattoo, running over his hairless head and crossing his left brow, furled with anger as he ripped the bow from his son’s limp hands. A three-tiered leather pauldron strapped across his chest protected his right shoulder. Other than that, his torso remained unclothed, save for the discolored bandages covering both forearms.

“Now its guard is up! Only fire—” Kratos stammered through his thick, trimmed chestnut beard. Then he forced himself to stop. He needed to check his anger. He was dealing with a child. “Only fire when I tell you to fire.” He issued a low growl.

“I’m sorry…” Atreus said reflexively. His innocent blue eyes, the hue of the deep lakes dotting the land, pleaded forgiveness, though he could not fathom why his failure so angered his father. His mother always encouraged him when he missed during their hunting lessons. She was eternally forgiving compared to his father. He never felt the need to choke out an apology for his shortcomings with her. It seemed all he ever did was apologize to his father for his errors. And his mother never revealed even the slightest hint of anger toward him.

“Do not be sorry! Be better. Now find it.”

Atreus reached for his bow; Kratos jerked it further away.

“You missed your mark, boy,” his father muttered. He launched himself from the cover of dense foliage to the path the deer had taken. “We are supposed to be hunting deer, not chasing them. Now we must run it down to finish the job.”

The razor-sharp words clawed at Atreus’ insides. He stood chest-high before his father in a rabbit-skinned sleeveless jerkin to stave off the chill in the breeze. He tried to understand why his father would act so harshly toward him. He tried to accept it. He tempered his rage. It was almost as though the man before him, his father, was a stranger. Shaking the thought away, he raced off in pursuit of the creature. He hoped it would take but a few moments to spot the fleeing animal’s tracks in the sparsely covered earth.

His tenuous confidence shattered, his heart racing, and his mind reeling, Atreus accelerated his pace as fast as his skinny adolescent legs could carry him. Sweat dappled his cropped chestnut hair. Kratos loomed a dozen long strides ahead, picking his way into the forest to locate the animal’s trail. Now was no time to talk, no time to think, no time to reflect on his error. Now was a time for action, as his mother had instructed him. If he wanted to eat, he had to locate the tracks and take up the chase.

“This way,” he called out jubilantly.

Kratos had unknowingly drifted far left of the animal’s path.

“Your mother taught you well,” Kratos fired back through heaving breaths, as he pounded the forest floor beside his son to follow the now discernible trail.

Approaching a slight, pine-infested ridge, Atreus froze. He spied the stag in a thorny copse, grazing on the sparse grass jutting out every which way through mounds of dirt-speckled snow.

Atreus lowered himself onto one knee, waiting while his father eased in to return the bow.

“This time, wait for my mark. Relax. You must not think of it as an animal,” Kratos instructed gruffly.

Kratos laid the bow across his son’s hands, all the time eyeing their prey. “It is simply a target. Clear your mind.”

The words were unwelcome and unneeded. Atreus knew what he had to do. He had learned to shoot from his mother. She was more than just an able teacher.

Atreus leveled the bow before notching in his arrow.

“Keep that elbow up.”

“I can do this,” Atreus whispered, more to himself than to his father.

“Draw to your chin,” the God of War instructed.

Atreus eased the bowstring back.

“Concentrate on your target. See nothing else.”

The stag lifted its head, sampling the air.

Having planted themselves upwind, they remained undetected as long as the prevailing breeze did not shift and betray them.

“Inhale, concentrate, exhale, release,” Kratos’ stern voice drummed out.

Atreus ignored the words. He paused, his own anger rising to meddle with his concentration. He cast everything aside except the target before him.

“It is merely a target,” Kratos said, interrupting the boy’s concentration.

Atreus felt his wavering arm drift upward. He commanded it to be still. He was off target. He began the painstakingly slow task of correcting his aim ever so gently to return the arrow tip to its mark.

“Take the shot, boy. Now!” Kratos urged, impatience riding his words.

Silently the arrow arced true to its target. It penetrated the rear of the stag’s shoulder. The beast lurched skyward before pounding into the forest in a hobbling flight directly away from their location.

“I got it!” Atreus chimed. He lurched to his feet in triumph.

“Good,” Kratos said, still restrained. The boy had failed to drop the beast where it stood. Now they had to chase it down again.

Atreus wanted to smile, wanted to celebrate his accomplishment before his demanding father.

But instead, he needed to focus on locating the beast before it could flee too far. All was not lost, as long as he could keep on the beast’s trail and reach it before it might locate a safe refuge.

Atreus scrambled to take up the chase. The blood trail made his task obvious.

Before the deer could scamper beyond sight, they witnessed the beast’s forelegs faltering. “He’ll not run far, Father,” Atreus called over his shoulder, his excited smile spreading across his face.

Kratos followed a dozen anxious strides in his wake.

Atreus paused, but only long enough to confirm he maintained the blood trail. “This way,” he instructed his father, angling his bow in the direction to follow.

Atreus stopped suddenly at the fringe of a leafy copse. His feet remained rooted as Kratos approached a few seconds later.

The deer had fallen, blood oozing from the shaft still buried in its shoulder. Terrified, it stared up at the lad, who now stood over his accomplishment. Suddenly, it failed to feel like such an accomplishment.

“It’s… it’s still alive,” Atreus muttered with a breathless voice.

He worked to swallow the rush of emotion flooding into his throat. He turned away rather than gaze directly at the suffering animal.

Kratos read the struggle on his son’s face, his expression exactly like his mother’s: caring, soulful, and compassionate.

Atreus knew what came next.

“Your knife.” Kratos’ voice was one of an emotionless, seasoned hunter. Atreus withdrew the blade, unconsciously offering it to his father.

Kratos planted his hands on his hips, waiting, unmoving. The God of War’s thin, tight lips remained a straight line through his overgrown beard. He leveled a stare at Atreus.

“No. You must finish what you started,” Kratos commanded. The lad must accept the harsh realities of his life. A forceful nod indicated the deer, still chaotically breathing in the clearing; its bleeding, however, a mere trickle while it awaited death. Until that final breath, it would suffer from the excruciating pain caused by the arrow buried in its shoulder.

Atreus reluctantly pulled his gaze back from his father to the now quivering animal.

Disbelief held him motionless. He knew what was expected of him. He understood why he had to deliver the deathblow, yet something inside held his brain in check.

Drawing in a deep calming breath, Atreus dropped to his knees before the creature. He shoved the knife forward. His hand trembled out of control.

“I can’t…” he pleaded.

Kratos crouched beside him and wrapped his monstrous hand over the boy’s fingers, clutching the knife, steadying the blade. Atreus flinched at the sudden, uncharacteristic contact. His father rarely made any physical connection with him. Part of Atreus wanted to bask in that moment; another part commanded he respond with the appropriate action, so as not to appear weak. In his heart he knew why he felt the way he felt. His life was to be forever changed.

Misinterpreting his father’s act, Atreus relaxed, grateful in that moment that he would be released from having to deliver the fatal blow.

“Delaying what must be done only invites trouble,” Kratos said.

In the next moment, with Atreus’ hand still in place, Kratos shoved the blade full force into the stag’s neck, ending its life with a final shrill screech and a spurt of blood splattering their faces.

For seconds—too many seconds, it seemed—they stared at the stag’s lifeless form. Its sole purpose in living was to sustain them in their lives; it died so they might live on. Their lives mattered more than the lives of the creatures they killed. Atreus needed to understand that. That was the way of their world, and the boy had to accept it.

The dense undergrowth a dozen paces to their left rustled violently.

Fear swarmed across Atreus’ face. Something monstrous was invading.

Remaining calm, but bracing for the worst, Kratos shot to his feet, lurching the unmoving boy up by the collar and shoving the lad behind him.

A hulking gray hand slammed over a nearby ridge, reaching for the carcass. The woodland troll, three times Kratos’ height and easily four times his girth, lumbered into the clearing. Its gaping mouth, framed by two curved defensive tusks, opened in preparation for gnawing into the stag. Having caught the scent of deer blood, the creature had decided it had found something to sustain itself.

“What is that?” Atreus called out.

“Woodland troll. Stay behind me,” Kratos commanded.

Kratos started to back Atreus to safety when the troll lunged for them, slamming a massive fist into the God of War’s chest, while simultaneously lifting the limp deer with its other hand.

The attack sent Kratos and the boy tumbling into a hollow in the trees.

“Kjöt,” the troll growled.

“What did he say?” Kratos asked out the side of his mouth.

“I think he said meat.” Atreus scrambled through crackling auburn leaves to retrieve his fallen bow.

“Dauði Kaupmaðr ta,” the troll snarled.

It lofted the carcass in victory, and with the deer’s limp head flopping, brought the neck toward its gaping jaws.

“No! You’re not taking our kill!” Atreus fired back, understanding the last word as “take”.

“No!” Kratos yelled, withdrawing the Leviathan axe strapped across his back. Issuing an unspoken command, he charged the axe with frost, aimed, then hurled it at the troll. The deer trunk came down to shield it from the strike. When the axe penetrated the stag’s hide it instantly froze it, causing the startled troll to release it. The carcass shattered into a hundred pieces when it hit the ground.

“Þú tilheyra ekki hér!” the troll uttered. Disgust lined its voice; contempt poured out of dark, soulless orbs.

“We do belong here!” Atreus shouted, amazed he’d deciphered the troll’s claim. His mother had anticipated that someday this exchange would come, and he should be prepared to handle it. “We hunt where we please.”

Raising an open palm, Kratos commanded his axe’s return. The weapon, magically bound to him, responded without hesitation, whipping back into his hand.

“Father?” Atreus knew he needed to do something but didn’t know what. He had never encountered such a creature when he hunted with his mother. Recovering his quiver, Atreus fumbled to extract an arrow while still on his knees.

Trembling hands worked frantically to nock the shaft.

Before Kratos could mount another attack, the troll slammed its full weight into him, casting him aside like a limp ragdoll and toppling the axe to the ground a short distance beyond reach. The beast then released a garbled laugh at the human’s feeble efforts.

But what the troll’s simple mind failed to comprehend how the axe returned a moment later, allowing Kratos to position the blade defensively.

Now coveting the iron weapon, the troll turned to face Kratos squarely, while the axe rose over the God of War’s head. The creature detected Kratos’ smile. Its face turned grim and vicious.

In one smooth motion, Atreus leveled his bow on the troll, whose monstrous hand seized the axe handle to hold Kratos at bay.

“Father, move away,” Atreus yelled. He struggled to line up a clear shot at the troll’s vulnerable chest.

Kratos slammed his free fist into the troll’s jaw, knocking it back a few feet. The troll had seriously underestimated this man’s strength.

“Do not fire!” Kratos commanded.

Kratos charged, only to take a slamming fist to his chest, which drove him to the ground while the troll leaned over him with a sickening grin.

With a quivering hand, Atreus held the arrow at full draw, angling the tip skyward for fear an errant release could maim his father by mistake.

The troll hoisted the closest boulder overhead, angling toward Atreus.

“Boy!”

“I’m fine. Kill it!” Atreus yelled through clenched jaws. The true gravity of the situation took control of his brain. He saw in that instant the very distinct possibility that the troll might kill his father. Refusing to accept the possibility of losing another parent, Atreus leveled the bow, aiming the tip at the center of the troll’s chest. The easiest target is the largest, his mind instructed him. But before he could focus his concentration and exhale, the troll lunged for Kratos. The God of War slammed the troll’s neck, forcing it rearward clutching its throat to breathe.

Kratos leapt to his feet, throwing his axe up quickly enough to drive the blade into the troll’s shoulder.

An agonized wail shattered the forest stillness as the troll shifted his hand over the spurting wound.

Infuriated, the troll swung his other arm to knock Kratos from his feet. Atreus now had a clear shot, but only for a moment, as the stumbling troll charged his father before he could regain his footing.

“I have a shot!” Atreus yelled, hoping his father might retreat just long enough for him to deliver a deathblow.

Atreus’ heart pounded. The arrow tip wavered in his aim. His mouth turned cottony; tears blurred his sight. He had to act. He couldn’t allow his father to die.

Just as the troll tightened its death grip on Kratos’ throat, Kratos brought his axe up to cleave the troll’s grotesque head.

Wailing and stumbling, the troll groped wildly to extract the blade, without success. With a last grasp, the troll toppled face-first into the dirt.

The clearing fell silent for a long moment. Nothing moved. Then Kratos collected himself before returning to his knees.

Atreus leapt to his feet with a grating scream. Casting his bow aside, mind clouded with rage, he dropped to his knees beside the troll, rapid-fire stabbing his hunting knife into the body. In that moment, all his bottled rage and fear and anger boiled to the surface. The thought of losing his father after just losing his mother drove him to a place where he could no longer restrain his emotions.

“This is what you get!” he screamed.

Tears stole Atreus’ vision. He cast his face away to prevent his father from witnessing what was written across his face. He refused to allow his father to see him as a sniveling child. He had to be a man. He had to act like a man.

“Think I’m afraid of you!” he snarled at the troll, lowering his knife while wiping away tears.

In the next moment, Atreus released a jarring cough, forcing him to his hands and knees while struggling to breathe. Kratos responded by grabbing his son around the waist to draw him away, while Atreus sought to lash out once more at the troll.

“You are nothing to me! Nothing!” Atreus forced out between coughs.

Kratos took the boy by the shoulders, forcing him to face him. “Boy! Look at me! Look at me, boy!” he commanded, when Atreus refused to pull his stare from the beast.

“Look at me now!” Kratos snarled.

“No! No!” Atreus yelled back, yielding fully to his inner grief.

Kratos grabbed his wrists and locked on Atreus’ face.

A deadpan Kratos offered no smile, no heartfelt words to console, no embrace that might indicate he shared in the grief that tore at Atreus’ soul. Instead, he released his son, so Atreus could sheath his hunting knife. A cough erupted in the lad, but this time he suppressed it through force of will. He must no longer appear weak. He must no longer be the child his father saw whenever he looked at him.

“We did it,” Atreus said at last, panting.

Kratos stared for a long moment. He seemed to be reading Atreus’ mind. He was evaluating him in a way Atreus failed to comprehend.

“You are not ready,” Kratos muttered finally.

“What?” Atreus found himself spouting. He knew he should remain silent. But he could not. “I found the deer. I shot the deer. I proved myself. How am I not ready?”

Kratos returned his axe to its sling on his back before wiping the troll’s blood from his face. Then he started out from the clearing.

“What are we going to eat?”

“Badger.”

“I hate badger,” Atreus muttered with disgust on his face. Kratos kept going, ignoring the comment.

“I haven’t been sick in a long time,” Atreus shouted a few moments later. “I can do whatever you demand of me.” Slinging his quiver and bow over his shoulder, he started after his father, now a dozen paces in the lead.

Kratos cast a glance over his shoulder at the boy.

“You are not ready,” Kratos delivered with a grave finality in his voice.

“I am,” Atreus whispered. As he passed the beast, he couldn’t stop himself from delivering a final mighty kick to the dead troll’s gut, recoiling in fear when a sudden noxious flatulence moved the carcass. Atreus pinched his nose.

“Where are we going now?” Atreus pressed, unable to prevent the pent-up frustration from showing in his words. Kratos disappeared into the thick forest.

“I am ready,” Atreus repeated, more loudly.

“Do not speak again.”

“I will show you,” Atreus said, under his breath.

Kratos emerged from the forest first; Atreus followed a few paces behind, a dead badger slung over his shoulder. They paused on the rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below.

Home.

The simple word held such a different meaning now. Home could never be the same.

Kratos scanned the surrounding fields before advancing onto the winding path leading to their house.

“Father, look,” Atreus said, angling his bow at a pair of black ravens cawing aloft in an arcing formation. The boy’s tone caught Kratos off guard.

“So?”

“I have never seen them before. Mother instructed me to tell her if ever I spotted ravens over our forest.”

“Leave them.”

Moments later a formidable gyrfalcon, half the size of Atreus with speckled black plumage and a seven-foot wingspan, soared out from the forest canopy, scattering the birds in different directions.

“Jöphie is back. I thought she had abandoned us after…”

Atreus outstretched his arm to attract the bird, which would easily consume his entire arm, to support her as a perch, but the bird of prey ignored his offering and settled onto a nearby tree stump.

“She only went to Mother. She never would come to me,” Atreus said, abandoning his attempt.

Offering no more than a cursory glance at the falcon, Kratos maintained a watchful eye on the surrounding vegetation as they made their way into the clearing that opened up onto the house. They had never encountered woodland trolls so close to where they lived before. Its presence sent an unsettling rumble through Kratos’ gut.

“Why do you suppose Mother insisted I inform her if I saw ravens? What could they mean? And why are we seeing them now?”

When Atreus looked skyward, the ravens were indeed gone.

“I have no answers.”

Seeing his home left Atreus empty inside. The joy he had always felt in the past when returning home no longer filled his heart. Their hours of silent journey only intensified the feeling of loss.

The badger was all they had to show for their hunting trip. And that was only because badgers were plentiful, slow, and clumsy creatures that fell easily to the arrow. But at least they would eat fresh kill this evening.

Once inside their house, Kratos barely spoke, leaving the carcass to Atreus to skin and gut for their dinner. Afterward, sitting on a three-legged stool before the hearth, Atreus skewered the animal before fitting it onto the iron spigot for roasting. The flames cast his mind back to his mother’s funeral pyre, where she lay enshrouded in white linens as the flames licked upward on all sides to consume her. He had shed no tears at that moment, his mind so taken by his grief that he could only stand there in shock. Then he winced from the pain he endured when he realized he had left his mother’s hunting knife upon her chest after using it to cut the cloth to encase her. At the last second, he had stuck his hand through the flames to snatch the blade back, tossing it aside from the fiery pain it laid across his palm.

Tears welled as he contemplated life without her. He forced his mind to recall the warmth of her cheek pressed against his when she showed him how to use the bow she had made for him. Her gentle hands wrapped over his, to make certain he held the string properly. He would miss the way she could encourage him with just a few simple words.

“BOY!” Kratos roared in anger, surging past him to rip the burning meat from the flames.

Atreus abandoned his memories to stare blankly at the charbroiled badger coming off the skewer. The only thing worse than eating badger: eating charred badger.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized weakly.

“Apologize to your empty belly, not to me,” Kratos grumbled while he shifted the blackened meat to the table.

They supped in silence, and afterward sat in their chairs before the hearth to keep warm. The third empty chair beside Kratos only served to intensify the loss both were enduring.

“It is time,” Kratos said, rising to retreat to his bed in the far corner. Atreus remained a moment longer, seeking to rekindle his mother’s smile in his mind. It was her smile that he would miss the most. Tonight, he would force himself to dream about her. He would dig up memories of the times they were happily working side by side in her garden. She was always happiest when she tended her plants.

Atreus dragged himself out of his chair to retire to his cot, across from his parents’ now half-empty bed.

He could hear his father’s forced breathing rising in the night. He squeezed his eyes shut. They popped open seconds later. Sleep eluded him as he stared at the ceiling timbers. He had never felt more alone in his life than at that moment. All that he knew that made him happy was gone. Anger swelled at the thought of all that he cared about having left him. He knew he was wrong in thinking that. He had his father. He was not alone. His life was meant to go on. But why were the gods punishing him so? What had he done that angered them so much? His mother preached to him that there were gods that were good and cared about humans. So why did those same gods choose to leave his mother unprotected?

Minutes after exhaustion drew Atreus into a dreamless sleep, he was awoken by the turmoil of thrashing arms across the room. Kratos, engulfed in a tormented sleep, battled a foe existing only in his mind’s eye.

* * *

Kratos held a defensive stance, his back against a rock wall, his blades out to defend himself from a trio of yowling wolves twice his height: one black with verdant eyes, one white, and the third gray. The black beast seemed to be the alpha, assuming the most forward position. A beardless God of War, clad in the clothes of his life in Greece, slashed his Blades of Chaos to keep the predators at bay. But his actions failed to discourage their assault. Kratos realized he needed to bring down at least one of the wolves if he hoped to survive their onslaught. The white wolf advanced as if on command. The movement revealed a woman behind the beasts, clad in a long cloak and cowl obscuring much of her face. Her raised arm sent all three creatures airborne to attack.

“WHO ARE YOU?” Kratos screamed with all the force he could muster, just as the black wolf ripped into his thigh to drag him away.

* * *

The dream vanished in that moment, with Kratos springing upright in his bed.

The red and orange of a rising morning sun bathed him with relief. Sweat drenched his clothes and his bed. Quiet consumed the house. His son remained asleep across the room. Kratos thought for sure he had screamed the words out loud, but his son’s continued slumber indicated they had merely been part of his nightmare. For a long moment he struggled to recall the woman’s face. His arms ached despite the respite of the night. For so many decades he had successfully banished the horrifying incident from his memory. Now it resurfaced to torture him, for what purpose he could not discern.

Many moments later, Atreus drew up his eyelids from his peaceful sleep. Gazing across at his father, his face conveyed a troubled mind. The disconcerting silence commanded the room.

“I did everything you asked. Why is that not good enough?” he ventured, rekindling the words his father had delivered to him while they were hunting.

Kratos buried the memory of his dream, returning to the moment.

“You surrendered control,” Kratos explained, trying to constrain the harshness that so often entered his voice when he addressed his son.

“That troll was trying to kill us. It’s not like you never get angry in a fight,” Atreus retorted.

“Anger can be a weapon… if you control it, use it to your advantage. You clearly cannot,” Kratos explained.

“I learn quickly,” his son countered. “Mother told me that.”

“And you risk falling ill every time your anger rules you. That is not the first time,” his father said, pulling himself from his bed.

“I know, Father, but it’s been so long since I was sick last. At least… The last time it was bad. I am ready.”

“No, boy. You are not.”

“But—” Atreus started.

Rustling tree branches stopped him midsentence. The noise began innocently enough, but quickly escalated into a resounding thud. Something big was clearing a path toward their house.

Fear choked Atreus’ throat.

Kratos took up his axe, measuring the time it would take to gain a position to protect his son.

“What was that?” Atreus asked, lurching out of his bed.

“Silence.”

The flapping of formidable leathery wings taking flight stole the silence, followed by an unearthly screech that rippled through the air. Then came the sound of tree branches snapping under great strain.

Neither father nor son moved. Neither breathed. The silence filling the room choked Kratos.

Thunderous pounding battered their door.

“Come on out! No use hiding anymore. I know who you are,” a callous, scratchy voice commanded.

Then came more insistent pounding. From the force shuddering the timbers, Atreus thought a thirty-foot giant beckoned them.

“More importantly, I know what you are!” the voice added, with such a casual delivery that it crawled under Kratos’ skin.

“What’s going on, Father? Do you know him?” Atreus whispered, too terrified to move.

Kratos silenced his son with a stern glare and a scolding hand before advancing to the door. Once there, he leaned his full weight against it to keep it closed.

“Quickly, below the floor. Hurry!” Kratos ordered, scanning the room for a defensive strategy.

“But… you told me—”

“Not now!”

“—never to go down there,” Atreus finished.

Kratos braced the front door closed with a timber plank he stationed beside it for that very purpose, before racing over to a black bearskin rug, flipping it back to reveal a trapdoor painted with a runic symbol.

“Who is that? What is he talking about?” Atreus asked in a frightened whisper.

Atreus had never seen his father this apprehensive. Even when confronted by the huge woodland troll, his father charged rather than retreated. He had never witnessed his father showing fear in even the slightest form.

Kratos yanked open the trapdoor to reveal a five-foot-deep crawl space beneath the house. In one corner, a rectangular timber crate sat in the low light flooding the hole.

“I do not know. Get in,” Kratos whispered.

Atreus obeyed, infected by the concern in his father’s voice.

With his son safely ensconced in the crawl space, Kratos replaced the boards and rug before returning to the door. For a moment, he contemplated drawing his axe. That was what the old Kratos would have done. The new Kratos decided against it, hoping to defuse the imminent confrontation before it could escalate into violence.

“Just tell me what I want to know! No need for this to get bloody,” the voice chimed from a distance.

Kratos removed the brace and flung the door open.

With fists planted on his hips, Kratos marched out, his face grim and imposing. In a glance, he appraised the man presenting himself at their home. After a pause, Kratos eased the door closed behind him.

The stranger—a slight, unimposing man, appearing no older than Kratos—was bare-chested, with rune tattoos scattered about his flesh. He stood, smileless. Bead-ended braids dangled from his full brown beard. Close-cropped hair collected the snowflakes flurrying around them. Clothes tattered and threadbare, he presented himself more as a beggar than a man of means. His soulless, penetrating gaze left his face unreadable.

He stared curiously at Kratos for a time, as if to size him up. It seemed he was waiting for Kratos to speak. Kratos noticed his bony fingers curled reflexively into fists.

“Huh. Thought you’d be bigger. But you are definitely the one,” the stranger said slowly, drawing out his words. His colorless lips curled into a smirk.

Kratos remained silent.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” the stranger said with a devious glint. If fear dwelled inside this man, he hid it completely.

Kratos raised a curious brow. He had never seen this scrawny Norseman before, yet the man seemed to know more about him than he had ever revealed to anyone other than his wife.

“What do you want?” Kratos’ hands also balled into fists, his biceps and neck muscles hardening to rock. He decided on his first move should the man advance. Why would this one, so ill-equipped for such a fight, instigate a confrontation? He brandished no weapons. Surely, with an inadequate stature and impotent arms, he knew he could never defeat the God of War.

“You already know the answer to that,” the stranger chided. A gloating smile crossed his face. In the next second it disappeared.

“Whatever you seek, I do not have it. You should move on.”

The stranger sighed, shaking his head.

“And here I thought your kind was supposed to be enlightened. So much better than us. So much smarter. Yet you hide out like a frightened rabbit in these woods… you pathetic coward.”

Kratos advanced a single step, removing his hands from his hips while releasing his fists to open palms by his sides.

“You do not wish this fight, whoever you are,” Kratos said, his voice fraught with warning. Undaunted, the stranger advanced three steps to place himself within arm’s reach of the God of War. His stare never left Kratos, who remained rock steady.

“Oh, I am pretty sure I do.”

Before Kratos could react, the stranger relaxed his fists. In the next second, he backslapped Kratos hard across his face.

Kratos held his stance, reminded himself of the vow he had made when he came to this land. He forced his arms to remain at his sides, though all his muscles were ready.

Fire bloomed in Kratos’ eyes. Feeling the uncontrollable rage returning, the rage he swore he would never revert to, he exhaled deeply, forcing himself to relax. He refused to allow this spineless woodsman to goad him into a fight.

“Leave my home now,” Kratos spat. The stranger only smiled, revealing carious teeth and his willingness to fight. Or was it a willingness to die?

“You will have to kill me for that to happen,” he responded calmly.

In a dizzying blur, the stranger attacked with a series of hard, wild punches, hurling his feeble weight into the God of War.

Kratos caught the fourth punch, crushing the man’s fist within his. “I warned you,” he snarled.

Unflinching, the stranger released a sigh of relief, waiting for what was to come. An elated smile formed across the man’s grimy face.

Kratos could only assume the man had lost all sanity. He failed to understand the expression. Who was this man? And more importantly, what was this man, that he would eagerly await a fatal outcome?

Drawing back his fist, Kratos delivered a hard hook to the stranger’s jaw, which sent the man awkwardly to the ground on one knee.

“Why do you not heed my warning?” Kratos said.

As the stranger remained motionless on his knee, Kratos risked a glance over his shoulder at the house, wondering at that moment what, if anything, he should tell his son. This was not the person he wanted his son to know about. The Kratos-of-the-past was not the Kratos-of-the-present.

The stranger’s rising brought Kratos’ face back to him.

The man’s visage turned up in a strange display of pleasure at what had occurred. “No. No, no, no, no. Fine. Now my turn,” the stranger said.

The stranger charged, launching a fierce uppercut, which sent Kratos flying into the air, skipping across the roof of his house, and finally coming to rest in his yard.

This was no ordinary man.

The stranger followed with an enormous leap, landing less than a dozen paces from the God of War.

Kratos rolled away, springing to his feet and planting them firmly to brace for another onslaught.

“How incredibly disappointing. Come on then,” the stranger taunted.

When Kratos charged, the stranger leveraged the God of War’s superior weight against him, flinging him into the side of his house. He laughed when Kratos bounced off the structure to hurl himself at him.

The stranger responded by grabbing Kratos as if he were a ragdoll, leaping high into the air with him in his clutches to slam him into the overhanging roof. Straddled over Kratos, the stranger unleashed a flurry of rapid, debilitating punches, the unseeing gaze of a madman on his face.

“This is real simple. Tell me what I want, and the pain stops,” the stranger shouted.

Kratos worked his right arm free. Ramming his fist into the old man’s face again and again, then throwing him off, he slammed the stranger onto the roof so hard that the thatch gave way, revealing the room’s contents below through a gaping hole.

The stranger rolled Kratos onto his back, hovering his fist just above his face. But instead of slamming it into Kratos, the stranger craned his neck for a better view of the house’s interior.

“Why are there two beds?”

Kratos whacked the stranger’s unprotected jaw, while at the same time bucking the man off and onto the roof. The God of War dove on top of the flailing stranger, threw the man’s arms aside, and unleashed his own flurry of debilitating punches.

The stranger, however, recovered quickly, deflecting Kratos’ blows and using his superior strength to seize Kratos by the neck and fling him into the garden behind the house.

“Struck a nerve, did I?” the stranger asked casually, raising a brow.

The man displayed no bruising, had no bleeding, and maintained complete control of his limbs despite the pummeling Kratos had delivered.

Kratos heaved up a nearby tree trunk, one damaged from their earlier exchange, and the stranger charged in response. When he was within range, Kratos swung the trunk in a wide arc, batting him back across the yard, where he crashed into the rake of the roof.

He had to prevent the stranger from entering his house and possibly uncovering the trapdoor. Above all else, he had to protect Atreus. Was that what this was all about? Did he intend to take or harm his son?

Kratos had to shut down his brain—act purely on instinct. As he raced toward the house, the stranger slid awkwardly off the roof. Kratos rammed him full force when the stranger hit the ground.

“Who are you hiding?” the stranger questioned, while repeatedly battering Kratos’ ribs. He slammed down on Kratos with both fists, sending him to the ground in a heap, then leapt to a nearby ridge where he lifted a boulder larger than himself.

“Catch!” he laughed.

Kratos commanded the frost and responded by launching his axe as hard as he could at the stranger, embedding it in the man’s chest, which forced him to take a knee. But he did not freeze! Somehow this one was unaffected by his axe’s most potent power. The act of Kratos recalling his axe caused the stranger to topple to the ground. In the next moment, the bleeding ceased, the wound closed up. Witnessing such supernatural power, the God of War ran at the stranger and grabbed him by the throat, dangling him off the ground.

“You are slow and old. You should never have come to Midgard,” the stranger taunted.

“You talk too much,” the God of War said.

Kratos pommeled the stranger’s face, intent on finishing him off before he might regain his strength. As the God of War’s strength began to wane, slowing his assault, the stranger leveraged Kratos’ shoulder to flip him rearward and reverse their positions. He unleashed a quick, powerful flurry of punches.

“I talk too much, and you refuse to talk. Fine. Maybe whoever is stashed in that house will? Oh, but don’t worry, I will be back. I am not finished with you yet.” The stranger smiled.

Rage consumed Kratos. Releasing a roar that reverberated through the forest, Kratos stormed across, grabbing the stranger by his throat and slamming him into the nearest tree. He repeatedly bashed him into the trunk until the tree teetered at an obtuse angle.

Tossing the stranger aside as if he were a bundle of rags, Kratos ripped the tree from the ground, ramming the rooted end into the man. Without so much as breaking a single stride, they crashed through the surrounding boulders and earth, ending up in a new area in the shadow of a massive carved stone monolith.

“Who are you afraid I will find?” the stranger shouted.

Kratos rammed the stranger into the monolith. He responded by jamming his fingers into the cracks of the tree trunk to tear it in half. Kratos began to realize his strength might be insufficient to defeat this one. The power this man controlled seemed far greater than any Kratos had encountered in his past life.

“Shall we find out?” the stranger said with a smirk.

Kratos leapt up to pull at the monolith with everything he could muster. It gave way, toppling on top of the stranger, crushing him beneath it.

Kratos heaved his chest to breathe, standing motionless for a moment.

It was over. Whoever this one was, he was dead now. Kratos could have spared his life, if he would have just walked away and left the God of War alone. He had no understanding of the type of person he had tangled with.

His body battered and aching, Kratos finally withdrew from the monolith, filling his lungs with deep, revitalizing breaths.

Five paces later he stopped. A low rumbling sounded. It could not be. That was impossible. No mortal could survive that.

“Leaving so soon?” The huge carving began to thunder as the stranger hoisted it above his head. He wore a relaxed smile.

“Why do you persist? You do not know who I am,” Kratos said.

“Evidently, you do not know who I am,” he responded, with a pride that seemed out of place.

“You have engaged in an unwinnable battle against me,” Kratos snarled.

“We are not done yet.” The stranger’s smile left his face.

The stranger elevated the monolith above his head and threw it at the God of War. Kratos caught the stone midair, and with a huge heave, launched it back. The stranger, in turn, caught it midflight, immediately charging at Kratos.

Kratos launched his full weight into the stranger, and they collided in the middle of the field. Both refused to budge. However, the thunderous fight caused the ground beneath them to give way; as the earth separated, they tumbled, still grappling, into the narrow space.

“Odin sent me for answers, but your vanity has turned this into a battle. Throw at me what you may, I will keep coming. That old body of yours will falter; your pain will become too great to bear. But before I end this, you must know one thing,” the stranger gasped.

He leaned in close with a savage visage.

“I cannot feel any of this.” He finished with a hearty laugh.

Then the stranger leapt across the gap, striking Kratos with a powerful uppercut, which launched him skyward. The stranger followed him up, and while Kratos scrabbled about on the ground, trying to regain his feet beneath him, the stranger stomped all over him before kicking him deep into the crevasse.

Kratos hit the bottom with a loud thud. He shook his head to clear his blurred vision. As he climbed the side of the crevasse, he could hear the stranger shouting.

“This fight is pointless. Your struggle is pointless. You cannot beat me.”

With trembling arms, Kratos emerged to assume a fighting stance across from the stranger.

“This again. Come on then.” The stranger’s smile crept all the way into Kratos’ soul.

Kratos charged, throwing a punch that swung the stranger into an awkward position. Then he tackled him, sliding in from behind and locking him in a reverse choke hold. Twisting with all his might, Kratos wrenched the stranger’s neck until his head turned almost completely backward.

“Come on, do it! Of everyone I have faced, I’d hoped you would have been able to make me feel something, but even you can’t,” the stranger taunted, straining.

Kratos grunted and heaved, finally snapping the stranger’s neck. A moment later, his limp body crumpled to the ground before the God of War. Exhausted, Kratos dumped the stranger’s carcass into the crevasse. He stood there for many minutes waiting, half-expecting the man to come back to life and spring up from the hole to attack once more. As his breathing slowed to a normal rhythm, Kratos accepted that he had ended the strange man’s life.

Shaking his head in a mixture of anger, disgust, and sadness, Kratos sighed before turning his back on the crevasse to return to his house.

“How did he know me and my past? How did he find me after all this time?” he muttered to himself.

Kratos surveyed the damage inside the house. The main structure remained intact, but the one corner where the roof had collapsed showed multiple cracks running the entire height of the adjoining walls. Dislodged cooking implements littered the floor throughout. Kratos kicked an iron pot into the hearth, ignoring the accompanying pain.

“Faye, what do I do?” he said in a whisper. “Our son is not ready for what you ask of us… I do not know how I can do this without you.” He bent to the trapdoor.

He was grateful his son had remained safely tucked beneath the house. If the man had come for Atreus, he had died ignorant of his son’s location. Yet how would he have known about Atreus anyway? They lived a secluded, sheltered life in the forest. Kratos tried to understand what had brought the stranger there in the first place. Was it a chance encounter with a man seeking to confront the fabled God of War?

Kratos had come to this land specifically to hide his identity and change the man he once was. “How did he find me?” he muttered, throwing back the bearskin to pry open the trapdoor. “Boy.”

The daylight flooding in revealed Atreus curled in a darkened corner, with arms wrapped tightly around his legs