"The what?"
"The spirits of battle." Apollo had pointed to the tallest in back. Huge in stature and built like a warrior, the statue had made a seven-year-old Stryker gasp in fear of his coming to life to hurt him. "That is War. The fiercest of the Machae. He was created by all the gods of war to kill the Chthonians. It's said that he and his minions pursued them to the brink of extinction. In one final battle that lasted for three full months, War held the last of the Chthonians down until they tricked him. Beleaguered, he screamed mightily as his powers were bound by spell and then he was cast into his current stasis. Here he remains until someone reawakens him."
It had seemed a rather harsh punishment to Stryker's boyish mind. Ignoble and cruel. "Why did the gods not kill him?"
"We weren't strong enough. Even with our powers combined, we still lacked the ability to end his life."
None of that had made sense to Stryker at the time. "I don't understand why the gods fear the Chthonians so. They are human."
"With the powers of gods, child. Never forget that. They alone can kill us without destroying the universe and return our essence to the primary source that birthed us."
"Then why don't the Chthonians kill all the gods and replace them?"
"Because when they kill us it weakens their own powers and makes them vulnerable to each other and to us. So instead they police us and we obey out of fear of dying." Apollo had looked back at War then, his eyes harboring a morbid fascination. "War alone was immune to their powers. Unfortunately, he's also immune to ours. When Ares and the other war gods realized how powerful he was, they decided it was best that he remain hidden here for the rest of eternity."
"Did they not understand his power when they made him?"
Apollo had ruffled Stryker's short blond hair. "Sometimes we don't realize how destructive our creations are until it's too late. And sometimes those creations we make turn on us and seek only to kill us even though we loved and succored them."
Stryker clenched his teeth at the memory of his father's words. How true they'd proven. Stryker had turned on his father and his son had turned on him. Here they all were. At war.
War . . .
Stryker opened the dank tomb that smelled of fresh earth and mold. He held his hand up and used his powers to light the cobwebbed torches that hadn't been lit in centuries. The light was bright as it flickered against the walls and the remains of the last three Machae.
He paused by the woman. Petite and frail in appearance, Ker was the personification of cruel, violent death. Merciless and able to multiply herself into numerous she-demons called the Keres, she'd once haunted battlefields and ripped the souls out of the dying. It had been her powers that had inspired the Atlantean goddess Apollymi to save the cursed Apollites and give them a chance to circumvent Apollo's unjust curse.
All hail Ker for her powers. . .
The next statue was the spirit Mache. Battle. The right hand of War. It was the plural of his name that had been given to all the spirits of conflict. He was their backbone. But compared to War, he was weak. Like Ker, he was only a by-product of the one destructive force that Stryker sought.
A slow smile curled his lips as he stepped past the two lesser beings to approach the one he needed to awaken. No longer a giant to him, War was actually several inches shorter—which, given the fact that Stryker was six foot eight, wasn't surprising. War's body was as heavily muscled as Stryker remembered from eleven thousand years ago. Even in stasis, War's presence and power were awe inspiring and undeniable. Stryker could feel it in the air. Feel it from the chills that went down his spine in warning. This creature meant death to any who crossed his path. Dressed as an ancient soldier, the god wore a cuirass decorated with the head of Echidna.
Stryker reached out to touch War. The moment Stryker's fingers brushed the stone, light flashed through the room, turning the white marble to flesh. The cuirass was made of steel overlaid with gold, and a gold-studded black leather battle skirt and cloak completed the fearsome ensemble. The sword in War's hands that was halfway out of its black leather sheath flashed to steel.
Black eyes bored into Stryker.
Then all returned to marble. White. Cold. Eerily pristine. War was again asleep and yet Stryker could feel his consciousness rippling in the air around him. War was salivating for release.
"You want out," Stryker whispered to the spirit. "I want revenge against a god I can't touch." He pulled the cork from the vial and lifted it. "From the blood of the Titans to the blood of the Titans, I, Strykerius, return you to form in exchange for one act against my enemies."