Godswar: The Mask of Ares, Author’s Note and Prologue

And so today we begin snippeting Godswar: Mask of Ares, the first in a dualogy taking place on the same world as, and essentially in parallel with, the Balanced Sword trilogy!

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GODSWAR: The Mask of Ares

By Ryk E. Spoor

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

     My world of Zarathan is something of a potpourri of all fantasy elements, and some SF ones as well, as readers of the Balanced Sword trilogy know. This is intentional. Few of the elements that look familiar are exactly what they appear to be, and even references to real-world people, places, or things are changed to make them work as I want them to in my stories.

This is of course the case with the pseudo-Greek elements of the country of Aegeia. Readers should recognize that in NO WAY is this story intended to reflect any real aspects of Grecian history, culture, or mythology. In-universe, it's assumed that the Earthly versions of the pantheons seen herein were in some way inspired or derived from those of Aegeia, but this is obviously untrue in real life. Readers who know some more personal details of my history will also recognize another source for Aegeia and some of its features, but those, too, have been changed to fit my world and my story.

 

 

Prologue.

     The door swung open to reveal a most beloved figure, and Ares was on his feet immediately, sweeping Athena into his arms for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Sister! Oh, I'm so glad you stopped by!"

As with all the gods of the Aegeian pantheon, what the Lady of Wisdom looked like varied – on the mortal world, with whatever body she was incarnate, and here, with the viewer's own interpretation of what they sensed. To Ares, she looked like a tall, well-muscled woman, broad of shoulder, high of brow, gray or green of eye, with tumbling, uncontrollable curls of bronze cascading around a strongly defined face, a shade darker and considerably more olive in tone than the hair. Her dark brows rose in aristocratic arches above a very slightly curved nose.

Ares knew that when she looked at him, she saw a man slightly taller than she, with skin more bronze than olive, black hair, and a long face that allowed for exaggerated expressions of joy or sorrow or rage, dressed in a fancy set of robes that mimicked the armor of his deific persona.

"How could I not stop by before I must leave?" she asked, smiling back.

The words jolted him, sent a momentary spurt of denial through him. "What? No, darling, it can't be that late… can it?"

"I'm afraid so, brother mine. I know you lose track of time, but it really is that time. The Cycle begins anew, and none too soon."

"Oh, Thunder and Fire, I've got so much to do! Deimos… Deimos, there you are, look, get my favorite sister something – Essence of Song, perhaps?" She flashed a smile both to him and to the small, blade-thin, blond youth who had emerged at Ares' call. "Yes, Essence of Song, I knew it was one of your favorites! By the other pantheons, why didn't you warn me?"

She accepted the glass of sparkling, singing light from Deimos. "I did, you scatterbrain. Twice in the past decade."

"Oh." Vague memory broke through. "Oh, yes, you did. Forgive me, 'Thena, I'm every bit the scatterbrain. Time to stop that, though, the Cycle calls, I've got to get in tune with who I am this time. I'm supposed to be down and incarnate before you, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, of course you are. That's why I had to stop by, I saw your invitation to a party next month and I knew you—"

"The party, oh no, I'll have to cancel! How embarrassing." Ares cringed inwardly, thinking of all the apologies he was going to have to write. Battles are so much easier than facing your own faux pas. "So you're not really leaving just yet?"

"No, not yet." She smiled again. "I'll make sure you have the usual head start. We have our conflict to play out, after all."

"What of Father…?" As always, he felt a momentary spark of hope, quashed again when Athena shook her head.

"It's been Cycles, Ares," she said gently. "I don't know if he's ever coming back. If he is… well, no one knows where he went, or why. But he's definitely not here for this Cycle, so we have to play out the script as it lies."

He sighed. "Well, we have time for a few drinks, and dinner, and conversation. Now that you've recalled me to myself a bit, I realize it's been a decade or three. What have you been up to?"

*****

"You seem cheered, Lord Ares," Deimos said, helping Phobos – a woman as dark all over as Deimos was pale, and twice as broad – clear up the table and get the dishes put away. "I'd thought the approach of the Cycle might depress your spirits."

"Oh, it does, on occasion, but my sister never fails to lift them. You'll come to see that yourself, if you make it a few Cycles."

"I certainly hope I will!"

His companion echoed that sentiment, looking nervous.

Ares shook his head, grinning, and stood, casting the fancy robes aside as he headed for a huge, gold-inlaid closet at the far side of the room. "I hope so as well, but do not fear; the roles of Deimos and Phobos are strenuous, truly, but even if the cost of the Art is to die on the stage of the world, rest assured that your spirits will be caught with the most gracious gentleness and conveyed directly to Elysium. But the last pair performed for, oh, many Cycles indeed before they were forced to pass to their reward. You'll meet them, I'm sure – wouldn't want their advice to be lost, you know."

"But you do not pass, Lord?"

"Me? Well… not as you might, no," he admitted, flinging the doors wide and studying the arms and armor displayed, in glittering array, within. Which ones? What is the spirit of this age? Please don't let it be one in which I'm a crude ravager, those are so boring. Easy to play, but deathly dull, and I despise dull.

"No, not quite as you might," he repeated. "The outline of the contest – between the God of War and Passion on one side, and the Goddess of War and Wisdom on the other – you both know well already, of course. And in the climax of the Great Work, often I must fall, usually to my sister's hand, though sometimes to the God-Warriors themselves. But as the High Gods, we are known to be merely felled for the moment, to rise inevitably again. Others, alas, often pass beyond the living world and do not easily return."

"But… Elysium is real, yes?" Phobos asked, her voice tense and uncertain.

He turned from the closet and crossed the distance in three quick strides, dropping to his knees before her and taking both her hands. "Lady Phobos, I had not realized… you were a traveler, an Adventurer, but not of us, of course, when you found yourself caught up in the … recruitment, shall we say. What were you? A follower of ours, or…?

"Honestly?" She grinned hesitantly. "Chromaias and the Four. Kharianda was my main patron among the gods."

He gave a nod. "Ahh, of course. One of our strongest allies among the other gods, along with Terian and the King of Dragons. And Lady Kharianda herself, ahh, a fine one for a great warrior to follow. I suppose she must have transferred her blessing to us when you were Chosen." He concentrated, smiled. "Yes, I can remember it now. The end of a prior Cycle is always a bit blurry when a new one is about to begin, but yes, she did; her favor still follows you."

He frowned. "But where was I? Oh! Yes, my lady, Elysium is as real as this palace you stand within, as real as the world you left behind and will return to with me. You need not fear death; my arm – the arms of all of us of Aegeia – is about you and shall guide you there, if need be."

He looked into her eyes, saw that his words had reached her, and nodded, stood again and resumed his contemplation of the costumes. "Remind me, Lady, before we leave; I shall have a word with the Lord of the Underworld and he will show you Elysium – and your predecessors, that you may know that the word 'reward' is real and true – as it is for all mortals who are forced to a final performance in the Great Play." He rubbed his chin. "But for now, you may both retire. I'll finish that cleaning, no need to trouble yourselves. I've work to do, a performance to contemplate."

"As you wish, Lord Ares." The two bowed – he could see it from the corner of his eye – and departed, shutting the golden doors behind them.

After another ten minutes, he sighed and turned to the various dishes left. "Somehow, I'm not quite … getting this Cycle's … oh, vibe," he murmured to himself. "Should have started meditating on it a year ago. Now I have to catch up. Poor Athena, she has to put up with this every Cycle. I really need to do better. Maybe some kind of automated alarm… I'm sure Hephaestus could put one together. Yes, I'll talk to him about that on the morrow."

Naturally he could have cleaned everything up with a gesture – a trivial exercise for even the least of gods, after all – but that wasn't style. You had to get your hands dirty – had to do the work yourself – or what work was it, really?

And there was a certain pleasure in scrubbing dirt away, leaving something clean and sparkling for another day. He hummed and let his mind wander for a bit.

Really, he looked forward to the beginning of every Cycle. The ageless performance, the Eternal Play that helped affirm the places of the gods for the mortals they served, and in turn reinforced the power that made them gods… it was the very core of Aegeia, and he took great joy in the fact that he could serve in such a crucial role, teaching people the dangers of passion and anger uncontrolled, while reminding them of that same passion within themselves! The other gods of the Pantheon played their parts, certainly (well, alas, not Father, not these many Cycles past), but he and Athena had long since become the centerpieces, the core and crucial contest and conflict that drove the entire play.

There were, of course, the other gods – the hundreds and more that watched over, manipulated, defended, or exploited the other peoples of Zarathan – but while they might have more freedom in some ways, and in the case of a few greater power, they did lack one thing: resistance to the effects of the legendary Chaoswars. The Cycle did resist those effects – not completely, but more than any other power on Zarathan. The Goddess of Wisdom retained much knowledge that the others lost. It was, Ares thought, a fair trade that their Father had arranged, harnessing the powers underlying the Chaoswars to create a faster, controlled Cycle.

And the Cycle did also allow them to learn and adapt to their worshippers, as their needs and beliefs and perceptions of the gods changed. It changed the Great Script, enough to keep the Play fresh over all these repetitions. It even had given them flexibility and presence of … power, one might say… sufficient to project themselves occasionally to Zahralandar, the sister world now cut off almost entirely from magic, and leave at least a hint of the existence of the gods, along with the few other deities who detected the momentary opportunity by fortune or fate.

Yes, now he was starting to anticipate the role!

He did allow himself to cheat the tiniest bit and dried the dishes with a gesture, so he could put them away quickly. He bobbled one, nearly dropped it, caught it just before it hit, and sighed with relief.

These dishes – unlike most to be found throughout Olympia – were in fact real, solid objects, brought from Zarathan's surface, just like Deimos and Phobos had been. Much of Olympia was the stuff of gods, thoughts and primal energy made real, yet seen through the lens of individual perception. Ares preferred, in his own quarters, to have a lot of mortal, solid artifacts; they were ideal performance props, reminding him of the essence of the world he served, and that served him as the perfect stage.

And that was true of his costumes, of course. He returned to that closet. But this time, almost instantly his eye was drawn to a flamboyant suit of armor. He felt a smile broadening. Oh, my, what fun I will have! Such potential for being a complete and utter scenery-chewer this time!

The undergarments and padding were, of course, kept with every suit, so he could don the armor immediately. With the armor came the weapons; while the ancient tradition equipped him with a simple sword and spears and such, this version of the role gave him an almost ridiculously massive sword, a battleaxe, a jagged-pointed spear, and other over-the-top accoutrements.

He couldn't help chuckling as he put them on. They would be effective, of course – Hephaestus and the god-power could make a scythe as swift and deadly as a rapier, a stylus strike as viciously as a lance. He wondered if Athena would be as exaggerated in her heroism, or be deliberately more understated, to provide dramatic contrast. It was hard to guess; it was, after all, the mortals' souls who wrote the ultimate script, but even they couldn't explain, exactly, why the changes were made. They simply… were.

He heard the door open quietly, turned to see a familiar slender form.

Deimos bowed. "I wanted to make sure you would require no more of us tonight."

"I thank you, but no, I believe I am content for now. You would be wise to go to your rest – the role has begun to speak to me, and the curtain will be rising soon!"

Deimos smiled back. "I look forward to learning my role."

"It is well." He looked down, adjusting his harness just so.

It was only the instincts of a thousand thousand battles that saved him, a flicker of too-fast motion just at the edge of awareness – a motion that should have been sensed, should have been anticipated, by the god-power, but was not.

Still, he was Ares, God of War, and he was armed and armored, and his sword caught the blade scant inches from his chest, whipped around, sent the black blade flying, and nearly took Deimos' head from his body; the youth bent back, supple as a willow-wand, and Ares' weapon passed not a hair's breadth from his nose, shaving stray golden hairs that had failed to fall as fast as their owner.

Ares leapt back, calling his shield with a simple effort of will; an assassin, once committed, had no choice but to press on. "What treachery is this, Deimos?"

"Oh, treachery long planned, Ares," the slender yellow-haired youth answered, an uncharacteristically savage grin on his face. "Longer than I wanted, honestly," he went on, and Ares saw the ebony blade fly back to Deimos' hand. "You've spent years doing nothing but your idiotic parties and plays… Demons, but I have been wondering how a useless fop like you could possibly be the God of War." The smile sharpened. "But it seems you are more than a popinjay, eh?"

Ares reached out his senses … and immediately knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. To all appearances, Deimos was but an ordinary human. But that should not be true; he had been enhanced when selected, and even leaving that aside, no ordinary human could possibly have entered Olympia without much help.

Could he have had help? Are there any here who would truly wish me ill? The thought was terribly upsetting, but with an assassin in his chambers, it was a necessary thought.

But even if he admitted the possibility that one of the others of the Pantheon wanted him dead, the idea that they'd send a mortal, even a very, very skilled mortal, was ludicrous.

Deimos darted in, so fast that human eyes could never have followed him, and Ares backpedaled, barely able to parry the storm of strikes; then his assailant withdrew, and they circled, each seeking a weakness. And he is definitely no human. Yet I sense no power from him. He moves at speeds beyond mortal, strikes with the force of a giant in the frame of a child, yet I sense…

A chill of horror crept down his spine. Few indeed were the beings who could use their power so well, yet hide it so perfectly. He concentrated, sent out a pulse of the godspower in the form of a message, an alarm, precisely and only attuned to his sister.

The alarm – the very power that composed it – vanished in midair.

And now I know my adversary.

He called the power up, keeping it within himself, not allowing it to go beyond the bounds of his body. With the speed of Zeus' lightning, he streaked back into the armory, pursued by the thing calling itself Deimos. His right hand released his sword, reached out, caught up another blade, as his left arm raised the red-and-gold shield, took a blow from the black knife. The blade carved three inches into the rim of the shield – but that bound it for just the briefest moment.

And in that instant his new sword – glittering, pure silver – struck, cleaving Deimos' head in twain.

For a moment he stood, staring down at the grisly sections of his assailant's head, each hanging from part of the neck, then withdrew the sword.

The body staggered back, then, impossibly, flipped away from him, the head re-forming and smiling, the teeth now longer, shining, glistening like crystal. "Oh, very good, Ares, you're not so bad as I thought!" The voice wavered on the edge of a laugh; it did giggle, and the sound was oh, very not sane.

Ares felt the horror closing in on him. How? I was sure that would kill it! Did I guess wrong? But then what…?

His knees wobbled, and without warning it was nearly impossible to stand, as though…

"…as though your very strength were being drained? Precisely, Ares!" There was now just a line, a faint scar, down the center of Deimos' head. "Oh, you did think fast, bravo for your performance!" A slow series of claps, with the mouth broadening, teeth growing longer. "You were even … almost … right."

The transformation accelerated, and the figure loomed up above Ares. He fought desperately to move, to escape, but now he was on his knees. It bent down, immense, sparkling fangs inches from the throat of the god, and breathed out three more words, the breath hot and hungry.

"But only almost."