Godhead: The Last Olympiad, #1

By Ken Mooney

Originally released in 2013, Godhead has been remastered for 2023, bringing the Greek gods back to life in this exciting dark fantasy.

Olympus has fallen; new gods must rise.

The Greek gods have been betrayed by one of their own. Zeus is dead, and Olympus is under siege by the demonic forces of Kaos. Their only chance of survival is to abandon the city, buying them time to regroup and rebuild.

Thousands of years later, the children of the gods walk among us, guiding and protecting humanity. But there are some who don't know of the powers they have, or the secrets they must keep.

The gods are no more, eliminated by their greatest enemy.

And now, she wants to return home; no matter who is standing in her way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breakwater Harbor Books
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781393350385

Ken Mooney

Since a young age, Ken Mooney wanted to save the world. Or at least to talk about it. It’s sort of an ongoing theme of his work, and he doesn’t realise that until after he’s written something, only to find out that it’s bang on-trend, and that just makes him love it all the more. Ken has worked in TV advertising, market research and even got his start in the dreaded world of call-centres. He holds an MA in English from Trinity College Dublin. Stories have always been his first love, and in amongst reading all those comics, watching all those films and playing all those video games, he wanted to share his own stories. Ken has written two fantasy novels: Godhead and The Hades Contract bring the Greek gods to the present day in a dark horror, with a number of complimentary shorts. He has contributed to a number of anthologies and published two non-fiction books: The Little Book Of The End Of The World is a tongue-in-cheek look at different thoughts and theories on the end of the world and The Astrocytoma Diaries chronicles that time he got diagnosed with a brain tumour. He has also written Tackling The Issue and After The Tackle, gay romance focusing on some of the angers and fears in the LGBTQ community, You can reach Ken on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads and his own website and blog. Ken lives in Dublin, Ireland with his husband.

Book preview

A Sacrifice Of Gods

Sing, O Mnemosyne, mother of Muses

Sing of a city’s last days.

Sing of memories, of bravery and of battle.

Sing of sacrifice, of retreat and of death.

Sing, O Muse, a song of gods

Olympus would soon be in ruins.

The sky overhead burned, smoke and flames licking against the blue dome that arced overhead; that sky should have been free of clouds, except for when the rains were allowed to fall and tend the land.

But a black fog had come, spoiling that perfect clarity. A thick creature of embers and ashes haunted the sky, attacking eyes and lungs alike: its tendrils whipped through the air with branches of smoke that reached into the darkness, ready to wrap their arms around the city.

War had come to Olympus: it would not be quick to leave. It had worked through the city’s streets, entering its buildings uninvite and corrupting the homes and hearts of the city’s inhabitants. It had spread like a sickness, a virus that gathered momentum, growing in strength and consuming everything it touched.

Only one place had remained untouched by battle – but even here, the signs of war could not be unseen.

The Great Temple dominated Olympus’ skyline, giving a gorgeous view of the city, its mountainous walls on all sides.

Now smoke obscured that view, its thick billows ebbing and flowing.

The Great Temple was no longer a shrine; it was a singular watchtower for the city’s destruction.

The temple was atop a stone plateau rising in the heart of the city: its sides were steep, soaring and near-vertical above the ground, its dark greys lined with gold and marble veins that reflected an always-dazzling sunlight. A single flight of steps led up these sharp sides, steps that were hewn into the rockface, white marble that marched steeply towards the temple’s doors.

These steps were more of a symbol than a test: they were not there to be climbed. They were the penance that visitors would undergo before the gods would entertain any mere mortals or allow access.

As one climbed the steps, the temple towered and filled the gaze. A vast courtyard before it had long served as meeting place and statuary. Curved colonnades embraced the plaza, lining the path in shades, much like the mountain cast shadows on the city below.

In each archway of this plaza, a different sculpture stood, heroic figures forged of gold, hewn from marble and stone, all of them keeping watch on this hallowed place.

The Great Temple itself rose from another twelve mighty steps. The round building was so vast that its size and shape could only be truly appreciated from the city below, its white marble burning like a second sun in the sky, remaining an unmoving moon in the twilight. The walls of the temple were punctuated with small balconies and windows, walkways and stairs sneaking their way between them.

But these balconies could not be seen from the courtyard.

From here, the temple’s greatest feature, nearly its only feature, was its doors. Constructed from the same marble as the building itself, the doors were flush with its surface, decorated with etchings of gold and jewels. These doors remained open to welcome visitors, those rare few who have braved the climb.

But at this time, the doors had been sealed, closed from the world outside.

This was the home of the gods, and war had come to their city.

***

The vast room behind the Great Temple’s doors did not have a name.

It was a throne room, a council chamber, and a place of festivities. Twelve balconies lined the room, each giving access to some of the pathways and chambers that led to the other parts of the Temple. The walls of the room rose high, forming an incomplete dome at the heart of the ceiling that opened to the usually perfect sky beyond.

Now, it admitted only smoke and ash, the absence of sunlight casting the room’s edges into significant shade.

Opposite the door, a large throne dominated the room: like much about the temple, it was hewn from perfectly white marble, unblemished with any veins. It was an oddity of itself, with no identifying features save for its size; it was wide enough for several men to sit on, high that even were a man to stand on the seat, he would not be able to reach its top.

But this room’s most dominating aspect, its most unusual feature, was the pool in the centre of the floor. Many believed the pool to be endless, that its depths reached into the bowels of the earth below, deeper than any mortal or god, could go. Even as the gods had built their temple into the rock beneath this place, they had found the ground beneath this pool unyielding.

At the centre of this pool was a tree, a bark of silver-white wood that shimmered with light, even in this dark hour.

The tree grew from the water itself, its roots stretching just below the surface: it was in bloom, regardless of the season, forever shimmering with a white light that cast rainbows through both the waters underneath and the marble walls of the room. Some of the tree’s blossom had fallen, white petals that floated on the water below, clinging to life where other flora would have drowned.

The Olympians had no formal name for this tree: it had been here longer than the city and would no doubt remain after its walls had crumbled.

But they knew the truth of its fruit. That fruit was the source of their powers, what had made them and their ancestors gods. Some believed that the tree was linked to their souls and if they died, their Essence would return to be passed on to another.

The war already had a high cost; if that was true, many of them had already returned to the tree.

This room, usually bustling with life, was empty save for one woman, bending low and staring into the depths of the pool.

And then she stood, looking at the room around her.

And then she paged, glancing at the great doors.

She toyed with the idea of leaving the relative safety of the temple to wonder what awaited her beyond the walls.

If the gods of Olympus had a queen, this was she. Hera, keeper of the Great Temple, wife of Zeus, and one of the few gods not armed for the battle outside. The gods had no qualms about women on the battlefield, so Hera’s absence was no misogyny; rather, her capable powers were to be the city’s final defence.

On the eve of battle, Zeus had sought her counsel, whispering to her of love, of honour, and duty while he thrusted. He thought he was sowing a plan that would spell victory for the gods, one that necessitated her survival.

The other gods knew of his plan: he gave them the courtesy of voicing their disagreement and dissent, but it was a mere a courtesy.

With Zeus and his ego, all was but a courtesy.

The gods did not love Hera, not like they loved Zeus; what respect they would show to her was tied to her age, to her powers, and to her position. Even as they bowed before her, they did not lower their eyes.

It had been her own fault. She had done little to earn their trust, focusing on the purity of her husband’s bastard children, or clinging to the Olympian throne. Her pride had made her many enemies, most of them her own family.

But as the family had fallen to war, Hera had realised the error of her ways, if for no more than one reason; she feared for her life.

She bent again, her white and cream skirts gathering around her while she drifted a hand into the pool’s waters and sent ripples across its surface. The water sent fire through her senses; at once warm and cool, at once permissive and resisting her touch. In its waters, her reflection was that of an older woman than she remembered, her hair and face turned grey and blue by the waters’ depths.

A whip-crack of sound caused her to start, rising to her full height and letting the skirts fall. She dressed simply, as did most of the gods, beige robes covering her shoulders but leaving her arms bare, a fine golden braid tied around her waist and hanging loose on her right side. In her auburn hair she wore a simple golden diadem, two golden bars criss-crossing in waves.

She turned to find Hermes mere feet behind her: in the vastness of the chamber, he was startlingly close. His robe was loose around his waist, hanging above his knees, his smooth chest bare to the elements, legs strapped into leather sandals. He wore a crimson cloak that draped around his shoulders, hanging loose down his back as he leaned on his staff for support – a spiral of wood decorated with gold as tall as he was, the spiral doubling and twisting apart as the staff approached its tip.

My queen, I came as soon as I could.

His eyes darted low, refusing to meet her gaze.

Hermes, speak. Hera’s tone was brisk, pointed. She had spent enough of her time alone in this room, and his arrival had a reason. She stepped forward, her heart beating fast as he turned his face. He would not look at her, turning away as she tried to search his features: she knew that he would not abandon the battle were it not necessary and with that knowledge, she feared the worse.

Her hand touched his chin, pulling his face to look at her own. His face was red, nearly as red as his cloak: his eyes were dark, burnt by smoke and tears. A long gash broke his youthful features, torn into his face, wet with blood as it stretched from his right eye down to his lip.

My queen. He looked at her, tears falling freely. It is Zeus. He has fallen.

Although some part of her expected it, Hera’s heart stopped beating: some heavy weight formed from nothing in her chest, rising into her throat. Her hands adjusted the robes around her, fingers shaking, eyes searching the shadows around the edges of the room. She could not bring herself to look at Hermes, but as her gaze fell through the balconies and into the city beyond, she feared that she could see the battle amid the smoke and ash and the exact point where Zeus had fallen.

Bring him to me. He can be healed. He will return to battle as strong as before.

She sensed Hermes’ reluctance even before he spoke: in his hesitation, she found an anger that gave her the strength to turn on him, searching his face for any challenge to her authority. She found only sadness in his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm and he shook at her touch, anger and fear burning through his muscles.

"Apollo has already tried. I am sorry, Hera. Even his skills have failed. There is nothing we could do."

Another crack of air echoed through the temple: this time, Hera turned in time to see the flash of white light marking the arrival of Ares, their greatest warrior.

Mother. He was breathless, his great chest rising and falling rapidly. He normally stood head and shoulders over the other gods, his shoulders broad enough for two: now he stooped, his whole body slumped in the shadow of defeat. His body was guarded in a plate of armour, moulded to his large muscles but leaving his massive arms bare like his neck. He was bruised and bloody, ash and grime smeared on flesh and beard.

Ares’ eyes dared to meet Hera’s, but unlike Hermes’ sadness, his eyes showed a god’s unbridled rage. He sheathed his sword in the scabbard that hung from his waist, his gaze not breaking from Hera’s own.

Zeus’ spear sat in his other hand.

She dared not look at it, this symbol of her husband’s power and leadership: she never envied Zeus’ position exactly, never thinking to kill him as they slept, but she had always found herself drawn to this spear, desiring everything it represented. The gold and crystal of the spear shimmered, catching the illumination of the tree: the spear was tall as Ares, two clear blades of the sharpest crystal twirling around its tip, two golden bars encircling each other as they joined the shaft. In comparison, Hermes’ staff was a crude reconstruction made of wood: it gave Hermes the ability to share Zeus’ words, but not his full authority.

Ares dropped to his knee, turning the spear to its side holding it for Hera to take.

Hera, Zeus has fallen. All that was his is now yours. His eyes continued to fix on hers, searching her features for some acknowledgement of his news, for any emotion.

She had always been cold, distant even to her own children, but Ares suspected some fear in her eyes. Her hand hovered inches over the spear, daring herself to take it in her hands: she had felt its cool metal on her flesh before, but she had never been offered its power. Her jaw was resolute as she turned to Hermes, ignoring Ares and his gift for but a moment.

Hermes, summon the others. It is time we changed our plans.

The red-robed Herms’ eyes glazed over with a white light, a whiteness that burned with the same intensity as the tree so nearby. His voice echoed through the room, loud in Hera’s head; as the messenger of the gods, he did not need to be near them to communicate with them.

Mother, if we abandon the battle now, we will not regain our footing. Olympus will fall: all will be lost.

Hera spun to face Ares and his words. He stood, struggling to lower himself so as not to defy his mother, the woman who was now his queen. His eyes continued to search for some emotion in her visage, but he saw only fury in her eyes, turning as white as Hermes’ own. The air between them crackled as she stretched her hand out, the spear flying into her grasp.

If Zeus has fallen, so do we all.

She turned her back to him, walking towards the throne, her throne. Around the room, the lightning had already started to strike, the flashes of brilliant white and the crack of air that signified the approaching figures.

The gods were coming home to Olympus one last time.

***

The gods seldom gathered like this: usually, Zeus would call his council for the Twelve and they alone. Even in times of celebration or mourning, there would be some excuse or absence, some god torn away by petty jealousy or sibling rivalry. Hera could not remember if all the gods had ever gathered like this in her lifetime, but she doubted she would forget this moment. Their numbers rose well into the thousands. Hera knew their faces, but she had never deigned to know their names and their roles: that had been Zeus’s calling.

But when their leader called them, the gods obeyed. Whatever they thought of Hera, they answered to her now.

Most carried the wounds of battle, others moving between them and tending to injuries where they could. There were no cupbearers left to pour nectar, no mortal youths to wait upon the gods and tend to their whims and fetishes: all were dressed for battle, and ready to return to the field. The hall was filled with an expectant murmur, of greetings called across the great size, of brothers embracing in relief at the realisation that they had not fallen in battle.

But even as they hailed, eyes moved around the room: some absences were notable, and every time a new god cracked into form, the air hung thick with disappointment that it was not someone else.

Beyond these walls, Olympus lay in ruins: within the Great Temple, the gods were in no better state.

Hera stood beside the throne. Some part of her thought to sit, but she found herself unable to do so. She was unsure if it was respect or sadness that proved her reluctance, but that feeling lived somewhere in her chest, raising walls around it and fighting it down. In her hand, the spear burned against her fingertips: she would not be letting go.

Before her, Athena stood next to her brother Ares: they may have had different mothers, but they were their father’s children, each carrying the same traits that had made Zeus their king. Athena was nearly as tall, and just as powerful as her brother, as feminine as Ares was masculine, a combination of strength added to a fierce, incredible beauty. She was slender where he was broad, blonde as he was dark.

It was Athena who spoke first, calling the Great Temple to silence. Hera felt her jaw tighten when she did so: even as the gods had responded to her call, she could never command this respect from them. Athena spoke of loss and revenge, even as her eyes burned with sadness.

Aphrodite’s betrayal cannot go unpunished. She led this evil to us: I refuse to leave the city until she pays.

Agreement rose amongst the other gods; at Hera’s side, Ares bristled, his hand refusing to move away from his sword, his voice an unrecognisable snarl. His free hand rose, a clenched fist forming a call to arms.

Vengeance will be ours. Blood will have blood.

Athena’s hand clasped her brother’s forearm: they were alike in temperament, quick to anger, never to run away from a battle. But it was rare that both would be consumed by such epic bloodlust: usually, when one would be blinded, the other would temper it, seeing clearly through the fog of war.

Our father was a wise man, but his wisdom did not lie in the art of war. He has made his plans, but they are no more than words and promises. Athena seemed to grow even taller as she spoke, looking around for brothers, sisters and cousins to agree with her. Victory lies in confrontation, not in defeat: we must save Olympus, not with trickery, but with actions.

A roar rose amongst the gods, and Hera readied herself to respond.

But Apollo called first for reason amongst the gods: he stood away from Athena and Ares, and most of the gods had to turn to see him. His face, his dress, his demeanour: none of it showed the war outside. Apollo fought his battles at a distance, untouched by blood or grime, but he was no less practiced than Ares or Athena. When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. They weighed heavy on the air and on the hearts of each god.

Sister, nobody wishes vengeance more than I. I felt our father’s own life flow away in my hands as I tried to heal him. And I could only try.

He stepped forward, and Hera watched as the crowd parted to make way around him. It was another sign of respect that she could never command.

He moved towards the throne and Hera felt the skin on her body rise, as is his movements were a threat.

"But you, sister, you know the value of Zeus’ plan, you know that what he has trusted us to do. And we must do it. It is the only way we can be sure to save ourselves and this place. We are the last stronghold of the gods, and if Olympus falls, Kaos will overrun the world."

Apollo’s eyes were locked on Athena’s own, and she shrank beneath him, knowing that he was right. He smiled at her.

"We must be swift. We must act as a whole. All of Olympus must come together for this to work. Even those of us who would prefer to shed blood than tears."

Athena’s response was ready: even if Apollo was right, she was prepared to stand her ground.

Brother, do you truly believe this will be successful? Your prophecies did little to save us, or warn us of the demons’ attack. Or our sister’s betrayal. Athena spat the words, respect fading with her patience. This is only delaying the inevitable. There is no victory in this.

There is no victory for us here at all. Ares’ words came as some surprise to Hera. Our city is lost, what hope have we to rebuild? Look at what damage has already been done, at what we have already lost in this war. As our numbers fall, so do our chances of turning this tide.

Athena turned to face him, her lips curling from anger into satisfaction. She knew that he was right, but the anger that she felt continued to manifest in her eyes.

Never let it be said that Athena was not a vengeful god. But I bow to your counsel, brothers.

She glanced at Apollo, inclining her head. Athena was not one to admit defeat: this was as much as they would get from her.

Ares called, his voice risen to boom around the room. He spoke for them both now.

I believe Athena wants to know more of this plan, Apollo. Before the demons and that bitch come knocking down our doors.

Apollo inclined his head to Hera, stepping away from her. He had always shown more respect towards her than the others: she suspected it was through envy, a false kindness as he sought to manipulate her from power.

Now, she welcomed that kindness, appreciating it on its own merit.

All eyes were on her now, all hope resting on her shoulders. She was unaware if the gods were looking at her or the spear in her hand, but she did not care.

"Aphrodite’s betrayal has wounded us all, but Zeus’ death will not be our end. He has...he had long feared this moment, though none of us could have foreseen if would happen so soon."

She cast a glance at Apollo, his eyes lowered in shame: if any of the gods should have foretold this siege, it was he.

Aphrodite has allowed the demons into our city. They burn our homes, they tear down our walls, they slay our kin. They would enter our temple and destroy that which has given us life.

She raised the spear, pointing it towards the tree. None of those gathered needed to turn to see what she had spoken of.

"There is great power in this place, power that the demons cannot be allowed to access. They would own it, consume it, destroying our kind in the process, just like they have destroyed Zeus. If Olympus falls, if those doors do not hold, Aphrodite will lead the forces of Kaos to this tree, and its Essence will be no more. We can do little to stop them, little to save this place. But whatever we do, we must gain time; we cannot win this war now, but we may yet be able to delay it."

Hera looked down at the spear in her hands: her heart beat fast and loud in her chest, heat rising through her body.

"Through this spear, we have the key to our success. We will use that same power that Kaos would consume. We will take that power and use it for our own end so that the demons never can. If the demons want our city, they can have it; there will be nothing left for them. We will remove this city itself, seal it away from the rest of the world. And with it, the tree and every demon that would destroy it. The demons mass on this city; if we can trap them here, they will fade, with no food for them. They will have no power in this place and wither. We may not save Olympus, but we can save the rest of the world. And this tree...well, we have long heard stories of its other roots: perhaps those roots will flourish once more."

The murmur rumbled through the hall once more, and Hera looked at the assembled faces: Athena was ready with a question.

"We retreat and fight another day. But how do we know we will ever be able to fight again? Without the tree, we will not live such long lives. And the rumours of other growths may be nothing but whisper."

Hera looked beyond Athena to three goddesses who stood beside the pool, half listening, half staring into the depths. They were at once similar and different, the triple-faceted Fates. Their faces echoed each other, but each bore differences that set them apart from their sisters – the blonde Clotho in her purple robes, the dark hair of Lachesis clad in red or red-headed Atropos in her green.

The Fates did not acknowledge that they had been spoken about, but such was their way.

"The sisters have already worked their skills, twisting Fate such that we may know that our kind will flourish. The gods will continue; we will not be undone. If Apollo will grant the boon of speaking prophesy, we know it will come to pass."

The usually confident Apollo seemed uncertain when Hera turned to face him.

Hera, the power of prophesy does not bend to every whim.

His mother turned to him, too quick to pretend like she was patient.

"But if the Fates have written it, you will speak it, boy. We need not trade in certainties and that which is definite; we need only to have the faith and the possibility that we might survive, that we have a chance. That possibility, however small, remains greater than our chances of surviving this battle."

Apollo lowered his head, his eyes glazing over, burning with power and energy.

"This is no close future, Hera: it is yet many centuries away. The more I look ahead, the more uncertainty I see. But for now, for our future, I know we can escape this place. But only if we are swift and we act...."

His eyes turned to their normal state once more, but fear played across his features. He had seen something closer, something just outside of the temple’s walls.

She’s here.

***

The doors of the Great Temple were sealed fast: one hundred mortal men, and most of the lesser gods, would have been unable to open them.

But there were ways of opening these doors other than strength alone, and as Aphrodite pushed, they flung open. Gold decorations screeched against the marble floor as the doors spread wide.

The darkness outside had grown: the courtyard beyond could no longer be seen with the thick blackness billowing through the air. And that darkness continued to grow, creeping in around the temple’s hall, the shadows around the room lengthening and taking shape.

She has brought shades.

Ares bellowed a warning as innumerable shapeless shadow-demons emerged from the darkness. Their forms shifted, changing with each movement as human forms fell forward into animalistic silhouettes that stretched and reached for the gods before them. These shades fed on the warmth of the room, the temperature falling deeper than many of the gods had ever experienced before.

No, I have brought your destruction.

Aphrodite cried a proud warrior’s call that filled the room; her eyes fixed on Hera, gaze unmoving except for the briefest of glances at the throne