Gods, Titans and Monsters: The Chronicles of Greek Mythology, #1

GODS, TITANS AND MONSTERS

A MYTHOLOGICAL FANTASY BOX SET

MICHELE AMITRANI

Copyright © 2021 by Michele Amitrani

All rights reserved.

No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Edition 2021 (V.2)

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-988770-19-2

Published by Michele Amitrani.

Cover Design by 100 Covers.

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CONTENTS

Woman of Destiny

1. A Blessing from the Gods

2. The Golden Gate

3. The House of the Gods

4. The Promise of a Jar

5. Unspoken Truths

6. Blood Omen

7. A Promise of Darkness

8. A Promise of Tomorrow

9. Epilogue

Soul of Stone

1. The King and the Healer

2. A Guest in the Dark

3. A Promise of Stone

4. The Monster Inside

5. A New Dawn

6. The Weight of Life and Death

7. Heroes and Myths

8. Good Deeds

Bringer of Fire

1. The Seeker of Shadows

2. The Shadow Demon

3. A Flame with Many Names

4. A Miracle of Clay

5. The Making of Humankind

6. Loser’s Game

7. A Trading of Stories

8. Arrows of Destiny

9. A Measure of Wisdom

10. The Will that Broke the Sky

Epilogue

Muse of Avalon

1. Seekers of Glory

2. Ashes and Mist

3. The Enchantress of Two Worlds

4. A Zeus Among Mortals

5. The Sword in the Stone

6. The Night Seeker

7. The Price of Justice is Always Red

8. The Kingslayer

Author’s note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Michele Amitrani

WOMAN OF DESTINY

BOOK I

1

A BLESSING FROM THE GODS

The first thing I remember is the heat of the forge.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the red light of the flame subsiding as the blacksmith god Hephaestus set the chisel on the table, took a step back, and studied me.

Stand, he ordered, his voice a booming sound that made me shiver.

I stood, naked in the light of the forge’s fire. The god’s eyes were black and unblinking as he scrutinized me. After a long time, he reached for a cup and handed it to me.

Drink.

I drank. The liquid was cool and pleasing in my mouth. It quenched my thirst and filled me with strength. The workshop had been hot before the drink. Now I barely noticed the heat of the fire.

Hephaestus’ eyes flicked up and down, tracing the length of my body. For a time he probed my shoulders, breasts, arms, and finally my face. His gentle fingers pushed near my temples. I blinked. Suddenly the workshop filled with colors and shapes I did not see before. What had been little more than a gathering of lights and shadows became a room filled with objects rich with textures.

Hephaestus looked thoughtful while he scratched his thick beard. The smoke that came out of the furnace was as black as his eyes.

What is the matter? The voice, not far behind me, was as sharp as winter’s wind. I tried to turn to see the speaker but discovered I could not.

Hephaestus snorted. She is not perfect.

A long stretch of silence; then the voice replied, She is good enough.

Good enough will not do. Hephaestus sighed, suddenly looking tired. She needs to be the best she can be; otherwise, it won’t work.

I’ve lost count of the times you said that. I heard footsteps moving away from us, becoming so faint I could barely hear their echo. Then they stopped. This is not a contest, old friend. The voice again. She is as good as she can be. It’s time to move on. Zeus is growing impatient.

A door closed. Silence followed.

Hephaestus grunted as he picked up the chisel. His eyes narrowed as he studied me. The fire behind him grew stronger.

He put his calloused hands over my eyes. Sleep, he whispered.

I slept.

I woke up among bodies.

I pushed myself up, the smell of death thick in the air. I was on a hilltop marked by burned trees and piles of ashes. All around me were corpses, so many they were impossible to count.

Far on the horizon, smoke trailed up into countless columns of gray that got lost among the clouds. I coughed, the acrid smell of smoke choking me.

To the west, buildings were swallowed by flames; entire cities were burning on the horizon. A metallic sound at the base of the hill caught my attention: the clash of metal against metal, interspersed with cries of battle.

The wind brought the iron scent of blood, and the very air seemed an extension of war.

I swirled, breathless. I tried to run away from the hill, tears swelling in my eyes and falling to the dead ground heavy with ashes.

The darkness pressed around me. I became dizzy, powerless. I stumbled; a corpse, perhaps? Lifeless eyes stared at me everywhere I looked. I screamed until my voice was broken.

A clap of thunder boomed high in the night sky. Lightning tore apart the dome of the world, and the sky seemed to fracture into a million pieces.

I closed my eyes to the blinding white, knowing the end was near.

My eyes popped open. I was breathing heavily, my heart slamming against my chest. I moved a hand toward my face and realized my cheeks were wet with tears. It took me a moment to recognize the heat of the fire. I was back in Hephaestus’ workshop.

I did not know she could dream.

I blinked the tears away, and the figure who spoke pulled into focus.

He was short, with a narrow frame and small, obsidian-black eyes staring at me. He looked like a child beside the wide-shouldered Hephaestus.

You don’t know many things, Hermes, the blacksmith god said. You can add this to the list.

The smaller god laughed. Tell me one more thing I don’t know, brother.

Hephaestus scoffed. I didn’t call you for games. He wiped away my tears with a cloth. You saw what you came to see. Now, go tell the others. It’s time for her training.

Hermes ignored him. Does she really need to dream?

Hephaestus shrugged. Father said she should be as close to men as possible. Men dream. I don’t see why she should not.

Hermes moved closer, his sharp eyes narrowing until only a hint of pupil remained. He placed a thumb on my forehead, his expression amused. What did she dream?

Hephaestus turned his back to Hermes. He grasped an iron rod from a rack and dipped it into a barrel filled with water. The hiss that followed was his only answer.

You don’t know, do you? Hermes giggled. How much of Prometheus’ work have you stolen to make her possible, brother?

The blacksmith turned sharply. "She is my original work, Atlas-born. His voice had a fizzling edge to it that wiped the smile off Hermes’ face. Hephaestus glanced at me. She is my best work."

Hermes wiped his thumb on his golden vest. And yet there are things about her you do not know.

The Storm-Gatherer himself does not know everything.

That sounds close to blasphemy.

It is the truth. Hephaestus carried the bucket of water to the other side of the room. For a moment, he was lost from my view.

Hermes turned his attention to me. Do you also feel pain, little one? he whispered.

P-pain? I echoed, my voice a rasping sound I was not used to. I … I don’t know the word.

Well, then. Hermes took my hand in his and stared at me; his eyes were dark pebbles drowning in a sea of white. Shall we find out?

He yanked my thumb all the way back so fast I didn’t see the movement. It was like a branch snapping. Then came the agony.

I cried out, the pain so sudden I was swallowed by it.

Aha! Hermes clasped his hands, delighted. This answers my question.

Hephaestus emerged from the back of the workshop. What have you done?

Well. Hermes withdrew. I should really gather the others.

A flicker of light, and he was gone. Only the echo of his laugh lingered between my sobs.

By the time Hephaestus reached me, the pain seemed as though it would become a part of me forever.

He cradled my hand. Let me see.

I looked at my finger, its angle wrong. Pain, I said, teeth clenched.

I know. Hephaestus’ eyes avoided mine. Welcome to the world of gods.

2

THE GOLDEN GATE

He did not talk much. Sometimes, while he was creating a tool or repairing a weapon, he would hum a song, but I never picked up the words. When he realized I was awake, he would stop.

I got used to his brooding silence, to the creasing of his forehead when he was in the middle of work that required all of his skill. His presence was comforting, like a familiar rock you grow accustomed to leaning on.

The day after Hermes broke my finger, the pain was gone. Hephaestus fixed it by molding a mixture of clay, oil, and water around my hand. When he withdrew to assess the repair, the clay disappeared, and with it the damage Hermes had done.

Thank you, I said, looking at him with grateful eyes. He grunted. That was his standard answer.

He taught me how to stand and walk, how to hold objects and how to balance them on my shoulder if they were too heavy to carry. Sometimes he gave me minor tasks: washing his aprons, polishing weapons and such. He didn’t need me to do those things. He was making sure I grew used to moving my body.

It worked. In a matter of days, I could move without effort. It had become second nature to me.

When he was not teaching me, I watched him making tools and armor. I felt at peace when he created things. I felt like I belonged.

I was polishing a spear when I sensed his presence looming behind me. I turned, smiling at him.

Come, he said, not looking at me. He grabbed a walking stick that was leaning near the workshop’s entrance and pushed the door open. A chill gust of wind filled the room. The fire of the forge subsided, then died. The room grew dark and quiet.

I followed him outside.

I had never been in the open. For a time, I could not even glance at the sky, so bright it was.

Keep your eyes open, I heard him grumbling. You will fall if you don’t watch where you are going.

It … it hurts, I said, shielding my face from the light as I stumbled forward, trying to keep up with Hephaestus.

You will get used to it.

The air was cool and pleasant against my skin, but somehow I missed the heat of the forge. That fire was the first thing I saw. It gave me reassurance. And now it was gone.

As my eyes got used to the bright outside world, I noticed our surroundings. We were walking along a pathway made of wide, flat stones. Trees bearing golden and red fruit were all around us. As I walked, I could not help but notice Hephaestus’ right leg. The god was trailing it beside him, like a dead weight. He had never walked so much, and I had never noticed him limping.

Father?

I am not your father.

I paused. Maker?

Yes. That is more fitting.

Where are we going?

Somewhere I spend as little time as I can.

I pointed to his leg. Can’t you fix that?

Hephaestus glanced down and grunted. I could.

Why don’t you?

Because this leg makes me who I am. I don’t want to be anyone else.

The pathway brought us in front of a building so massive I could not see the end. It was made of marble so white, it rivaled the clouds. The golden gate that made up the entrance swung open when Hephaestus placed a hand on its smooth surface. We found ourselves inside a wide corridor with beautiful tapestries, dyed deep purple and red, hanging on the walls. Jars of various colors and sizes flanked us as we walked. A sound came from one of them. Had it been a voice? I examined the jar and listened.

Don’t lag.

I turned toward my maker. I … I’m sorry. I gave a last glance at the jar and resumed walking.

An identical golden gate was awaiting us at the end of the corridor.

We are here, he said, more to himself than to me. His jaw was set hard, and his bushy eyebrows drew closer.

Is there something wrong? I asked.

No. A stark answer that made me flinch. He touched the gate. The doors parted and we moved on. We were inside an immense garden. I saw waterfalls and small lakes, flanked by trees and bushes. The sound of chirping birds escaped from the world of green and blue in front of us.

Hephaestus turned and knelt beside me. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Stay here. He opened his mouth, as if to add something more. There was a long silence. Then he shook his head and stood. He walked back toward the gate in silence.

I made to follow him.

Don’t! He raised a hand to ward me off. Stay.

Why? I froze on the spot. Fear seized me. Why are you leaving me?

A shadow passed over his face. The blacksmith god turned his back and I could not see his face. You are useless.

Heat rose from my chest and I felt pain, different than the kind Hermes had produced, but pain nonetheless.

Useless? I said.

Yes, Hephaestus’ voice was dry and distant. And I have no place for useless things.

He closed the massive golden panels behind him, leaving me staring at the perfect surface of the Gate of Olympus.

When I turned, a goddess stood before me. Pale-skinned and dark-haired, she wore armor made of silver, her breastplate so polished I could see myself reflected upon the metal.

Welcome to the House of Olympus, child. She smiled at me. Her eyes were the color of melted snow. My name is Athena.

I glanced back at the gate, expecting Hephaestus to come back and claim me. The gate remained closed.

You must have questions. Athena waved a hand, and two high-backed chairs appeared. She sat and invited me to do the same. Let’s hear them.

I looked at the empty chair, then at the goddess who was nodding toward it. I looked back one more time before sitting. The chair’s metal was stiff and cold against my skin, so different from the simple wooden stool Hephaestus used in his workshop. Who … who are you? I asked.

Your tutor, Athena said. One of several who will train you in many arts.

Again my eyes went toward the closed gate. Hephaestus⁠—

His part in your story is over, the goddess said in a definitive tone. You will never see him again.

I don’t know … I trailed off, not really knowing what I wanted to say. I don’t know … who am I? I swallowed. He … he did not say.

Athena’s smile softened. You are many things, child, but for now, know this: you are a precious jewel made by the fire of Hephaestus and molded out of clay. You have a purpose, but it is not my place to share it with you. Not yet.

I frowned. Why was I made?

Because the world of men needs you, as nature needs bees to pollinate flowers. You are a unique being blessed by the gods. Never forget that.

A unique being blessed by the gods.

I searched for other questions, but I found none. My head felt light and empty. I longed for Hephaestus’ presence.

Athena waited a few more moments, then she rose. I will teach you household crafts, embroidery and weaving. Other gods will teach you other talents. Come. She offered a hand, and I took it hesitantly. Father will want to see progress quickly. Patience is not one of his virtues.

3

THE HOUSE OF THE GODS

My memory of the time I spent in Olympus is blurred, for the most part. I remember only a fraction of what happened in the House of the Gods.

Maybe the gods made it so. Perhaps there were things they wished me to forget.

But some things I remember as clearly as lake water.

They each endowed me with one gift, although it’s difficult to remember which god gave which gift. There were too many. Only a few remain embedded in my memory.

Queen Hera taught me pride and self-possession. Apollo showed me how to play, dance and sing, while Aphrodite taught me the arts of love. Dionysus instructed me in the arts of self-care, showing me how to dress, care for my hair and for my skin, and how to paint eyes, eyelashes and lips with a variety of colors.

Something else I remember.

The gods gathered in assembly when the time came to decide my name. In the end, they picked a suggestion from Hermes, who had proposed to call me Pandora: All-Gifted. A befitting name, they thought, since each of them had conferred upon me a talent.

Always, in the back of my mind, there was the knowledge that one day Zeus himself would call upon me to evaluate the new human he had commissioned from Hephaestus. How could I forget? All my teachers made sure I always remembered.

I dreaded that day, awaited it in agony because I did not know what to expect. If the king of the gods did not like me, would he unmake me? Would he ask the blacksmith god to create a better Pandora? Maybe he would. Maybe he already had.

Those thoughts terrified me. The unknown molded me into a fearful being, always uneasy.

For this reason, I resolved to be the best student I could be. I would learn everything the gods put in front of me, master whatever skill they wanted me to master. I would endeavor to please the immortals. If I was to survive, I needed to be what they wanted me to be.

I don’t know how long I spent in Olympus. It could have been a few months or several years. Time flowed in a peculiar way in the House of the Gods. Some days seemed to last too long. Others were gone in a heartbeat.

The Olympians grew fond of me, in the way a master is pleased with a well-behaved dog. They told me I was performing well.

You are a good learner, Athena said one day, with a proud smile. Far superior to the male human created by the Titan Prometheus.

Prometheus. A name the gods pronounced with scorn and hate. They called him the Trickster, Lord of Shadows, and Bringer of Fire. He had betrayed them, they said, when I asked what his crime was. He had stolen and gifted the sacred fire of ingenuity to mankind. Because of this crime, the humans gained an unfair advantage over all the creatures of creation, conquering the world. A blasphemy that could