The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

As the second hand comes over and I watch it pulverize the stone beneath its weight, I take a step back. Then the thing rises up over the crest, and I work hard to stifle my revulsion. The two gray hands are attached to long muscular arms. But each cluster of sinews is contained within skin. When the arm flexes, the separate strands of skinned muscles slap together. When relaxed they slide apart, and I can see through the spaces between them. The torso is built similarly, with each bunch of muscle wrapped in its own skin. Even more revolting is the thing’s gut. What I assume are internal organs, hang from the stomach area, dangling by stretched out strands of skin. The pulsing, moving masses sway beneath it as the creature rises up over the hill.

But the absolute worst aspect of this thing is its head, or rather, heads. It has two of them. And like the rest of its body, the muscles controlling its face are separated and contained. It opens and closes its mouth, snapping its teeth together like it’s tapping out Morse code. The enclosed cheek muscles hiss, as air slides through them. Its eyes are solid black, like a shark’s—like a feeder’s, but they lack the same malevolence, which surprises me. The thing is more indifferent. Like it doesn’t care how things turn out. Or, perhaps more likely, like it already knows how things are going to turn out.

When it dips a head down to look at me, I see its skull and realize there is a third option. It’s indifferent because it can’t think for itself. Where there should be a rounded skull, there is a concave crater, like the back of its head was scooped away. The other head is the same. If there is any brain left in there, I’m not sure where it would be. But the creature is still functional. Still moving. And right now, I am the sole focus of its unflinching attention.

It has only revealed half of its mass and it’s already over thirty feet tall. It’s not quite Behemoth, but it dwarfs any Nephilim. I look down at Whipsnap’s metal blade and spiked mace before turning my gaze back to the monster looming above me.

And then I do the only thing I can.

I run.

Loose shale slides down the hill, matching my speed. As I descend, I see that the wooden cart is far larger than I first thought. Easily big enough to pull a fully grown Nephilim warrior. Perhaps two. It occurs to me that the cart likely belongs to the creature behind me. And if that creature is moving bloodied Nephilim around, I don’t stand a chance.

I pick up the pace and reach the bottom of the hill moments later. I veer left and head for what looks like another gorge. If I can reach a tight spot, I might slip away.

The sound of my quick breathing fills my ears. I focus beyond it and hear my bare feet slapping on the flat stone ground. Beyond that, I hear nothing.

No pounding footsteps.

No crush of stone.

No howl.

Nothing.

I risk a glance back. The thing is gone. The cart is still there, but the hilltop is barren. What the—?

A loud boom and a pressure wave strike me simultaneously. My forward momentum ceases and I’m thrown back. Dust rolls over me as I sit up. Holding my breath so I don’t start coughing, I look up to find the monster standing before me. It’s at least forty feet tall, but it’s squatting on powerful hind legs, whose individually wrapped muscles ripple with energy. The sky above me is blotted out for a moment, like night has finally fallen, but the shades pull in and fold against the thing’s back.

Wings! That’s how it gets around so quietly.

Four large black eyes turn down toward me as the creature leans forward onto its hands. As it descends, its wrapped organs dangle close to the ground. One of them must be vital. If I can sever something important, maybe I can escape. I charge forward, beneath the giant. With all of my strength, I leap and instinctually will the wind to carry me forward. But the wind does not obey and I fall short, swinging out and striking the base of my target rather than the thin strand of flesh binding it to the creature’s insides. I see the thin trace of a line where the blade met flesh, but there’s no blood. I merely grazed the surface.

I’m struck in the side and sent sprawling. Whipsnap falls from my grasp. I’m still conscious, but when I sit up, a sharp pain and a near audible grinding in my side tell me several ribs are broken. What hit me?

For some reason, I am more disturbed by the thing’s almost casual attack. It’s not angry. Not growling or shrieking like the predators I’m used to. It’s business as usual. So when it reaches down and plucks me from the ground, I lose my temper. I hurl insults and foul language that have been unused by my vocabulary, even when I was Ull the hunter.

My flung expletives are as useless as my weapons and skills.

The grip tightens, constricting my lungs.

I can’t die, I tell myself. This is Tartarus. The afterlife. I can’t die. I can’t die.

The two massive heads watch me and then speak, each one saying a single word, forming complete sentences by speaking one at a time. “You can die in Tartarus,” they say. “Again. Again. And again.”

It’s the first time I sense any kind of emotion from the thing.

Pleasure.

It’s going to enjoy what it’s about to do.