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

I slip up to the edge of the jungle and watch the river and lake. When I’m certain no one is around, I dive into the water and swim quickly across. Back in the jungle, I follow the curve of the lake, moving quickly but a little more cautiously. The lake, like the river, would be a gathering place for predator and prey in search of water. So I move slowly and do my best to spot signs of habitation. After crossing two game trails covered in tracks that I recognize as belonging to the oversized albino goats I shared a cavern with underground, I come across a muddy beach where the trees and brush along the shoreline thin.

After pulling the poncho’s hood up over my head, I inch closer to the muddy clearing. There are footprints—boot prints actually. And a few different sizes. Some are clearly men, larger and deeper from weight, but one set is smaller, either a woman’s or a small man’s. What were they doing here? Getting a drink? Following the lake like I am? Will I run into them?

I step closer, careful not to leave any prints of my own. That’s when I see an entirely different kind of indentation. A dog! A large dog, but still, a dog!

I take out the blue bandana and smell it. After getting the dog’s scent in my nose, I take it away and smell the air.

Nothing. It’s been a little while since they were here. No scents linger. But still, what are the odds that someone else brought a dog to Antarktos? As I crouch atop a rock, looking at the boot prints, I notice a tiny detail. A hair. It’s just one, partly squished into the mud by a boot, but it’s blond and sticks out. I pull the strand free and fight my rising emotions. The hair is blond, coarse and tightly bent at odd angles.

I have seen this hair before.

I have felt it against my face and neck.

This is Mira’s hair!

I’m sure of it.

I stand up, fully prepared to shout her name like an idiot. But I never get the chance. I’m struck from behind. Not by a weapon, fist or anything physical, but by a smell. The wind has shifted direction. And it carries the scent of a human being masked by mud, dung and blood.

There is a hunter behind me.





22



The attack comes fast as the hunter notices the shift in the wind. A faint shift is all I hear, but I know my enemy is airborne. I leap in the only direction available to me, spinning with Whipsnap at the ready. I land in knee-deep water, which I strike with Whipsnap, sending a distracting splash toward the hunter.

As I charge out of the water, I get my first look at my adversary. It’s a man. Perhaps twice my age, with far bigger muscles than me. He’s also completely bald, which is something I have yet to see in a hunter, but why not? Baldness is caused by an excess of testosterone, and from what I can see, this man has testosterone to spare. His clothing does nothing to reveal which Nephilim he serves, but his weapon, a razor sharp scimitar, hints at one of the ancient Persian gods.

My sudden reversal seems to startle the hunter. He didn’t know who I was, I realize. The hooded poncho not only conceals my identity, but he likely also mistook me for a modern soldier. I use his confusion to my advantage, striking his sword to the side. With the man off balance, I spin and let Whipsnap spring out, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He lands in the mud with a wet slap that knocks the air out of his lungs.

The hunter is now at my mercy, but what should I do? I will not kill him. It’s not even a consideration. But I can’t just let him go. I’ll have to knock him unconscious and make my escape. He doesn’t know who I am, so the Nephilim won’t be alerted to my presence.

To my surprise, the hunter drops his weapon and asks, “Who are you?”

It’s a question I won’t answer. I don’t even want him to hear my voice. The less he knows, the better. I step closer and raise a fist to knock the man silly.

“Wait,” he says, and I nearly do. But exposure is something I can’t risk. As my fist comes down, my arm is yanked back by a sudden weight. I stumble away from the man and find my arm wrapped in strong cords attached to three heavy metal balls. The weapons are called bolas and while their intended use was to trip up fleeing livestock, they work just as well on people.

The second hunter explodes from the forest and lands next to the fallen man. He is short, but has taut, sinewy muscles. Where the first man is strong, this man is quick. His dark skin and flat nose have the distinct look of an Australian aborigine. His dark red dreadlocks are pulled back in a thick ponytail. With his eyes locked on me, he extends a hand to the bald man and pulls him up.

What the…? Hunters do not help each other. Are these men friends? Have they been ordered to keep each other from harm?

“Careful of this one,” the big hunter says while retrieving his sword. “He’s one of us.”

“Show us your face,” the aborigine hunter says.

In response, I begin twirling Whipsnap in my hands, letting my actions speak louder than words. If they think they’re going to get anything out of me, they’re going to have to beat it out of me.

A few things about my actions strike me. I’m being bold in the face of severe danger, like Ull, but it feels natural now—a part of me. Not only that, I’m fully confident in my abilities. These hunters are no doubt skilled, but I am Solomon Ull Vincent, the Last Hunter, who was not only trained by Ninnis—the most skilled hunter—but also defeated Ninnis in combat. I can handle these two.

The realization makes me smile.