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

And when the two hunters see my grin, they look a little less sure of themselves.

The aborigine tilts his head up and lets out a loud, bird-like call.

What is he doing?

Voices rise up in the distance. A lot of them.

He called for help.

This is also decidedly non-hunter behavior, but before I can think things through, the two men press the attack. Intimidated by my behavior or not, they’re still hunters, and they won’t back down—especially with help on the way.

The bald man approaches and swings his sword wildly. It’s a messy attack, but the random strikes are hard to block. I step back, waiting for an opening and just as I’m about to strike, my legs are suddenly bound, wrapped tightly with more bolas. The moment I’m immobilized, the bald hunter’s attack becomes focused and skilled.

I hop back with my feet bound and block three strikes, the third coming very close to my face. With another big leap, I place Whipsnap’s sharp blade between my bound ankles and slice through the lines. My legs are free by the time I land. The bald man barely has time to register that my feet are free, when I kick up hard and catch him under the jaw. His head snaps back and he falls over, unconscious.

I hear the whoosh of another set of bolas whipping toward me, and I duck. But as my body moves down, I thrust Whipsnap up, catch the bolas and use their spinning momentum to redirect their course. I fling the bolas back as the hunter lunges toward me. One of the stones strikes his head, and he falls to the ground beside his bald partner.

As I believed, the pair is no match for me. But, they are not alone. Hunters emerge from the jungle like angry fire ants on the prowl. They see their fallen comrades, and me standing above them, and the attacks come hard and fast.

I have no time to look carefully at who I’m fighting. There is only time to react. I dive into the jungle as an arrow twangs into a tree trunk beside my head. The thick brush surrounding the lake clears, as I move away from the water. When a knife thunks into a tree I just passed, it becomes clear that I will not be able to outrun this group of hunters. So I need to stand and fight, and hopefully do enough damage to make them think twice about continuing their pursuit. It’s unlikely, but it’s my only option, because if I keep running, one of these arrows or knives is going to bury itself into my back.

I enter a ten-foot clearing surrounded by tall tree trunks. It will give me room to maneuver, but not so much that they can attack me all at once. I skid to a stop, spin around and am greeted by an airborne hunter with an axe raised above his head.

I dive and roll to the side as the man sails past. When he lands, I kick him square in the back. The kick, added to his momentum, sends him sprawling forward and he slams into a tree.

An arrow passes through my poncho between my arm and my rib cage.

Too close!

Two more hunters enter the clearing. I can see at least ten more coming, including the recovered aborigine and the bald hunter.

This is a fight I cannot win.

But I have no choice.

I block a sword strike to my right, and kick out a knee to the left. With a spin, I disarm the swordsman, but I’m sucker-punched by a female hunter who snuck up behind me. A blind kick catches her in the stomach, and I hear her drop. I turn the mace end of Whipsnap on the disarmed swordsman and shove. He shouts in pain as the spikes pierce his skin. It won’t be a mortal wound, but it hurts. The blow staggers the man back.

A knife strikes my left arm, but it’s a superficial wound. The baggy poncho is hiding my body and making it hard to target my limbs. But why are they targeting my limbs and not my core? And why did the woman behind me punch instead of stab or bludgeon me? Here we are, a bunch of hunters, and no one is trying to kill anyone?

Something is definitely screwy with this situation.

Five hunters leap into the clearing. I spin Whipsnap’s bladed edge around in a wide circle, forcing the group to leap back. But their appearance was a distraction. I’m struck from behind again, this time with something much larger than a fist. The broad, stone weapon feels like the top of a very large hammer. The impact sends me flying and knocks the air from my lungs. But I’ve been trained to ignore pain and fight without breathing, so I turn my fall into a roll and turn to face my attacker.

There are not one, but two women. One holds a hammer, the other—who I assume is the one I kicked—holds two throwing knives. They’re backlit by a beam of sunlight that stings my eyes, but there’s something familiar about them.

“Look at his weapon,” the hammer-wielding woman says.

The shorter of the two women—the one with the knives—stiffens and with an angry voice, shouts, “Where did you get that?”