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

As we reach the end of the hall and peek around the corner into the cellblock, I have my answer. The prisoners are terrified. A single Nephilim warrior wanders down the massive hallway, bending down before each cell, looking at the men contained within.

The twenty-five foot giant wears a chrome helmet that resembles a goat’s head, with twin curling horns. His cape is coated with white fur and...there’s something different about his legs. While the other warriors I’ve seen thus far were human like in appearance—if you ignore their height, dual rows of sharp teeth, six fingers and toes and demonic eyes—this one has hoofed feet and hairy, goat-like legs. Tucked into his belt is something that looks like a flute. The weapon in his hands resembles a shepherd’s crook, but the hooked end is flattened and sharpened like a scythe, and the other end of the weapon’s staff holds a barbed tip.

From his appearance and our location, I have no trouble guessing the identity of this monster. “Pan,” I whisper. He’s nearly three hundred feet off, but Nephilim have exceptional hearing.

“You’ve met him?” Em quietly asks.

I shake my head, no. “But I recognize him. From the outside world’s mythology. What I don’t understand, is why a warrior is guarding prisoners? Where are the hunters?”

“Looking for us,” Kainda whispers. “And Pan does not guard prisoners, he watches over his flock. These men are food. He is selecting them for a meal.”

Voice’s rise in panic, bringing my gaze back to Pan. The long hallway is lined by barred, twenty-foot square cells, each jam packed with soldiers from the outside world. I see a variety of different uniforms and hear a number of languages, most of which are not English. But they’re all afraid. As well they should be.

Pan opens one of the barred cell doors and reaches inside. The men swarm away from the oversized, six fingered hand like shoaling fish fleeing a pod of whales. One of the men is caught and pulled from the cage. He kicks and punches bravely, shouting at the giant in what I think is Russian.

The Nephilim shepherd just laughs at the man, his voice a booming chuckle that smacks of Jabba the Hut’s, “Huu huu huuu.” When the sharpened end of the crook comes up, I realize what’s about to happen. He’s going to decapitate the man!

I stand and step into view, shouting, “Stop!”

“Solomon,” someone hisses, but I’m not sure who because my heart races as Pan’s cold gaze turns on me. Then he laughs again, “Huu huu huuu,” and licks his lips. Apparently, I look delicious.





5



“Who are you, little one, to speak to me so boldly?” the giant asks.

He doesn’t recognize me, I realize. Which makes sense since we’ve never met and it’s not like there are wanted posters with my face hanging around the underworld. He might recognize Whipsnap, based on its description, but it’s still wrapped around my waist. But perhaps the most convincing misdirection is my all blond hair.

Hunters have blood red hair like their Nephilim masters. I don’t fully understand how it happens, but it’s an outward representation of the Nephilim corruption. As that corruption fades, so does the coloration. Em has a patch of brown hair that covers her bangs and a portion of the side of her head. Kainda has a black streak on the top of her head, but she combs it in with the red, masking it in a tight braid.

But my hair is nearly white blond. There is no trace of Nephilim corruption. Such a thing is unheard of for a hunter, even a freed one. If anything, he’ll take me for a teacher.

The giant licks his lips.

Or maybe just a snack.

Movement to my side brings my attention back to the others. All four look ready to charge out. “No,” I say to them. “I need to do this on my own. I need to know I still can.”

The first and only time I killed a Nephilim warrior was when I used the wind to fling a giant arrow into his unprotected forehead. I haven’t repeated the task since. In fact, I pretty much dread this. While I can face down Ninnis, vessel of Nephil and the man who broke me, I find fighting something so big, so inherently evil, unnerving.

It’s a fear I need to conquer.

Whispers reach me as I stride down the hall toward the giant. The voices grow louder with each cell I pass. I can’t understand them, but I hear the tone. Some are disbelieving. Some think I’m crazy. And others are simply lost.

A few words of English reach me. “Now the monster will kill them both.”

I look for the speaker, but only find a sea of grimy, frightened faces. These men are soldiers, but their spirits have been broken. They don’t believe their new enemy can be killed.

I determine to give them hope. Which means I can’t use my powers. I need to do this as a man, so that they know it is possible.

I stop fifty feet from the giant, who is just watching me with a sick toothy grin. “Let him go,” I say, speaking with authority.

Pan cocks his head to the side, no doubt pondering my bravado. Then he says, “I will free him.”

The prisoners’ voices rise up in wonder about the boy who commands giants. And for a moment, I share their astonishment.