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

Em takes the lead again and we head deeper into the citadel. Every step feels like a walk down a plank over shark infested waters. We killed a gatherer and a warrior, and we saw a man killed, but those horrors feel like gentle distractions compared to facing a Nephilim renowned for his loathing of mankind and a reputation for collecting souls. According to Cronus, Hades is the best of them. To Em, he’s the worst.

And Kainda agrees. “Nothing good can come from this.”

“We can’t beat the warriors in outright battle,” I say.

“But we—”

“Em,” I say, cutting her off. “Killing a single warrior bound in place is not the same as facing them in battle. In the open. Right now, our army consists of several hundred men—trained men, sure—but they’re malnourished, frightened and by the time they reach the coast, they’ll be exhausted. The Nephilim warriors number in the thousands. The high thousands. And when they are free to act, and move, and attack, they will not be so easy to kill. We need help.”

Em stops. She’s led us to the lowest finished level of Olympus. The true underworld begins just below. We stand before a tall black door that looks similar to the gates of Tartarus, only much smaller—just fifty feet. “I don’t question the need for help. Only that this—” She motions to the door, “—is the last place you should go for it.”

I ignore her fears, not because I don’t value her counsel, but because if I acknowledge the foolishness of what I’m about to do, I might not do it. Especially with Kainda agreeing with Em. While Em is often the voice of caution, Kainda pretty much never backs down from danger. She’d normally take out that hammer and knock on the door while we stood here debating. But she seems nearly as concerned as Em.

Wright sighs and puts a hand on my shoulder. When he speaks, I can tell by the tone of his voice and the distant look in his eyes that he’s quoting someone. “The time to take counsel of your fears is before you make an important battle decision. That’s the time to listen to every fear you can imagine. When you have collected all the facts and fears and made your decision, turn off all your fears and go ahead.”

“General Patton,” I say, recalling the quote from one of many history books.

Wright nods. “No one fought or won battles like Patton. He captured more land and killed more enemies faster than anyone in the history of mankind. The point is, you made this decision already. It’s time to turn off your fear.”

“In other words,” Kat says. “Man up.”

I haven’t heard the phrase ‘man up’ before, but I understand the intent. I’m not sure if they’re speaking from true bravery—it’s hard to imagine someone being braver than Kainda—or simply from ignorance. They can’t yet fully understand the depravity of the Nephilim. But their advice is sound.

I’m doing this.

It’s time to let go of my fear.

Man up, I tell myself, and walk to the door. When I’m within arm’s reach of the black metal, I pause. What do I do? Knock?

Cronus’s words about passing through the gates of Tartarus return to my mind, “For the worthy, all that separates this world from the other is a door. And you, Solomon, were deemed worthy at birth. All you need do, is push.” Maybe the similarity between this door and the gates of Tartarus isn’t a coincidence? Maybe only someone who has been inside that strange realm and exited again would understand the significance?

I don’t have any better ideas, so I push.

The door opens as easily and as quietly as those massive gates of Tartarus did. But the sight on the other side is far more horrific than the barren landscape of Tartarus.

The room, if it can be called that—lair seems like a better word—is fifty feet tall, a hundred feet wide and perhaps two hundred feet long. By Nephilim standards, its average sized. By human, it’s an auditorium. But it’s not the size of the room that’s shocking, the fact that it’s lit by hundreds of glowing red crystals embedded in the ceiling or that it smells like a fresh corpse. What holds my eyes and fills me with dread is that skulls coat the walls, from top to bottom.

Human skulls.

Crap.

But that’s not the worst of it. A thick viscous liquid oozes out of the wall where it meets the ceiling. It rolls over the skulls, sliding through eye sockets and out of jaws spread in a perpetual scream. The odor, deep maroon color and thickness of the fluid reveals what it is: blood.

A lot of blood.

It pools at the bottom of the wall, filling a shallow moat before flowing away through some unseen drainage system. Hades has surrounded himself with the sight and smell of human death.

“Still think this is a good idea?” Kainda whispers to Wright.

“I never said it was a good idea,” Wright replies. “Only that he needed to overcome his fear and push forward.”