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

“Can you read the text?” Mira asks.

I shift my attention to the lines of text below the art and note that while the art is painted on, the text is carved right into the stone, a far more permanent medium. Whatever the text says was clearly more important to these people, but unfortunately, I can’t read a word of it. “I don’t recognize the language, but I’m guessing it predates anything we know about.”

“Wright once told me about a team of Delta operatives who discovered what they called “the mother tongue,” while on a mission. Said it was the language people spoke before the tower of Babel. He didn’t believe it, but...”

“Maybe that’s what this is,” I say. “Anything is possible, I suppose. But the real question is, what were they trying to tell us? What is this a record of?”

“The beginning.”

Mira and I both turn to Kainda. She’s still on the far side of the room, running her hand over the text and staring up at an image. As we head toward her, I ask, “Can you read the language?”

“I doubt anyone can,” Kainda replies. “Not anymore.”

“Then how do you know?” I ask.

She steps to the side, allowing me a full view of the image she’s been staring at. “Because, you’ve been there.”

I stop in my tracks. “No way.”

“What?” Mira asks.

I can’t answer. Not yet. The accuracy of this painting is blowing my mind. Every detail is exactly how I remember it. I turn to Kainda, “In all this time, nothing has changed?”

“It would appear so,” she says.

I step closer and reach my hand up, placing it on the big tree at the center of the image. I close my eyes and picture myself there again. It was so peaceful. Without pain. Or death. Or any of the horrible things that plague our world. That is, until Nephil found his way there.

“Where is this?” Mira asks, growing impatient.

I pull my hand away, feeling a great sense of longing and loss. “Edinnu.”

“Edinnu?” she says. “That’s...that’s the place you said was Eden, right? Where you met the angel?”

“Adoel,” I say with a nod. I point to the grassy hill surrounding the tree. “We stood right here.” I turn to the right and see several more of the massive murals. “This is a record of the beginning of human kind. Before the Nephilim.”

I walk slowly to the right, following the progression of time from Edinnu, to tribal life, villages, farms and eventually war. It’s right around that time that the images take on a darker tone, painted in blacks and reds. The style is also different. Evolved. I realize that I’ve probably just seen the records of a thousand years of humanity’s beginning. Maybe more. The artists painting at this point in the massive storybook might not have even known the names of those who came before them. They were just carrying on the tradition, maybe gathering as a group of leaders and artists, sitting in those chairs and deciding what image or collection of images best depicted their generation. Or century.

My stomach twists when the dark images resolve into blatant Nephilim images. Giants can be seen alongside men. Monstrous creations of man and beast, like the mythological creatures we discovered, and a mixture of violent and depraved acts performed by Nephilim and men alike.

With only two fifteen foot sections to go, the style disappears almost completely. The illustration is almost like a Jackson Pollock—smears of red, and black, and purple. I don’t miss the significance of the purple, a perfect match to the blood of the Nephilim. Perhaps there was a war, a final rebellion of men against gods. Perhaps it is the time when the Titans and the Nephilim fought for the world. The Titans were driven to Tartarus while the Nephilim claimed the world as their own.

Feeling heavy, I wander toward the final section and leap back when Mira holds her light to it. It’s a face. A black and angry face skillfully rendered. Yellow eyes. Double rows of glaring teeth. The whole thing burns with hatred and loathing. While I have never seen him in the flesh, I know this monster.

“Nephil,” I say.

“This is him?” Mira asks. “This is the big-wig Nephilim that wants to claim your body, wipe out humanity and live forever as a soulless world dictator?”

“Yes,” I say. I’m having a hard time looking at the image. I feel like he can see me through it.

Mira reaches into her cargo pants pocket and steps up to the image. She stands so that I can’t see what she’s doing, but I think she’s drawing. I understand that the image is offensive, but it’s also an archeological treasure. “What are you doing?”

Mira holds up her hand for a moment, revealing a small white brick about the size of a soap bar. “Chalk,” she says, “In case we had to climb. Never did.”