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

I watch them take the steps slowly and enter the plane. When they’re finally out of sight I feel restless. The need to get back underground overwhelms me. When I turn to Ninnis to ask about leaving, I find his head turned toward the sky.

I follow his eyes up and find the blue sky above us blotted out by a roiling storm cloud. “Where did that come from?” I ask.

“I was wondering the same thing.” He looks at me and is about to speak again, but a rumble we can both feel distracts him. He looks up. His eyes widen. Then he has my arm clutched in his hand. “Run, boy, run!”

I glance up as we backtrack toward the cave entrance. A wall of white is rolling down the mountainside. Avalanche, I think.

Faster than I thought possible, we’re back at the cave entrance. Ninnis motions me through. “Go!”

I dive in, sliding through the slippery tunnel with ease. Before I’m through I feel a wave of pressure pushing behind me. When I reach the cave and turn around to pull Ninnis through, I find him missing. The tunnel is sealed with packed snow. I dive into the tunnel and crawl to its end. I pummel and scrape the fresh cork of snow. But it is packed tight. Not even the sharp tips of my climbing claws can break through.

Ninnis is gone.

My friend is gone.

I mourn his loss for only a moment—sadness results in death—Ninnis taught me that, and then I turn to the tunnel leading back down into the heart of the mountain, and beyond that perhaps, the heart of Antarctica itself. I take a tentative step forward, the first tingle of fear taking root. I have no idea what waits for me in the dark, nor how to reach my unknown master. I am lost without my guide but—no.

I am not afraid.

I have survived worse.

Ninnis told me I was a hunter. Like him.

I glance down at my claws. I feel the weight of my pack and the supplies it contains. I am ready.

It’s time to hunt.





21



There are twenty-one small fissures in the walls of the underground river tunnel. These are the nooks and crannies I think I can fit through, but just barely. Fifteen more are tunnels I can crawl through easily, though I don’t know whether or not they shrink or expand later on. I suppose that’s true with all of them. Each could taper off to nothing.

Have patience, I tell myself. Explore each tunnel. Become as familiar with this place as Ninnis.

Three tunnels are tall enough for me to walk through, perhaps eight feet tall. Only one really counts as a branching cavern. It’s a stone’s throw away from the bottom of the river tunnel, where Ninnis and I first entered from our waterfall hideaway. It’s close to thirty feet tall. What’s strangest about it is that it seems to be the most worn tunnel. Many stones are crushed flat. The floor in the center is worn smooth, as though well-traveled. This seems like the most likely avenue to reach the ones Ninnis spoke of. Also the most likely place to find something to hunt.

Walking alone in the sparse dark space of the new cavern, I find myself relaxing, feeling right at home. I have a sense of having been here before. An uncommon familiarity. But I know I’ve never been here before. While I can’t see my past clearly anymore, I sense it wasn’t here. Or was it? Some parts of my memory—very old images—remain less fogged. I suspect because they are memories of Antarctica, perhaps of some significant event.

I focus on recalling this memory. Something about it feels important. Before I can recall anything with clarity, I hear a sound. It’s a gentle scraping, amplified by the echoing tunnel.

Crouching low, I advance. Boulders on the side of the tunnel conceal my approach. I move in silence like Ninnis taught me, keeping three limbs in contact with the stone at all times. Stealth and balance are keys to a successful hunt.

A scent tickles my nose. I suck it in slowly, tasting it. I cannot recognize the specific origin of the odor, but I know it’s blood. A fresh kill. I move closer. The scraping is just on the other side of a tall, obelisk-like stone. I chance a look.

My head pokes into view for the briefest of moments. But in that time I’m able to take everything in. The fresh kill is a large albino centipede, perhaps the size of my arm. Ninnis cooked one once. I have come to enjoy a lot of questionable meals, but the centipede was one of the more revolting. Even Ninnis cringed at its flavor.