The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) (16 page)

I have seen this hair before.

I have felt it against my face and neck.

This is Mira’s hair!

I’m sure of it.

I stand up, fully prepared to shout her name like an idiot. But I never get the chance. I’m struck from behind. Not by a weapon, fist or anything physical, but by a smell. The wind has shifted direction. And it carries the scent of a human being masked by mud, dung and blood.

There is a hunter behind me.

22

The attack comes fast as the hunter notices the shift in the wind. A faint shift is all I hear, but I know my enemy is airborne. I leap in the only direction available to me, spinning with Whipsnap at the ready. I land in knee-deep water, which I strike with Whipsnap, sending a distracting splash toward the hunter.

As I charge out of the water, I get my first look at my adversary. It’s a man. Perhaps twice my age, with far bigger muscles than me. He’s also completely bald, which is something I have yet to see in a hunter, but why not? Baldness is caused by an excess of testosterone, and from what I can see, this man has testosterone to spare. His clothing does nothing to reveal which Nephilim he serves, but his weapon, a razor sharp scimitar, hints at one of the ancient Persian gods.

My sudden reversal seems to startle the hunter. He didn’t know who I was, I realize. The hooded poncho not only conceals my identity, but he likely also mistook me for a modern soldier. I use his confusion to my advantage, striking his sword to the side. With the man off balance, I spin and let Whipsnap spring out, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him. He lands in the mud with a wet slap that knocks the air out of his lungs.

The hunter is now at my mercy, but what should I do? I will not kill him. It’s not even a consideration. But I can’t just let him go. I’ll have to knock him unconscious and make my escape. He doesn’t know who I am, so the Nephilim won’t be alerted to my presence.

To my surprise, the hunter drops his weapon and asks, “Who are you?”

It’s a question I won’t answer. I don’t even want him to hear my voice. The less he knows, the better. I step closer and raise a fist to knock the man silly.

“Wait,” he says, and I nearly do. But exposure is something I can’t risk. As my fist comes down, my arm is yanked back by a sudden weight. I stumble away from the man and find my arm wrapped in strong cords attached to three heavy metal balls. The weapons are called bolas and while their intended used was to trip up fleeing livestock, they work just as well on people.

The second hunter explodes from the forest and lands next to the fallen man. He is short, but has taut, sinewy muscles. Where the first man is strong, this man is quick. His dark skin and flat nose have the distinct look of an Australian aborigine. His dark red dreadlocks are pulled back in a thick ponytail. With his eyes locked on me, he extends a hand to the bald man and pulls him up.

What the
…
?
Hunters do
not
help each other. Are these men friends? Have they been ordered to keep each other from harm?

“Careful of this one,” the big hunter says while retrieving his sword. “He’s one of us.”

“Show us your face,” the aborigine hunter says.

In response, I begin twirling Whipsnap in my hands, letting my actions speak louder than words. If they think they’re going to get anything out of me, they’re going to have to beat it out of me.

A few things about my actions strike me. I’m being bold in the face of severe danger, like Ull, but it feels natural now—a part of me. Not only that, I’m fully confident in my abilities. These hunters are no doubt skilled, but I am Solomon Ull Vincent, the Last Hunter, who was not only trained by Ninnis—the most skilled hunter—but also defeated Ninnis in combat. I can handle these two.

The realization makes me smile.

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 tight 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?”

Shoot. I hadn’t even considered that Whipsnap’s unique design would be recognizable to hunters.

A knife flies through the air, just missing my arm as I spin. A second one follows, cutting through my poncho’s arm on the other side. I’m forced back by the barrage of knives, which are thrown with a skill I have only seen once before.

I know who this is.

I know who the woman with the hammer is!

But I’m unable to speak their names as the air has yet to return to my lungs.

The knife-wielding woman is in a rage. She’s going to kill me without realizing who I am!

I stagger back against a tree. The woman steps out from the light and I see her face for the first time in months. It’s so wonderful that I nearly miss her eyes locking on my forehead. Her hand pulls back and snaps forward, releasing a knife.

In one fluid motion, I toss Whipsnap up, and duck my head down. The knife passes between the top of my head and the hood. With the poncho pinned to the tree by the knife, I duck down out of it, shedding it like a skin, and emerge in time to catch Whipsnap. But I’m too late.

There’s a hammer raised to strike. Two knives raised to throw. An assortment of other weapons, too, held by at least fifteen more hunters.

But they’re all frozen in place as though my eyes belonged to the gorgon, Medusa.

I try to catch my breath and speak, but all I manage is a wheeze.

It doesn’t matter, though. I hear a telltale gasp and the two knives drop to the ground.

“Solomon?” Em says. “Is it really you?”

I smile and nod, dropping Whipsnap to the ground. Em rushes to me. She’s got all of her blades, around her waist and chest, looking as dangerous as ever, except for the pixie-like hairdo that’s a result of her shaving her head when she pretended to be my wife. She leaps into my arms. I squeeze her tight, enjoying the sensation of feeling loved for the first time in a long time. Hunters never cry. I’m usually the only exception. But I’m not alone today. Em squeezes me hard and lets out a joyful sob.

I hear whispers all around me as the strange turn of events is explained. I hear only bits and pieces. “Solomon.” “The Last Hunter.” “Tartarus.” “His hair.”

Weapons lower.

Tension melts.

And then the strangest thing I think I’ve seen since arriving on this continent takes place. This squad of deadly hunters drops to one knee and bows their heads.

To me.

23

“We thought you were dead. Gone forever,” Em says, still clinging to me and oblivious to the bowing hunters around us.

“I came back,” I say, stating the obvious.

“How did you escape Tartarus?” The voice is unbelieving, yet surprised.

I look up and see Kainda’s strong body step out of the light. Unlike the others, she’s not bowing. Her skin is deeply tanned, and she’s dressed in black leathers. There isn’t even a hint of a smile on her face, but she’s a vision. Em has always been a sister to me. Kainda is…something else. I’m not sure. As Ninnis’s daughter, she was offered to me as a wife, which I—being the impetuous Ull at the time—rudely turned down. Insulted, Kainda became a bitter rival out for blood. But when we met next, I saved her life, and when Ull’s personality emerged, I felt something for her. And now, that personality is part of the whole person I have become. My first impression of Kainda was that she was much older than me, but time is funny in the underworld and she now looks about my age. But I also think it has something to do with her current lack of makeup. I hadn’t realized she’d been decorating her face before, but her natural beauty is now clear to see. As is her confusion, from my lingering stare.

“I left,” I say.

“You just left?” Kainda sounds annoyed by my answer. “You were in
Tartarus
.”

I understand her confusion. Tartarus is a place regarded as a tomb of eternal torture that the Nephilim fear more than anything else. When I stepped through that door, I had no idea how easy it would be to return. Not that letting go of my burden was easy. People seem to be wired to cling to the things that make them feel bad about themselves.

“It’s a long story,” I say, “but yes. I opened the door and walked out.”

Kainda looks enraged by my casual reply. She takes her hammer and slams it into a tree. With a crack, the tree topples and nearly crushes some of the bowed hunters, but the branches tangle in the canopy and the tree’s fall is arrested. “Then what the hell took you so long!?”

With that, Kainda stomps off into the jungle.

I look down at Em and ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

Em smiles up at me. “You did something right. She just wasn’t expecting it.”

The hunters around us stand up as Em explains.

“I knew you would come back.” She motions to the others. “And they believed it too.”

“We all saw what happened at the gates,” the aborigine says. “Behemoth. The fire. Nephil.”

The big bald man steps forward. “When you rejected Nephil and gave up his body, some of us were…inspired by your strength. We fled to the surface, and over time have managed to find each other and band together.”

A group of rogue hunters. The thought brings a smile to my face. “How many?”

“Thirty-one,” Em says.

“Your army,” the aborigine says.

“My
army
?”

“We have been waiting for you to return,” Em says. “Preparing for it.”