The Last Hunter - Descent (Book 1 of the Antarktos Saga)

by Jeremy Robinson

  What’s happening to me? I think.

  Then a shadow falls over me. Then the valley. I don’t bother turning around. I know what’s there, blotting out the sun. When the first flake of snow arrives, I grin and feel a measure of energy return. But it’s barely enough to move, let alone strike.

  I hear the voices below, engaged in a conversation tinged with sarcasm, but I can’t make out the words. But a moment later, the man turns in my direction and I can hear exactly what he says. “My... Where’d that come from?”

  She says something. His name I think. And then he’s shouting and grabbing a blue tarp. “Wrap up the fossil! I’ll get the other side. Fasten it tight!”

  “There isn’t time!” she shouts, and she’s right. The snow and wind descend over them like a crashing wave.

  The world turns white. Judging by their shouts, they’ve lost each other in the whiteout. I stand without fear of being seen and enter the valley. As adrenaline rushes into my body, my energy returns. I can’t see the woman, but her cries for help are like a lighthouse beacon. As I run toward her, my emotions soar. I feel the wind kick up behind me, pushing me forward, and when I can no longer contain my excitement I let out a howl. My voice mixes with the rushing wind as my soul mixes with the land.

  I remove the hood from my head, unleashing my long red hair. A flash of bright pink directs me to the woman. I approach from behind and with the quickness of a cobra strike snap the hood over her head. I plant my hand over her hooded mouth, stifling her cry to a dull, “Hmph!”

  She fights for a moment, but a quick strike to the back of her skull saps her energy. Her legs go out from under her and she falls into my arms. I make for the crack in the valley floor and slide in, dragging the woman behind me. Her thick jacket catches a few times, but the crack opens wide a few feet down, and then we’re through.

  I want to remove the hood and look into the eyes of my prey, but I’m not sure I should. Not following the test parameters exactly as described might lead to failure. So I leave the hood on and cinch it shut around her neck. I’ve never been in this tunnel before, but I know the general direction I need to go to find Ninnis again: up.

  As I carry the woman deeper, I will the storm to last a few minutes more, long enough for the woman to have conceivably wandered off. Just another victim of Antarctic whiteout conditions.

  I find Ninnis about an hour later. He’s still at the tunnel exit, scanning the area below with his binoculars. His distraction is so intense that he doesn’t hear me approach. I clear my throat.

  Ninnis whirls around, ready for a fight, but then sees me.

  And then the woman.

  He is honestly stunned, but not disappointed like I had worried.

  “How did you—I don’t—what...” He pauses, shaking his head. “I’m having a hard time believing what I just saw, and what I didn’t see, and what I’m seeing now. The storm, it just came and went precisely when you needed it to.”

  I shrug.

  “How did you know?” His voice is growing angry. He suspects I had something to do with it. Maybe he remembers how Ull’s arrows somehow kept missing me. Maybe my sudden stop at the bottom of the mountain wasn’t convincing. Or maybe it’s just the convenient timing of a whiteout storm. But he’s starting to suspect.

  So I lie. “I felt a cold breeze on my back about halfway down. You saw me roll over?”

  He nods slowly.

  “I was watching the storm, gauging its speed as it rose up over the mountain. It came in fast, so I slid down in time to take advantage. When it struck, so did I. There was a crack in the valley floor. It led to a tunnel, and here we are.”

  He stares at me for a moment. A hint of a smile appears.

  “Did the man see anything?” I ask.

  “See for yourself,” Ninnis says, handing me the binoculars. I step outside and look down the mountainside. The man was still in the valley, which was coated with a thin film of snow. He’s pacing, hands cupped to his mouth, screaming. He saw nothing. All he knows is that the woman is missing. It’s all he’ll ever know.

  When I re-enter the tunnel, Ninnis is kneeling down next to the woman, checking her pulse. “She’s alive,” he says before standing up and offering me his hand.

  I shake it.

  “Congratulations,” he says. “You passed in rare form. As seems typical for you.”

  The woman stirs. Ninnis strikes her without pause and she falls limp again. “Come,” he says. “Let’s get you back to the citadel and clean you up.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Your banquet. I’ve heard it will be like no other, in honor of Ull the hunter, vessel of Nephil, Lord of the Nephilim.”

  32

  I’m feeling pretty good. Actually, I can’t remember ever feeling so happy. So proud. I have overcome the hardest challenges of the underworld. I have joined a people whom I respect, and who will one day worship me. And I have discovered my bond with the land of Antarctica. Despite being the smallest of my kind, I am larger than life. I could see it in the way Ull looked at me when Ninnis related the story of my final test.

  When we returned to the citadel, I saw many more Nephilim warriors, some smaller than my master, Ull, some larger. All of them bowed to me as a sign of respect. But I wasn’t introduced to any of them—though I see symbols and headdresses that look familiar. I was led back to my quarters, given a bowl of fresh water and told to wash. Which I did.

  And now I’m sitting on my bed waiting. I’ve been waiting so long I start to think this is really the final test. If it is, I’m about to fail. I stand and turn toward the door. At that moment, there is a knock.

  I rush for the door, swing it open and find no one. There is, however, a bundle of clothing on the hallway floor. I scan the giant hall, looking for someone, but find the space empty. Who could hide from me so quickly? It doesn’t seem possible.

  The clothes are a smaller scale of Ull’s. The leather scaled skirt. The gauntlets. And a golden ring for my head. But what holds my attention are the objects lying to the side of the clothing. There is Whipsnap, now polished and sporting a razor sharp metal blade and spiked mace ball, my climbing claws, restrung with fresh leather straps, and my telescope, which I thought lost forever in the New Jericho lake.

  I collect the items and retreat to my room. I dress first and find that everything fits perfectly, from the soft soled leather boots to the plain metal crown. I find a satchel attached to my belt, big enough to hold the climbing claws and a pocket that buttons, in which the telescope fits snugly. There are also two clips on the belt. I’m not sure what they’re for until I find that Whipsnap fits in them securely. I bent the shaft around my body, clipping the other end in place so that the blade and mace are to my sides, both pointing back. It seems like a silly design to me until I take hold of the weapon and give it a tug. Both ends detach simultaneously. Whipsnap springs out, snapping open in my hands. One second, it’s hardly visible around my waist. The next it’s in my hand and ready to kill. I’ll need to unclip it for tight squeezes, but having my hands free most of the time will be a great help.

  After securing Whipsnap to the belt, I don my cresty hood and cloak. I once again long for a mirror and then remember the bowl of water. I place the bowl on the floor and stand over its still surface. The perspective of my reflection makes me look like a giant. Like the great Ull, himself. My garb and red hair, which is a darker red than I remember it being before, complete the illusion.

  Looking and feeling like a giant, I can no longer resist leaving my room. I have not been formally welcomed yet, but I know this is my home now. I can go where I please. As I leave my room behind, I decide I won’t go far. Though I can go wherever I want, I still do not know my way around and would not want to miss the banquet being prepared in my honor.

  I start by inspecting some of the other nearby rooms. Some are completely empty. Others hold weapons and discarded clothing, I assume from other hunters who are somewhere else in the citadel, perhaps ten
ding to the needs of their masters or preparing for the banquet.

  I think about who will be there. Ninnis said that at least one member from each of the warrior tribes will be there along with a representative from each class—seekers, thinkers, breeders, feeders, gatherers—along with many of my fellow hunters. I wonder what they’ll look like. What they’ll sound and smell like. And what will we eat? Will there be new meats to try? Will we dine on roast cresty or egg-monster stew?

  As my mouth waters over the possibilities, I notice one of the human-sized doors is closed. Was it open before? I think it was, which means someone might be inside. I head for the door, hoping the person inside will recognize me, bow and show me respect. I just can’t get enough of this, which I suppose is good, since I suspect it’s a habit that will carry on indefinitely once I accept the spirit of Nephil to live inside me.

  Ull confirmed what Ninnis told me about Nephil, but left out many details. “Enki has reserved that honor for himself as Nephil’s first son,” Ull had explained on the hike back to the citadel. “Your patience will be rewarded.”

  And it would be. Of that I have no doubt.

  But patience is hard to come by when boredom is stacking the odds.

  So I knock on the door.

  No one answers.

  I knock again. When no answer comes a second time, I decide that I not only have the right to wander the halls of Asgard, I also have the right to open doors. I find it unlocked and step inside.

  The room is as plain as mine. An egg-monster skin bed. A stone shelf. Little more.

  A lump in the corner moves. Shakes, really. Is that a person?

  “Hello?” I say.

  The body trembles.

  I search the room for clues and see a splash of pink just beyond the bed. A quick peek reveals a thick pink jacket. This is the woman I captured. Her lack of response immediately fills me with anger.

  “Answer me, woman.”

  I hear a squeak of sound. Did she speak or simply cry out?

  I step closer.

  She’s dressed in leather rags. Her black hair is tied back in a tight braid. Was it like that when I took her? I wonder, but then remember her head was covered by the jacket’s hood. Her skin is dark, darker than anything I’ve seen underground. Her dark hands cover the side of her face, which is turned into the corner of the room.

  “Tell me your name,” I say.

  Her hands shake.

  I clench my fists. “I am the hunter who took you. You will show me respect.”

  “Why?” she says, her voice a chaotic vibrato.

  “Why, what?”

  “Why...” She sniffs. “Why did you take me?”

  “I do not know why the masters wanted you specifically, but you were my final test.”

  “Test?”

  “To become one of them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They are the sons of Nephil, the Nephilim. The heroes of old. The—”

  “Men of renown,” she finishes.

  This infuriates me. “Who are you?” I shout. “Show me your face!”

  Her shaking hands lower. Her cheek bears a fresh wound, perhaps dealt by me, or Ninnis, or after she was brought here. She turns slowly, and then looks up, meeting my eyes.

  Her eyes strike me like one of Ull’s arrows. I stumble back as her face contorts into something horrible, something sinister, burning with hate. And I feel an emotion I thought I would never experience again.

  I am unhinged.

  I am terrified.

  33

  When I strike the hard stone wall, my senses return for a moment. I take hold of Whipsnap and pull. The weapon snaps out. I toss my cresty skin to the side, spin the weapon into position, blade forward, and meet her eyes again.

  My mind explodes.

  I’m no longer in the room. The woman is gone. Everything is gone.

  I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by darkness, and supported on all sides by something soft. Then something disrupts my state of bliss. An intense pressure builds around me. It does not hurt, but it is not comfortable either.

  The pressure continues for some time, and I have a feeling of rushing through it.

  I’m fast-forwarding through the memory.

  Is this a memory?

  What’s fast-forwarding?

  I’m not remembering this. I’m reliving it.

  Then there is light. And cold. And wetness.

  I feel myself being drawn up, away from the warmth.

  There is a crackle of sound so crisp and clear that it frightens me. When I scream, a high pitched squeal comes out. The noise that frightened me was my own voice. Everything smells wrong.

  That’s because I’ve never smelled before.

  There’s a tug on my belly. And a pinch. I cry out again. I’m shaking from cold and fright. Confusion grips my thoughts. I can feel myself slipping into hysteria.

  Then I see her looking down at me. She’s smiling. And her eyes...her eyes!

  “No!” I scream, swinging Whipsnap out, intending to sever the woman’s throat, but I don’t come close.

  She stands, pushing herself back into the corner, but never taking her eyes off me. She reaches out a shaking hand.

  “Stay back!” I swing again, this time throwing myself off balance. I drop Whipsnap and catch myself on the bed.

  She speaks a single word that throws me violently into the past once again. “Solomon.”

  She’s looking down at me, holding me in her hands, wrapping me in something warm. I’m used to warm and wet, but warm and dry is better than cold. And now she’s speaking to me. Smiling as she coos my name. “Solomon,” she says. “Solomon.” Her inflections are soothing. Her white teeth hold my gaze as she speaks. She brings me up close, so close I can feel her warm breath. “You are a precious boy,” she says, and then turns me away.

  As she turns me I see the room through blurry eyes. But I see shapes I will come to know well and recognize them instantly.

  Outside the memory, I shout for them. “Mom! Dad! Where are you?”

  The memory of my birth flickers.

  The stone room spins around me.

  I fall to my knees.

  My mind is on fire. Pressure builds around the chink in whatever mental dam has been put in place. Memories come fast, but are really just a quick spray. The first year of my life returns. The dam weakens. Then breaks.

  In a single moment, like the explosion of an atomic bomb, thirteen years of perfect memory—nearly seven million minutes of data—slams into my mind at once.

  I’m two years old, wearing blue footie pajamas. I’m staying at my grandmother’s house with my parents. And I’m entertaining them by standing in the potty-training potty and waving my arms around.

  I’m five now. My parents are ice skating, motioning me to follow. I don’t have skates on, and the ice is slippery, and I can see flowing water in the distance where the river enters the lake. I know that’s bad and I worry about falling through.

  Seven. I’m riding my banana seat bike in the driveway. I don’t ride in the street anymore. Not since a neighbor got hit by the diaper truck after riding straight out of the driveway. It rained recently. I can smell the water on the warm pavement.

  The next three years flash past in a blur of school, playing and being tested. Then I’m in school and the kids are all older than me. I feel very small and afraid. All I can think about is going home, and that’s okay because I know all the answers.

  Thirteen. I’m sharing pizza with Justin and my parents. There’s a volcano for my present. A song about brick houses. And an explosion of red. Then comes the ticket. One of the pivotal moments of my life. I flash to the trip. Dr. Clark is with me, telling me I’m different, and special. And Mirabelle. The nicest girl I ever knew, who managed to steal my heart and image with the click of a Polaroid camera.

  The night of my capture returns in detail. Ninnis attacks. I strike Aimee. The generator. Then the pit.

  I pitch forward a
nd vomit.

  When the contraction ends, I suck in a bile flavored breath.

  Then I’m vomiting again. It feels like my organs are sliding out of my throat, like there will be nothing left of myself when I am done. When I realize that is exactly what is happening, I accept it, and wait.

  When I’m done I’m surprised to find only a small puddle beneath my mouth. I have not eaten in some time and the majority of my heaves brought up nothing, except, I think, my soul.

  When I stand, I am myself again.

  I am Solomon.

  I bring my eyes up and meet hers once more.

  She can see the change in me. In my eyes. In my body language.

  I am Solomon.

  Solomon!

  “Solomon,” I whisper as though hearing my name for the first time.

  She nods. “Solomon.”

  When I speak her name, my last bit of toughness breaks. “Aimee?”

  She reaches out to me with both arms. I rush to her and bury myself in her embrace, weeping for what I’ve done to her, for the life that I have lived since I last saw her, for thinking—for believing—that the woman who first showed me love was evil. Her arms are strong around me. Her head is pressed on top of mine. And she speaks a sentence that clutches my throat and squeezes, “You are a precious boy.”

  I have been reborn.

  Into her arms once again.

  And despite all I have done, all the pain I have caused her, she has loved me first.

  Again.

  34

  My senses return long enough for me to close the door. I can’t be seen like this. They might kill us both. Or decide to break me again and steal my memories a second time. Were I still alone, I think I might prefer death to losing myself again, but I now have Aimee to consider.

  And I brought her here. I brought her here.

  With the door closed I sit on the bed and weep silently. Aimee sits next to me and rubs my back. Her affection only makes me cry harder, but I think that’s what I need—to pour the vileness out. The tears are purifying.