“They left me behind.” He spits. “Traitors. Now who are you?”
Several options flash through my mind. I can turn and run. I’ve got a thirty foot lead and I know every single footfall I need to take between here and New Jericho. Riodan is most likely lost. I can tell him who I am and try to scare him into retreating, but he’s unlikely to back down and even if he did, all of Xin’s misinformation would be for nothing. The hunters would know I was not only moving away from the gates of Tartarus, but also headed toward the surface.
Seek allies.
He’s young. Impressionable. And dislikes his comrades. Maybe…
“I am Sol—Ull. The hunter.”
He stands motionless, staring at me, probably weighing his options the same way I am.
“You don’t sound so tough.”
He’s right. I sound like myself. When Ull speaks it’s at least an octave lower.
“Is it true?” he asks. “Has the blood of Nephil driven you mad?”
I can see him flexing his fists. He’s definitely sizing me up.
“I’m not crazy,” I say. “I want you to…join me.”
“Join you?” The request has him off balance. He wasn’t expecting an invitation. “To what end?”
Convincing someone that everything they have learned, that all of the fear they have been instilled with since birth, is a lie, can’t be easy. I decide to keep him off balance with the bold truth. “My master, Ull, is dead.”
The look of shock on his face tells me the news was covered up. “Dead—by my hand.”
I’ve just verbally slapped him for a second time. “What?”
“The Nephilim are not our masters. You can be free. All hunters can be free. You just need to—”
His war cry saves my life. I see the knife coming at the last moment and duck its spinning blade. The thrown dagger sails into the river beyond, but I’m not yet out of danger. Riodan charges.
I see ten different ways to counter his attack. He’s inexperienced and his dagger is no match for Whipsnap. But I’m gripped by fear and I resort to the same tactic I developed in high school. I run.
I reach the crevice and slide in. At first the rough stone grips my body, tugging my flesh as I slide through. But then it opens up and I’m running.
“Blasphemer!” Riodan shouts from behind as he squeezes into the crevice. He’s thinner than me and makes better time. I really don’t want to fight him, and it has nothing to do with my promise not to take human life, it’s because I’m pretty sure he’ll take mine.
12
I remember watching the Boston marathon on TV. Every year, my father, who runs every morning, would watch the event that takes twenty thousand runners through the suburbs of Boston, via twenty-six miles of hilly, curvy streets. The fastest runners finish in just over two hours. I would often think to myself, “Why would anyone need to run twenty-six miles at twelve miles-per-hour outside of being a foot messenger for the Roman army?”
I now have my answer—survival of the fittest in the Antarctic underworld. And while I don’t need to run twenty-six miles (I hope), I am sprinting at something closer to twenty miles-per-hour. And my worn down body is feeling the strain.
Riodan, however, seems no worse for wear. He’s still just thirty feet back, cursing at me in Sumerian and ready to slice my back open with that dagger of his.
I’ve twice resisted the urge to turn and stand my ground. It would be a major breakthrough for me, but I’m so unsure of myself without Ull’s personality that I keep running. After several miles, my goal is only three hundred feet ahead—the length of a football field, which some of the kids from my former high school could cover in just ten seconds. I think I can do it in less now.
Three seconds later, I can hear the roar of the waterfall ahead. It is one of two that empties out into the New Jericho lake. I once fell from the other waterfall and was rescued by Gloop. It was the first time we met. But this time I won’t be falling, I’ll be jumping, and I won’t need a seal to carry me to the shore. Not only can I survive the three hundred foot fall, but I’m a good swimmer now, too.
After two more seconds, I hear Riodan shout, “Coward!”
“Don’t try to follow me,” I shout back. “You won’t survive the fall!”
Nine seconds. My feet leave the river’s stone floor and I leap out over the waterfall. I turn as I fall and see Riodan stop at the top, shaking his blade at me. I turn myself around and dive face first toward the water below.
Using my perfected technique, I use the wind to slow my fall and plunge into the lake as though I’d only dropped twenty feet. I arch my back and curve through the water like a torpedo. I surface thirty feet from where I splashed down. I lie on my back and start kicking toward the shore, which is nearly a mile away. I see the waterfall above but not Riodan.
Where did he go? Any good hunter would have made a note of my direction and—
Splash!
Water plumes into the air. Something large has fallen. I want to believe Riodan rolled a boulder over the edge with the hopes of it landing on me, but I know better. The fool jumped. While I can look over the edge of a waterfall, estimate the distance to within ten feet and calculate the speed I’ll reach before impact—in this case, eighty miles per hour—Riodan has no such skill. Hunters rely on instinct, and Riodan’s are so immature that he believed he could survive the jump.
It occurs to me that seeing me make the jump might have fueled his decision. When he doesn’t surface, I reverse direction and swim toward him. There’s no sign of him at the impact site, so I duck beneath the water and search the murk for his form. I find it thirty feet down, slipping deeper.
I cut through the water, reach out and take hold of his forearm. The broken bones of his arm bend in my hand and I nearly let go. I manage to pull his body to the surface and tilt his head back. I’ve taken two CPR classes and remember the instructions perfectly. But after just one chest compression, I know my efforts will be useless.
Nearly all of his ribs are already broken. As are his limbs, and most likely his neck and back. Even if I were able to revive him, he would likely suffer a prolonged and agonizing death from infection.
I tread water for five minutes, holding him in my arms like he’s my child. In death, with his features relaxed, I realize that’s what he is. True, he’s not much younger than I am, but I’m still a child, too. Neither of us should be here.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the dead boy. “You deserved better.”
With tears in my eyes, I slide my arms out from under his body and watch him slip back beneath the surface of the lake. While I didn’t physically kill Riodan, it still feels like his death could have been averted. If I had faced him, and immobilized him, he would have never chased me. If I had subdued him I might have actually been able to talk some sense into him.
But I chose to run. Someone has died because of my cowardice.
I want to promise myself it will never happen again. That I’ll stand and fight. But I don’t. I’m not Ull. Not a shred of him remains.
I lie back and kick for shore, unable to wipe the image of Riodan’s dead face from my mind. It is an image that will haunt me for the rest of my life, however long, or short, that might be.
At least I’m not completely useless. Free from the chase and back in familiar territory, I regain my senses and apply some underworld wit to my situation. My face is barely above the water as I swim on my back. I’m able to breathe through my nose and leave a negligible wake behind me. I kick with my feet underwater, moving silently across the lake. A hunter would have to be looking directly at me through a spyglass to see me. And even then, I wouldn’t look like anything more than one of the Weddell seals.
When I reach the shore without incident, I’m flooded with relief. I’ve been here before. I know the way to the surface. But I’m unsettled again when I look up and see the ruins of New Jericho.
From where I stand, nothing has changed. Twenty foot ruins of massive walls sur
round the city. One of several sixty foot gates remains standing. Beyond is a grotto of temples, bastilles and obelisks that dwarf the grandest human structures of the ancient world. A ziggurat stands at the center of it all, stretching up toward the ceiling. Half way up, you could stare Behemoth in the eye.
Maybe Behemoth destroyed the city? I wonder. Imagining the event brings a smile to my face. I miss watching Godzilla.
I cut through the city heading for the still standing gate where I first encountered the Nephilim, Ull, whose name I share. I’d never seen a Nephilim before and took him for a statue. He was larger than life and terrified me—terrified “little” Ull, whose personality was dominant at the time. I fled and his laughter chased me through the underworld. That same passage down which I fled will carry me from this city once more.
As I wander through the city, sniffing for the scent of hunters but smelling only dust, I look at its grand balustrades and wonder how much of human history was influenced by the Nephilim. I see bits of Eygptian and Mayan in the stone work. Despite the ruined state of them, the statues almost look Roman. I pass a black obelisk that looks like it belongs in St. Peter’s Square and I stop in my tracks.
A thirty foot statue stands in an open courtyard.
But this statue isn’t like the others. It’s new.
My heart twitches for a beat. Maybe it’s not a statue at all! But the hair is gray, not red. The whole thing is stone gray. As I approach the back side of the statue, I recognize its form and check it for life one more time. I stand still and silent for a full minute. When I’m finally satisfied that it will not spring to life and devour me, I wander around to the front of the statue and look up into the frozen face of my former master. He stands tall, looking out over the city, his trademark bow in his hand, a quiver of arrows on his back and a cresty skull over his head—the head through which that I stabbed one of those giant arrows.
An inscription at the base reads: Here lies Ull, son of Thor, son of Odin. Beloved by Asgard, but devoted to New Jericho, his home, his charge, his resting place.
The genuine sentiment of the inscription makes no impression on me. Instead, I focus on the first two words: Here lies…
I look down at the fresh, brown, stone cobbles beneath my feet and realize I am standing on Ull’s grave. The thought of being close to that monster, even in death, is more than I can bear. I run from the city, hearing his laughter in my mind, feeling it as keenly as I did when I first encountered him.
When I reach the cavern wall outside the city and locate the crack through which I previously escaped, I dive inside. I wail with fear as I scramble to safety like a mouse burrowing away from a cat. Thirty feet inside the tight squeezing earth, I pause and weep.
Crybaby.
The word comes to me like a distant voice.
“Shut-up,” I say.
Crybaby.
“Shut-up!”
With a gasp, my crying stops. The voice is gone now, but I suddenly recognize its source.
Ull. He’s trying to escape.
13
Ull remains silent and I think he must have found strength in my weakness. Nephil is an intruder in my mind, but Ull is a part of me. Always has been. Given the right circumstances it’s possible he could re-emerge on his own. Strength, I think. I need to get stronger, and not just physically.
I stop and lean against the smooth wall of a tunnel carved out by a stream that has long since dried up. A dull light shines down on me from a lone crystal buried in the ceiling. The waterproof pouch at my side opens with a tug. I find the photo inside and remove it. The sight of Mira’s face renews my strength, but even her image can’t really make me stronger, or less afraid. That needs to come from inside.
With my mood slightly improved, I put the Polaroid photo back in its pouch and continue on my journey. But I don’t get far before realizing I need a break. I’ve already covered more miles than the Boston Marathon and all of it was uphill, never mind the swim and the two mile sprint. I suspect I’ve made it beyond the reach of the hunters who are most likely descending toward the gates of Tartarus.
Even still, I’ll need someplace defensible. Someplace no one would think to look for me.
When I think of the perfect place, I say, “No…”
I can’t go there, I think. It’s too—
My thought process freezes. I expect Ull’s voice to rise up again. Maybe call me another name. But the anger I feel toward my fear is my own. If I can’t face something as simple as bad memories, I will never survive, let alone resist the Nephilim. I have to do this.
Doing my best to ignore my rising apprehension, I slide out of the side tunnel and follow the waters of the High River. I don’t stop until I reach the alcove where Ninnis trained me, like I was a dog, to obey and trust him. I did what he said, believed everything he told me, and came to think of him as something close to a father. He gave me the chance to kill him. Put the knife in my hand. But I couldn’t do it. Ninnis had become my world. The idea of taking a life still goes against everything I believe, but if I had to repeat that day, I might plunge the knife into his chest. Everything after that day, including Aimee’s capture at my hands, could have been avoided.
But the Nephilim would still be here, I think, plotting the demise of the human race. I would have only been postponing the horrors to come. Now I have a chance to stop them. If I can overcome the all-consuming fear that has gripped me.
The alcove is just as I remember it—a semicircle of gray stone, perhaps twenty feet in diameter where it meets the river. The only evidence of our having been here is the black ash ground into a divot in the floor. Ninnis cooked his food there. For a long time he made me watch him eat, giving me whatever scraps remained—sometimes just the marrow from bones. Later we ate together, him teaching me the ways of the hunter and me eagerly absorbing his every word.
Solomon was gone by then. I had become Ull. An impressionable Ull.
I wonder if Ull could have been different. If that buried personality had been taught something different, could it have been a force for good? Could it still?
I remember the awful things Ull has done and said. It’s impossible, I think. Ull is just as much a monster as anything else living in this world.
The memories here are strong, and they’ve shaken loose some things I would prefer to forget, but I have not yet reached my destination. That lies through the tunnel at the far end of the alcove. It’s not much more than a large crack in the stone wall, but it was Ull’s birth canal, so to speak. When I entered the cavern on the other side, I was Solomon. When I came out, I was Ull.
Will the same thing happen if I go in again?
Be brave, I tell myself. Face your fears.
I crouch down by the tunnel. The space is small, but I’ve navigated smaller. I steel myself with a deep breath, and enter. I slide through the tunnel, using the handholds I remember from my exit, and make good time. I pause halfway through, looking at the tight squeeze that broke two ribs before I yanked myself through. I shake my head at my stupidity and go around. I can see the best way through tight squeezes with little effort now, but I was blind to them back then.
I’m a creature of the underworld, I think. So much so that I wonder if I could ever adjust to a normal life above ground again. Depression sweeps through me, but my thoughts of living in the outside world are not its source. I’ve reached the birthing ground of the feeders—what I call egg-monsters.
This is where Ninnis broke me. I was left, alone and terrified, with no food, water or weapons. And every three days, a man-eating egg-monster full of shark teeth would dangle down from the ceiling in a gelatinous womb before hatching, and trying to eat me. I found out later that the feeders were actually being birthed by Gaia, a breeder, whose enormously fat body was perched above a hole in the ceiling, far from view.
The place is just as I left it. And judging by the smell of dry blood and long since decomposed feeder bodies, the place hasn’t been used for another breaking since.
Because I’m the last hunter, I remember. Ninnis told me that. After me, there won’t be a need for human hunters anymore, because the Nephilim will no longer hide in the tight confines of the underworld. They will rule the overworld.
I step up to the ledge and look over the edge of the fifteen foot deep pit. Yellow crystals glow all around, like stars. I had such a hard time seeing in here during my breaking, but it seems bright to me now. I can see my bed of feeder skins against the far wall. The sight of it reminds me I’m exhausted. I leap the fifteen feet down and land with little effort. I had such a hard time climbing out of this pit. I could now make it out with three quick lunges, or just command the wind to lift me up.
But not now. Now it’s time to sleep. I sit down on the bed of feeder skins and remember how to position myself on it for optimum comfort. After unclipping Whipsnap and placing the weapon between my body and the wall, I lie down. With my head on my hands, I open my eyes one last time and take in the sideways view of my former prison. There is no egg-monster here. There never will be again. Gaia is gone. Ninnis is not waiting outside the door. And after I sleep, I will finish my journey to the surface. I allow myself a brief smile, and then fall asleep.
When I awake, everything is different. I’m still looking at a sideways view of the feeder pit, but it smells different. The odors are…fresh.
“I knew you’d come here, Solomon.”
My insides twist. It’s Ninnis. I’m too frightened to reply.
“You always did make my job easy,” he says. “Well, except for when you remembered who you were, but now that we’re here, we can correct all that.”
“I can leave whenever I want,” I say, the words far more bold than I feel. But I have Whipsnap in my hands and am ready to defend myself. “You can’t stop me.”
“I won’t need to,” he says.
I hear a flicking sound. My memory says it’s a lighter.
“You’ll stay as long as it takes. Gaia will let me know when you’re ready. Standard feeders won’t break you this time, so she’s prepared something special for you.”
The Last Hunter - Pursuit (Book 2 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 7