But now is not the time to leap out with a battle cry. We haven’t even found Mira yet. “We need to get closer.”
Kainda frowns, but agrees. Her thirst for battle isn’t strong enough that she’ll make poor tactical choices. We slide up over the crest, moving slowly through the tall grass, and work our way toward the jungle that wraps around the clearing where the mythological creatures have set up camp. Concealed by the dense foliage that frames the clearing, we’re able to stand, but our movement is slowed by twisting branches, thorny shrubs and the need for stealth.
It’s fifteen minutes before we close the distance to just over a hundred feet. As we close to within fifty feet, right at the edge of the jungle, I hear what seems to be an argument. There aren’t any words to speak of, in English, Greek, Sumerian or any other dialect. They’re just kind of grunting, but the tone sounds disagreeable. I can’t see them yet, but the variety of noises insinuates that the quarrel involves more than one species.
I reach a hand forward and slowly lift a large green leaf. Water pours from the cup-shaped vegetation and trickles to the ground. I freeze. The sound would have been enough to alert a hunter to my presence. But I hear no alarm or even a shift in the conversation. These creatures aren’t hunters. In fact, given the easy-to-follow trail they left behind, it’s kind of a miracle they’re alive at all.
I peer into the clearing as the now waterless leaf rises without any more sound. At first, it’s hard to make out individual bodies, but when I do, it’s hard not to gasp, or flinch in disgust.
These are not the noble creatures of Greek lore. There are no smooth coats, shiny horns or seductive female forms. These...things…are hideous. Those with hair resemble a cat after a few rounds in a washing machine spin cycle—matted, clumpy or with hair missing. Scars ravage most of the bodies, ranging from long slices to gnarled skin, swollen burns and bites of all shapes and sizes. Eyes are missing. Feathers are plucked. Horns shattered or removed. Hooves with seeping, pus-oozing wounds. Not one of them resembles the regal images I have in my mind. They’re a ragged band of monsters. True monsters who seem to lack as much intelligence as they do hygiene.
But I see bits and pieces of the other Nephilim races in this lot. The harpies, feathered up to their armpits with the arms, upper torso and heads of women, have the black almond eyes of gatherers. The three horse-bodied centaurs I can see resemble warriors from the waist up, as do the seven minotaurs from the neck down to their waists—the rest resembling massive, muscle-bound bulls. The griffins, fifteen of them, are the only creatures who lack any kind of resemblance to a Nephilim species. That’s not to say they’re an improvement. Their eagle eyes glow with hatred and of all the species present, they are in the best condition. They also seem to be above the argument, circling the group, at the core of which is a gorgon, whose head snakes are either dead, sleeping or cut away, and a pair of worked-up harpies who are squawking angrily.
I lower the leaf and look to Kainda, who has just backed away from her own lookout position. She traces her finger across her arm and mouths the word, “Scars.”
Scars? I’m not sure what the significance is. They have a lot of scars, but I’m not sure what that—I nearly jump up and shout “eureka,” when I figure it out. Nephilim warriors don’t have scars because they heal so quickly. The other species of Nephilim heal as well, though much slower, but their purple blood still gets the job done well enough that I’ve never seen a scar on a Nephilim.
That’s what sets these Nephilim apart from the others. They can’t heal. They might be just as old, but they can be killed. Easily. And that’s reason enough to cast them out. While hunters are also susceptible to quick deaths, we’re also small enough to be useful in the underground. These things, even the chicken-lady harpies, are too large to do much more than use up resources.
This is good news. Fifty to two becomes a lot more manageable when the dead stay dead. Of course, the same applies to Kainda and me. I shift forward, lift the leaf and take another look at this band of misfit Nephilim.
They’re armed, but the weapons are crude. The most basic are sharpened tree branches. The most advanced are maces fashioned from large stones...tied to tree branches. But the weapons are wielded by strong arms, and I have no way to know how skilled they are at fighting. Most are equipped with weapons bestowed at birth—horns, talons, sharp teeth and hammer-like fists. We can’t underestimate them and we can’t act rash—
One of the harpies involved in the scuffle clucks its way to the side, pecking its human-like mouth at the gorgon’s tail. The movement gives me a clear line of sight to the center of the gathering, but just for a moment.
Still, it’s long enough to see what’s got them all riled up.
Mira.
She’s prone and motionless. Her head is turned to the side, her eyes closed. I look to see if her torso is rising and falling, but my glimpse is cut short by a circling griffin. Alive or not, I don’t know, but it’s clear that this argument will end with Mira being claimed by one side or the other, and I cannot wait for that to happen.
I start to rise.
“Sol,” Kainda whispers.
My boiling blood blocks out her voice.
“Sol!” she says a little more loudly. “Wait!”
But her plea for patience fades behind me as I surge up and out of the jungle, yanking Whipsnap from my belt and alerting the mythological mob to my presence. As my wind-propelled leap crests at thirty feet and I drop toward a surprised looking harpie, I see what must have kept Kainda from leaping out of the jungle alongside me.
A thirty-foot tall centaur with an upper torso that has the bulk of a warrior and the pale gray skin of gatherer, focuses its massive, black eyes on me—
—and enters my thoughts.
4
It doesn’t speak, but I can feel its consciousness humming inside my head. Despite the mental intrusion, I’m committed to my attack. I draw Whipsnap back, aiming to thrust the bladed end through the breast-bone of the harpie now letting out a panic-stricken squawk. But as my arm shoves the blade forward, the huge gatherer-centaur does something to my mind, severing the connection between my thoughts and my body.
My leap becomes a ragdoll tumble. I crash to the ground landing hard in the trampled grass.
Then, something in my mind pushes back.
Hard.
The centaur is repelled, and I regain control of my body as the giant rears back in pain.
What was that? I wonder, as I climb to my feet. I was so taken aback by the appearance and sudden mental intrusion of the Nephilim centaur that I didn’t have a chance to put up some kind of cerebral fight. The force that pushed the centaur back wasn’t me, and Ull, my former split personality with a bad temper, is now fully a part of me. So what repelled the creature?
A question for another time, I decide as a griffin lunges.
The griffin ripples with lion muscles. Its large paws are tipped with eagle talons, black and needle sharp. Its head is all oversized eagle. Its hooked beak is open wide, blasting a high-pitched shriek as its ten-foot wings pull it up into the air above me and then propel it straight down like a two-ton mortar round.
While pulling one hand back, readying a strike, I raise the other toward the griffin, willing the wind to catch its wings. The giant creature should have been catapulted away.
But it continues to dive toward me.
There isn’t even a breeze.
And I am out of time.
I fall back, flat on the grass. A second later, the griffin lands over me, its lion paws framing me on either side. Its eagle eyes lock onto mine, looking down at me. Its beak hangs open, as though in surprise. A bead of purple blood slips down the lower beak, gathering at the end and dangling above my forehead.
Nephilim blood can heal a human being, if its severely watered down. Fresh from the body, even a small amount is enough to kill. Most Nephilim heal before they can lose too much of it, but this is not a normal demon-child. The lower beak is fillin
g with the purple fluid.
The dangling drop stretches out slowly and then breaks loose. My eyes cross as I follow the bead of blood’s descent, but I lose sight of it a moment before it smacks my forehead.
And that’s when I feel it.
Nothing.
The fact that these creatures are unable to heal has removed the deadly side-effects of their inhuman blood. Of course, that also means the griffin standing above me, with the bladed end of Whipsnap punching all the way through its neck, is about to collapse.
Pushing hard with my feet, I slide out from under the griffin just in time. The ground shakes as the heavy beast lolls to the side and topples over. Purple blood oozes into the grass around its head.
When the ground shakes again, I spin around and find a stone-tipped club coming toward my face. I lean back, dodging the weapon with just inches to spare. It’s a minotaur, all mottled hair and musky stench. The club looks small in its massive arms, but the swing overextends the creature, leaving it open to attack...if I had a weapon. I glance back to Whipsnap, still buried in the bird-lion’s throat, and I find two more griffins charging in from behind.
For a moment, I think, where is Kainda, but then I’m forced to act. Before the minotaur can recover from its missed blow, I leap toward it. While in motion, I reach into a pouch on my right hip, pull out my homemade climbing claws and slip them onto my hands. The claws, fashioned from feeder leather and feeder teeth, line my palms for climbing and my knuckles for punching. They aren’t great for killing Nephilim, but they don’t feel good, either.
I leap up to the minotaur’s left shoulder, grip handfuls of its course, clumpy hair and swing myself around to its back. The creature huffs in aggravation, but doesn’t react like I pose much of a threat. But hunters do not need weapons to kill, nor control over the elements. And since these monsters are Nephilim, I have no reason to hold back. It’s like fighting robots. Or zombies. There is no moral roadblock stopping me from inflicting maximum damage.
I wrap my legs around the creature’s waist, locking myself in place, and punch the two-inch long, pointed teeth of my climbing claws into its back. The minotaur howls in pain and pitches forward. I twist my hands, carving trenches into its flesh. The giant drops forward, lowering its head like a true bull, just in time collide with one of the two charging griffins.
Several things happen at once. The minotaur’s horn—it only has one—pierces the griffin’s chest and snaps free. The griffin’s wail is cut short when the horn slips through its lung. Meanwhile, the minotaur’s scream of pain is silenced when I wrap my hands around its neck and leap away, drawing six blades across its throat. The second griffin collides with the first and the minotaur, and tumbles wildly through the grass, crushing a pair of harpies before coming to a stop.
I land beside the minotaur. Without missing a beat, I snatch his crude club from the ground and rush the second griffin. One of its eagle eyes snaps open just in time to see me bring the heavy stone down on its head. As I turn to face the others, I’m thinking about Whipsnap. If I can get my weapon back, this will be a whole lot easier. But when I face down my enemies again, the chaos of battle I’m expecting is nowhere to be found.
The mythological creatures have gathered in a sort of formation. Two lines of harpies, feathers puffed up and bristling, followed by gorgons and basilisks and then finally a row of minotaurs. The griffins have all taken to the skies and are circling like buzzards.
The giant centaur, its gray-bald head gleaming in the sunlight, stands at the front of the rough-looking formation. It lowers its head toward me, not in reverence, but in emphasis for its mentally spoken word.
Ours.
He motions to his hooved feet. Mira lays, still motionless, in the grass. Her face is coated in dirt and dried blood. Her clothing, an olive-drab green, camouflage, combat uniform, is tattered and torn. Her jacket—if she had one—is missing, revealing a black tank top that’s equally torn, showing her brown skin. The tightness of the shirt also lets me get a good look at her back, which rises and falls with each shallow breath.
Still alive.
Thank God.
I am simultaneously filled with relief and fierce determination. I didn’t come this far to find Mira, only to let her be killed and consumed by this freakish lot. I grip the club tighter and step toward the centaur.
Its mind hums inside my head, pushing for a weakness.
I take another step forward, working on a battle plan. Centaur first. Take out the knees. Then put this club in its forehead. I’m not certain, but I think that if I can drop the big guy, the rest of the myth-squad will head for the hills.
The centaur rears up for a moment and then stomps its hooves on the ground. The display is very horse-like, but it’s coupled with a mental shout.
Mine!
No, I think back, stepping forward.
The mythological creatures stomp and shout, shaking weapons, feathers and limp snakes. They’re angry and agitated, but I think there is some fear in there.
The buzzing in my head grows stronger and it happens again. My mind and body disconnect. I fall to my knees, but then a surge of power from somewhere within me repels the giant. The centaur-gatherer rears up, clutching its head and letting out a shrill scream.
I have no idea what is happening to him when he digs down into my mind, but I can’t complain. I’d be a mythical-creature readymade meal without it. Whatever it is. And while the centaur has managed to keep me from using my powers, my body is still under my control.
I step forward again, looking up at the centaur. It’s absolutely massive. Its knee caps—my intended targets—are twice the size of a basketball. I’m going to have to hack at it like a manic lumberjack to do any real damage. I glance back to the jungle. Where are you Kainda?
Mine! Mine! “Mine!”
The last “mine,” is shouted. The voice is high-pitched, almost fragile sounding, but the anger in it is powerful, like a child throwing a tantrum when a toy is about to be taken away. But the shout is coupled by a sudden and jarring psychic attack that drops me back to the ground and makes me shout out in pain.
I can feel the strange force inside me, fighting back, pushing hard, but the centaur retains its grip on my mind. My body twitches and I fall onto my back, looking up at the sky. The earth shakes beneath me as the centaur clomps toward me. Then it looms above me, looking down with those black, almond shaped eyes. Its thin lips are pulled back in a sneer that reveals two lines of rotting, cracked, horse-like teeth. Its eyebrows are deeply furrowed, punctuating the hate radiating from its body—and its thoughts.
It lifts a single hooved foot above my head. All it has to do is stomp, and I’ll be dead. The great Solomon Ull Vincent, the last hunter, vessel of Nephil, slayer of Nephilim, destroyer of a good portion of the planet and promised leader of the human race is about to be killed by a centaur-gatherer with the disposition of a five year old.
Honestly, it’s embarrassing. But I’m currently unable to do anything about it.
The force inside me rallies, delaying the centaur’s attack, keeping its hoof locked in place. What is going on? I think. Is there a mind outside mine that’s fighting the creature?
Luca, is that you? I think, but I get no reply. Before he died, Xin, one of several clones of me, bestowed the gift of telepathic communication on Luca, also a clone, and a perfect replication of me at age six. But while Xin was part gatherer, Luca is all human, and I doubt the child, as strong as he is, could put up much of a mental fight against a creature with thousands of years of practice.
There is no reply to my silent question. Instead, the battle is brought to a very sudden and violent conclusion.
There is a grunt off to my side. I recognize the voice.
Kainda.
But before this can fully register, her hammer flies into view above me, striking the centaur in the side of his hairless, plump head. The weight of the weapon crushes bone and implodes the cranium.
At the very moment the
skull is ruined, my body and powers return to me. I roll back onto my feet and the wind carries me away from the now falling centaur. There is a deep, resonating boom as the giant body topples over, its legs jutting straight out, almost comically, frozen by its surprise death.
I turn and face the remaining mythological creatures, who appear enraged and confused.
Kainda wanders onto the battlefield almost casually. She looks at me. “Sometimes timing is more powerful than body count.”
I must have a big, fat, “Huh?” written all over my face, because she smiles and explains. “Kat taught me that. Thought it made sense.”
She stops by the centaur’s head, reaches down and tugs at the hammer. It comes free with a slurp, dripping purple blood. She turns and faces the horde of creatures. They stare at her for just a moment.
I suddenly feel like I’m watching a herd of wildebeest staring down a lion, each creature growing more tense with each passing second until one of them cracks, lets out a yelp and then bolts. Suddenly, it’s chaos. The creatures shout and shriek, tearing away in random directions, making themselves even more pitiful and shaming their names.
While the creatures flee, I run to Mira and kneel down beside her limp form. She’s still breathing. I feel for a pulse. It’s strong. “Mira,” I say. “Wake up.” I tap her face with my hand. “Mira.”
“Harder,” Kainda says and then grins. “If you’re not up to it, let me wake her.”
There’s a high-pitched wail from inside the jungle. A moment later, three harpies charge back into view. I lift Mira into my arms while Kainda readies for a fight. But the harpies steer clear of us. They’re terrified. So terrified, in fact, that they bolt straight past us and run right off the cliff, plummeting to their deaths.
5 Onslaught Page 3