Read The Last Hunter - Ascent (Book 3 of the Antarktos Saga) for Free Online Page A

bother me.
    I stop at the bottom of a stone hill. Its surface is covered with loose slabs of stone. I would normally skirt the edge of this rise, but it’s tall and will provide me with an excellent view. The flat rocks slip under my feet and clatter loudly down the grade. Half way up, I start to question the wisdom of my ascent. I’m being far too noisy. But at this point, going down will make as much noise as finishing my climb. So I push onward.
    Near the top, I crouch down low (as though I haven’t already alerted anything nearby to my presence) and peer at the surrounding landscape. The endless stony expanse greets me anew. The orange sky is unchanged. I watch the turbulent clouds for a moment, wondering if it ever rains here, and if that rain is actually the acid-water held in the lake. That…would be horrible.
    I see the tower clearly without the use of my telescope. I’m more than half way there. I trace the landscape back toward me, mapping the route I’ll take, when my eyes land on a strange aberration. It’s a cart. A wooden cart, like something a horse might pull, but oversized. It’s empty except for what looks like patches of green mold and dark purple stains.
    Dried blood.
    Nephilim blood.
    Before I can ponder my new discovery, I hear the gentle tink , tink , tink , of a stone bouncing down the hill behind me. Without a single thought, I leap over the top of the hill, dropping fifteen feet over the grade. I no longer have the ability to slow my descent with a gust of wind, but I have all of the knowledge and instincts of a hunter, and the skills to match. I land with a roll on the loose stone, which explodes away from my body and rattles down the hillside. As I come upright, I tug Whipsnap from my belt and stand my ground.
    I watch the top of the hill, waiting. But nothing happens.
    Perhaps the falling stone was a fluke caused by my presence on the hill. It’s possible, but I definitely felt something behind me. And the cart stained with Nephilim blood… Someone brought it here.
    “Show yourself!” I shout, and then smile. I can’t help myself. My boldness and confidence feels right, but it’s also new.
    The ground shakes. Loose stones rattle and slide away. A plume of stone dust and debris billows from the top of the hill as a second impact resounds.
    Why am I always picking fights with giants? And how did it sneak up behind me without making a sound?
    The third impact brings a three-fingered hand over the top of the hill. The digits are at least three feet long, coated in mottled, gray skin and tipped with sharp, hooked fingernails.
    Not a Nephilim. They have six fingers.
    As the second hand comes over and I watch it pulverize the stone beneath its weight, I take a step back. Then the thing rises up over the crest, and I work hard to stifle my revulsion. The two gray hands are attached to long muscular arms. But each cluster of sinews is contained within skin. When the arm flexes, the separate strands of skinned muscles slap together. When relaxed they slide apart, and I can see through the spaces between them. The torso is built similarly, with each bunch of muscle wrapped in its own skin. Even more revolting is the thing’s gut. What I assume are internal organs, hang from the stomach area, dangling by stretched out strands of skin. The pulsing, moving masses sway beneath it as the creature rises up over the hill.
    But the absolute worst aspect of this thing is its head, or rather, heads. It has two of them. And like the rest of its body, the muscles controlling its face are separated and contained. It opens and closes its mouth, snapping its teeth together like it’s tapping out Morse code. The enclosed cheek muscles hiss, as air slides through them. Its eyes are solid black, like a shark’s—like a feeder’s, but they lack the same malevolence, which surprises me. The thing is more indifferent. Like it doesn’t care how things turn out. Or, perhaps more likely, like it already knows how