Antarktos Saga - 01 - The Last Hunter - Descent by Jeremy Robinson

Author:Jeremy Robinson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Thriller
Published: 2010-11-18T10:00:00+00:00

19

“Sit,” Ninnis says. And I obey, settling down against the stone wall. We’ve been at this for some time. I recognize that he’s treating me like a dog, that he’s training me like a dog. The simple commands of sit, stay and come are the basics of canine obedience. I should be revolted by the idea, but I really don’t mind.

I’m fed once a day, sometimes after begging and always his leftovers. I’m not sure what it is I’m eating—it’s not egg-monster—but it’s cooked. He rations out my water, pouring it in a depression in the floor from which I sip it. My wounds are healing well, though I’ll have more than a few messy scars.

I contemplated escape only once. He was asleep, lying by the waterfall. I thought if I were quiet enough I might be able to dive into the river and let it pull me away. One step forward, just one, and I saw his muscles tense. He somehow sensed my movement. Or my thoughts. I’m not sure which.

But I wouldn’t do that now. I’m seeing things differently.

My time in the pit with the egg monsters made me strong and toughened me inside and out. My passage through the tunnel made me cautious and thoughtful. He is helping me. Preparing me. He spoke of my master, who I believe is also his master. He is acting under compulsion, but he’s also working hard to make sure I survive.

So I appreciate Ninnis. I listen to him. Without him I would be lost.

I sit in my spot while Ninnis prepares and cooks a limb of some creature. I’m not sure where it came from. I suspect he hunts while I sleep. The meat has a pungent odor, but my mouth waters nonetheless. I whine.

“Wait,” he says.

He turns the meat once, letting both sides cook. I watch the fat drip away and sizzle in the small fire fueled by the defecation of creatures I have yet to see. “Tell me about your father,” Ninnis asks.

This is the first time he has spoken to me aside from commands. I’m so taken aback that I fail to answer.

“Speak!” he shouts over his shoulder. Not answering now would result in a beating. I’ve endured four already, for various offenses. But they were necessary. I’m sure the lessons will save me some day.

I search for something to say about my father, but can’t think of anything. I try to imagine him so that I might describe his face. But all I see is a blur, as though the lens peering into my perfect memory has been smudged. I try to imagine my mother. The results are the same.

Ninnis is on his feet now, storming toward me. I tense for a beating, but he stops. In one hand he holds the roast meat, its juices dripping down over his hand and forearm. In the other hand, he holds a knife. I’ve seen the blade before. It’s very old. About five inches long and sporting an engraved wooden handle.

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