v Prologue w
HARTAGGA PUSHED HIS SHAGGY BLACK BODY THROUGH THE centuries-old forest of Garth. When no way could be found through the closely growing trees, he used his weight to ruthlessly smash a path, ripping up roots with sharp teeth and the crushing grip of his powerful jaws.
For months the tenacious creature had scouted Earth for a certain smell, the scent from the cradle cloth of an infant. Only Hartagga, bred of a she-bear and a fallen being—a Dark Watcher—could sense an odor seventeen years old. No man or animal used by the nephilim could match him.
After years of searching for this dangerous child, Kron, king of the nephilim, had called on his most faithful tracker, Hartagga, the monster he kept chained in his dungeon.
Hartagga, when he reared up on his hind legs, was almost as tall as a mastodon, his fangs sharper than the razor-toothed behemoth, and his claws two rows of knives. His head, even though the mouth stretched as wide as a man’s forearm, was small for his body. But a crooked hump at the top of his shoulders made him hunker hungrily forward. Even the nephilim trembled when Kron brought the misshapen and misbegotten beast to his throne room.
From his master’s domain north of the Eden Mountains, east to Nod, south to Cush, and west to Havilah, Hartagga had relentlessly searched for the one human who would match the smell his black snout had scented and remembered.
Sensing only the odor of common animals in this forest, Hartagga reached up with a back leg to scratch at his golden collar.
He had enjoyed human meat often during his search, but none of them had been the one. If the human was not found in this last place, he would return to his master’s abode where he would eat meat tossed him by denizens of the fortress or chew on the leftover bones of Kron’s enemies. Only this last hidden area to be scouted—a place only he had found in the king’s almost two decades of searching—and he would be done.
Back up on his paws, the black-furred creature continued moving through the trees. Over his head a great bird—a haraani—lighted in the upper branches. Hearing its sound Hartagga shot up on his hind legs and swept one arm into the tree limbs above, hoping to catch a meal.
But just as quickly, he stopped and drew back his arm. It is only Keoaw, he thought. Has he brought me something?
Hartagga growled upward and was rewarded to see a strip of fur drop from the treetops down to his feet. He sniffed the object, a belt made from the skin of a long-toothed cat.
He sniffed at the belt, which still smelled of the tiger, and found overlaying the original odor the scent he had sought so long. It reeked of that certain smell.
Hartagga picked up the belt and motioned with his snout toward Keoaw. The great bird lifted from the trees and began to fly toward an open space in the thick forest. It circled the area once before returning to settle in the surrounding treetops.
Carrying the belt in his mouth, Hartagga had followed the haraani as it directed him toward the clearing, an area strongly suggesting the work of man. He began sniffing and circling, always staying in the cover of the trees. And then he saw, standing in the center of the clearing, a small human who stopped his work and turned to watch him.
As he had done hundreds of times since leaving the fortress, Hartagga lifted his snout into the air and sniffed the current moving past the human.
The combination of odors entering his flaring nostrils slowly sorted themselves out. Freshly-turned earth, sheep dung, some green plant humans ate, a faint whiff of wood smoke, and . . . what was this? Human—the human in the field, but there was something else.
The aroma raced through Hartagga’s memory back to the cloth Kron had held to his nose so many months ago. The same odor from the belt. This was the one!
The orders Kron had given him floated to the surface: “Find him and then lead us to him.”
He stalked out into the clearing, his slow gait showing no sign that he was about to complete his mission. When the vulnerable human, holding only some type of stick for defense, stared back at him with infuriating audacity, Hartagga lifted his upper lip to show sharp fangs. Along his backbone a shiny black line of fur lifted.
“Don’t kill him!” Kron had ordered.
Remembering, Hartagga roared out a protest, stretching out his wide jaws toward the human. The recalled savor of human blood started the saliva dripping from his tongue. His unsatisfied stomach rumbled. In an instant instinct overcame training, and Hartagga forgot his command.
He began to run toward his prey, dropping the belt from his open mouth as he ran. All thoughts of Kron and his orders had been forgotten.
He had one thought—kill!