The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Right. Because Zar’Golga the freaking Overlord himself was clearly not even entertaining the possibility that a puny mortal like Jarek Slater could end his ancient existence.

  It was arrogant, sure, but the weight behind that arrogance was like a mountain, and it settled firmly on top of the already substantial trepidation in his gut.

  This creature had conquered entire planets. He was thousands of years old. He was stronger, faster, more powerful than Jarek could ever hope to be.

  Jarek looked at the dark metal of his sword and reminded himself that no matter how strong and fast the bastard was, he was still flesh and blood. He could die just like the rest of them.

  He glanced back at Rachel. She clearly liked this even less than he did, but there wasn’t exactly an abundance of choices left. It wasn’t like they could get in their ship and leave.

  He gave her a small nod, and she returned it after a second with a look that assured him she wasn’t about to lay down and let either of them die, no matter what happened. It melted some of the apprehension clutching at his chest as he turned back to Zar’Golga and that giant studded club of his.

  Flesh and blood, he reminded himself.

  Scaly, strong-as-hell flesh and blood.

  “All right then, big guy.” Jarek slid his faceplate closed, took several distancing steps away from Rachel, and pointed his sword at the raknoth. “Let’s see if you know how to use that thing.”

  The scarlet fire of Zar’Golga’s eyes blazed brighter. Then he lowered the mighty club from his shoulder and charged.

  25

  As it turned out, Zar’Golga did know how to use that thing.

  The raknoth tore across the thick grass between him and Jarek in an unnervingly fast sprint instead of the wild leap he’d been expecting. Golga’s first swipe was entirely too fast for the massive size of his club, but he managed it all the same. Jarek scooted back and barely shifted out of the club’s path in time.

  Jarek nearly shat himself on the spot when he parried Golga’s follow-up strike and got a better feel for just how damned heavy that club was—and again when Golga pulled the deflected club back under control as if it had all the heft of a plastic wiffle bat.

  He aimed a counter at Golga’s head, but the raknoth was quick, and Jarek was rattled. Golga easily stepped under the strike and spun to deliver a horizontal club sweep that probably would have left Jarek’s torso a broken mess, Fela or no. Jarek didn’t wait around to find out.

  He leapt backward a good ten yards, buying himself a moment to breathe. Or trying to, at least.

  Goltha followed at a tireless sprint fast enough that Jarek had to tuck straight into a roll upon landing to avoid another heavy club sweep. He barely had time to think before he righted himself and found an overhand blow descending on him.

  He twisted aside, clearing the club’s path by a hair’s breadth, then drove Golga back with his own diagonal cut. The raknoth wasted no time pressing back in.

  Jarek turned through a mind-numbingly fast series of steps, twists, attacks, and counterattacks, reacting on pure, hard-wired reflex. No matter how fast he moved, Golga was already there at the next step. Jarek needed a second to reorient, to breathe.

  But Golga pressed on, raining blow after blow with no noticeable sign of slowing.

  Jarek was off-center now—had been from the start—and was slipping further with each exchange. He couldn’t keep this up.

  Zar’Golga could.

  The raknoth fought on like a tireless, ferocious animal. If Jarek didn’t get his shit together, and fast, one of these tiny slips was going to end up snowballing into Golga knocking his head off with that ridiculous club.

  He had a brief image of Rachel watching him pummeled to a bloody mess by this red-eyed monster, her hands outstretched, her face frozen in a soundless scream.

  If Jarek didn’t get his shit together—if he gave into the tired voice telling him it was already over—then it wasn’t just his life. It was Rachel’s. It was Al’s. More likely than not, it was the Resistance and all those poor bastards getting bombed out of their homes for a second time.

  And fuck that.

  Never mind that Rachel never would have stood by and watched him die without throwing in. Never mind that he was tired and outmatched and afraid.

  They’d come here for a reason. They’d risked their lives and everything else for a shot at this vicious bastard. Between the ship going down and the shock at Golga’s raw power, Jarek had lost focus on his purpose here, but now it snapped back, clear and crisp.

  He’d come here to put down this animal before Golga destroyed them all.

  Jarek gritted his teeth and stepped into Golga’s next attack. The raknoth, having been hammering at him mercilessly for nearly a full minute, hadn’t expected that. Golga reacted quickly enough, dropping a hand from the club to reach for him, but Jarek plowed a lowered shoulder into Golga’s side before the raknoth could grab him.

  Golga hit the ground with all the mass of a full-grown grizzly bear, rocking the earth beneath Jarek, but bounced back to his feet with barely a moment’s pause, club in hand.

  Jarek was already coming down on him with a series of cuts that put the raknoth momentarily on the defensive. It didn’t last long. With each strike, Golga regained some control, simultaneously dulling Jarek’s fleeting momentum.

  Jarek pressed on with everything he had, but soon enough they were back on even footing, circling each other cautiously for the first time in the fight. When Golga changed his pacing, Jarek tensed, but the raknoth only drew to a halt and showed him an unsettling, fang-filled grin.

  “HQ is calling, sir,” Al said in his earpiece. “Urgently. Multiple channels.”

  Jarek could continue pressing on with everything he had all he liked. What he had wasn’t enough, simple as that. Golga was as fast as he was strong, as cunning as he was vicious. With the likely exception of potty humor, the raknoth outclassed Jarek in every way he could think of.

  But none of that meant that Jarek couldn’t win. All he had to do was shift his definition of the word.

  “Tell them they don’t need to worry anymore, buddy. I’m taking care of it.”

  The whole challenge of close-quarters combat with deadly weapons boiled down to one thing: hitting them with your deadly weapon while avoiding theirs. Simple, sure, but not easy—especially against a freakishly strong and fast blood-thirsty monster with countless years of fighting experience.

  What was far easier was to remove the second half of the fundamental equation of battle.

  Even the best fighter was intrinsically more vulnerable in mid-strike. Of course, that vulnerability was normally countered by the fact that, if their opponent valued their life, they’d be busy blocking, dodging, or otherwise not dying.

  But if that opponent decided he was going to take a motherfucker down with him, no matter the cost—and hey, maybe he could even survive the hit he’d take anyway—that was another matter entirely.

  And as long as Golga died, Jarek won.

  So he didn’t hold back when Golga charged him with all the power of a rampaging bull and the control of a time-tested warrior. He didn’t plan for counters or evasions. He focused on the spot where he was going to cleave Golga’s head from his shoulders, and he charged to meet the raknoth in kind.

  The strike Golga threw would not be reckless. He was too good for that. But Jarek would make him pay for it all the same. He wouldn’t waste his energy trying to save his own skin. He’d trade blow for blow with the vicious bastard. He’d end Zar’Golga, end this fight. Even if it killed him.

  He only wished he’d said goodbye to Pryce. Told Al he’d been the best friend he could have asked for. Given Rachel one last kiss.

  A wordless battle cry ripped out of his throat as they closed in. Golga’s eyes flared brighter as he began to swing his club. Jarek swept his sword up for the killing blow and—

  Golga reversed direction with impossible speed, ducking under Jarek’s cut and spinn
ing around with an upward diagonal sweep. Time seemed to stretch, and yet Jarek could only watch in horror, powerless to avoid it as the club rose toward his face.

  Then it hit.

  Everything was dark, and Jarek couldn’t remember why. Then he blinked open his eyes to… blue sky? And grass. He was lying in thick grass. Al was crooning something in his earpiece. Fiery pain was blossoming across his face. His back and shoulders ached from some recent impact, his comm was buzzing steadily, and—

  “Jarek!” a voice cried. Female. Worried.

  Rachel.

  Jarek sat bolt upright—or tried—and nearly vomited from the swirling nausea the movement brought on.

  “Careful, sir,” Al said.

  Zar’Golga stood over him, giant club resting lightly over his shoulder. When his addled brain caught up, Jarek realized he was looking at the raknoth with his own eyes, not his helmet display. His faceplate, he realized from the warped edges of his helmet, had been torn clean off by the blow that had landed him here.

  Golga watched his disoriented inspection with pulsing red eyes and emitted a low, amused growl. “You have played your part marvelously, Jarek Slater.”

  Played what part? What the hell was he talking about? And why was Jarek’s comm buzzing with a third call now?

  “I’m taking Alaric’s call, sir,” Al said quietly in his ear. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Yeah,” Jarek said, hoping Golga couldn’t hear Al. “I’ve been told I’m quite the character.”

  He glanced around, hoping to find the Whacker within grabbing distance, but no—there it was a few yards behind Golga.

  It wasn’t like Jarek had any shot of moving fast enough to catch Golga by surprise right now anyway.

  “I was merely hoping you and the arcanists would come rushing to protect the city when the bombs started falling,” Golga continued, “but this worked out far better.”

  “Get up, Jarek,” Rachel’s murmured voice came through his earpiece. “Get up, dammit.”

  Toady and Slender Face had posted themselves between her and Jarek, and Golga’s soldiers were eyeing her with itchy trigger fingers, but she looked like she was contemplating making a push for him anyway.

  Golga must have heard her murmur across the field. He brandished his club in Jarek’s face. “Both of you stay. I insist.”

  Jarek met his red-eyed stare as evenly as he could. “So is this the part where you tell me you’ve been waiting a thousand years for someone to grant you a true warrior’s death or something? Because if so, you should probably get to the point while you still have a head to do it with.”

  Golga watched Jarek for a long moment, massive club held at arm’s length like a cheap plastic toy. Then he tilted his head back and laughed.

  What was the bastard waiting for? Screw it—it didn’t matter. Whatever the raknoth wanted, Jarek wasn’t going to sit here and be toyed with. He might as well make a move, any move.

  Golga finished laughing and spoke before he could. “That your kind would think to stand against the rakul when you are the mightiest of their warriors…” He laughed again and poked at Jarek with the tip of his club.

  “Sir, it’s HQ.”

  The tension in Al’s voice was like a punch to the gut on its own. But then he said the words.

  “They’re under attack.”

  Over to the right, Rachel tensed like she’d heard Al’s message too.

  “You see?” Golga asked, baring fangs in a sneer at their reactions. “It is over for you and your friends. You have meddled in affairs beyond your comprehension, and now the time has come to pay the price.”

  “How—”

  Jarek stopped himself as the pieces fell into place. It was obvious, wasn’t it?

  Golga must’ve been tracking Mosen somehow. They’d had enough sense to ditch Mosen’s comm and make sure his mind was cloaked like Drogan’s. They’d even rooted through his clothes and gear. But they could have missed something, and even if they hadn’t, there were other ways. Golga could have implanted Mosen with a tracking chip for all he knew.

  It didn’t really matter how Golga had found HQ. What mattered was that Jarek had played straight into the bastard’s hands. Golga had wanted to draw out their heavy hitters so he could roll over HQ with minimal resistance. That’s what the bombings had been for.

  Only Jarek and Rachel hadn’t just stepped out to deal with the pests on their front yard. They’d done Golga one better. They’d flown off on this half-cocked idiocy he’d called a plan and managed to leave both themselves and HQ that much more open to attack.

  And now they were stuck here at the mercy of the strongest, most ruthless creature Jarek had ever encountered—without a ship, surrounded by Golga’s posse. HQ was about to burn if it wasn’t already doing so.

  And Golga was raising his club.

  No time.

  Jarek coiled and prepared to throw himself at the raknoth to punch, kick, bite, and otherwise fight to his last breath.

  Golga was faster.

  The raknoth’s foot slammed into Jarek’s chest and stomped him to the grassy earth like a pneumatic press. Even through the armor, it knocked the wind out of him.

  Jarek clawed at Golga’s foot and tried to pry himself free, but the raknoth was too strong.

  “I can smell it on you,” Golga rumbled. “The fear. The defeat. And now, Jarek Slater, at the height of your folly, you may prepare to die.”

  That said, he swung the club.

  A hundred thoughts exploded through Jarek’s mind: defensive maneuvers. Twists, turns, and crotch shots. Cries of terror and rage. Every single thing he could have done in that last moment.

  And yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to do a goddamn thing but lay there waiting to die.

  Then Golga’s club jolted to an abrupt halt halfway through his swing.

  For all of a single second, the raknoth looked as flabbergasted as Jarek felt. Then it dawned on both of them.

  Rachel. God bless her golden locks.

  For that single second, hope swelled in Jarek’s chest.

  Then Golga gave a terrifying roar and heaved at the motionless club, and a shaky-looking Rachel fell to one knee.

  “Kill the arcanist!” Golga bellowed.

  Toady and Slender Face loosed a pair of roars and darted forward to honor his orders.

  “Rachel!” Jarek screamed.

  He had to move, had to help her, had to—

  Golga raised his foot and stomped Jarek’s chest hard enough to reduce his awareness to a breathless mess of dark spots.

  For one morbidly blissful moment, Jarek nearly forgot where he was and what was happening.

  Then his world cleared, and Zar’Golga’s club began its descent toward his head.

  26

  Jarek had never bought into the whole “life flashing before the eyes” thing. For one thing, he’d never experienced such a phenomenon, and god knew he’d given his poor brain enough opportunities to engage the Oh shit, this is it button.

  Maybe it was simply that none of those situations had been his time. Maybe he’d somehow always known deep down inside that it wasn’t the end just yet, that the way out was only a grunt, a strain, and—more often than not—an excruciating pain away.

  Maybe this time it would be different.

  But right now, all he saw was a giant freaking club speeding down to crush his skull to pulp. Rachel had two raknoth at her throat. HQ was under attack.

  And Jarek sure as shit wasn’t about to wait around for that trip down memory lane.

  He was cocking back to throw the mightiest crotch shot he could manage when Golga jerked in mid-blow. The raknoth’s club slammed down next to Jarek’s head, kicking dirt into his face, and Golga staggered back with a choked roar.

  What in the—

  A small pop split the air.

  Golga jerked again, and this time, Jarek noticed the fine trail of dark ichor that exploded outward from his torso, painting the grass in a thin line just a
s a second pop reached them.

  A sniper?

  Stunned as he was, Golga gathered enough of his wits and power to throw himself thirty yards through the air toward the combined wreckage of their two ships for cover from Jarek’s friendly sniper angel.

  Assuming they were friendly—whoever the hell they were.

  “Jarek!”

  Rachel’s cry sent a blast of panic through his chest.

  He kipped to his feet, snipers momentarily forgotten, and took off for Rachel at a dead sprint.

  She was on the ground, hands outstretched toward Toady and Slender Face, who seemed to be caught in mid-lunge by whatever defenses Rachel had scrambled together. Without a clear line of fire, Golga’s soldiers were approaching to pitch in with fists, knives, and batons.

  A wordless cry erupted from Rachel’s throat, and her eight nearest attackers rocketed backward on the wake of a soft boom. Rachel collapsed forward onto her hands but started woozily fighting her way to her feet.

  The two raknoth regained their feet far quicker. Toady closed on her first and grabbed her staff. Rachel thrust her hand in his face and sent the raknoth stumbling backward with a flash of brilliant white light.

  Rachel turned her staff on Slender Face, but he was pressing in too fast.

  On a good day, when he was particularly motivated, Jarek’s sprinting speed with Fela could flirt with sixty miles per hour. Watching those red-eyed bastards closing in on Rachel, he was beyond motivated. He broke sixty, no question, and he didn’t slow down except to lower his shoulder at the end of his charge.

  Sixty wasn’t the only thing he broke.

  Jarek’s shoulder slammed into Slender Face’s narrow chest with a wet cracking sound. The impact felt a light breeze shy of removing Jarek’s shoulder from the socket, but it had the intended effect. Slender Face went sailing a good ten yards backward and would’ve continued for another five if he hadn’t bowled into two of his own men.

  Jarek clenched through the pain of the impact and stepped into a one-handed sword sweep at Toady’s neck.