Hell to Pay: Book Two of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  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 spinning 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.

  Twenty-Six

  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 as 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.

  The raknoth had apparently recovered enough of his eyesight to see it coming, and he leapt back to regroup with his partner.

  Jarek stepped back toward Rachel, still facing their foes, until he felt her hand on the back of his shoulder.

  “We need to get out of he—”

  The wrenching screech of torn metal yanked Jarek’s attention back to the ships to find Zar’Golga hefting a large metal section of …

  “Motherfucker,” Jarek mumbled.

  Golga had torn off the end of one of the stubby wings of Jarek’s ship and was now charging across the field, toting his giant club in one hand and holding the torn section of wing to his right side as a shield from their mysterious sniper friend.

  “Goldilocks, I think it’s time to run.”

  “I’ve got it covered,” Rachel said behind him.

  “Unless you’ve got a ship tucked between those lovely cheeks, I think we might—”

  The blow of a deep horn rumbled his core, and a shadow rose up behind them, accompanied by the sound of rushing air. He spared a glance over his shoulder and gave a delighted, “Ha!” at the long, dark bulbous shape of the Enochians’ ship.

  “You can blow up one ship,” Jarek cried, rounding back on Golga, “but—shit.”

  Golga was closing too fast. He’d be on them before their reinforcements could hope to land, and this time he had Toady, Slender Face, and a handful of wary troops on his side.

  Sniper fire pelted at Golga’s shield with a series of sharp smacks and delayed pops. A couple of the shots tore through the metal, but Golga didn’t slow. Rachel tensed behind him, and a glance her way told him Toady and Slender Face were on the move again.

  A few steps into their charge, though, Slender Face jerked to a halt, spewing thin trails of dark blood-stuff.

  Jarek spun back to face Golga’s charge. “Whoever’s watching our asses up there deserves a cookie.”

  “You can see to it he gets one when we all get out of here alive,” a voice said in his earpiece—not Rachel, but definitely female.

  He didn’t have time to ask who, what, or why. He darted forward to meet Golga’s charge where the aftermath of their impact wouldn’t spill back and roll over Rachel.

  It felt a little bit like stepping up to butt heads with a runaway semi-truck.

  At least he could buy time for Rachel to make it safely aboard their miraculous getaway ride.

  Jarek brought his sword up as they closed the last ten yards between them.

  A shadow flicked over Golga. The raknoth’s stride faltered, and he raised his shield just as Alton Parker slammed down on him in a double-footed drop kick from on high.

  Alton kicked off of Golga’s raised shield like a springboard and sent the dark raknoth stumbling back several steps as Alton turned through a tight backflip to land in front of Jarek.

  Golga was still recovering when a second figure dropped down between them. A thrumming pulse of pressure swept through the air as Elise touched down, long, dark staff in hand, and Golga’s backward stumble turned int
o full-on flight.

  They both turned to Jarek, Alton’s eyes alight with raknoth fire and Elise’s brimming with a kind of battle lust that sent a jolt of strange feelings through his anatomy.

  Elise’s tone was calm and commanding. “Get to the ship.”

  “Not without my Goldilocks!” Jarek cried as he spun to see Rachel blasting Toady up into the stands a good twenty-five yards away. It wasn’t without a cost, though.

  Even without the wobbly knees, the pallor of Rachel’s face was enough to know she’d already channeled more than enough by now.

  Gunfire barked from the descending ship overhead, scattering Golga’s troops as they sought cover to return fire.

  A furious roar from behind announced Golga was back on the war path.

  “The ship,” Jarek shouted at Rachel. “Go!”

  She didn’t argue. She turned and jumped, bolstering the effort with enough arcane juice to land her on the unfurled ship stairs twenty feet above. The burly balding guy laying down fire from the ship’s hatch reached out a hand to pull her in.

  “You next, metal man!” Elise shouted. “Up you—”

  “Incoming!” Al cried.

  Jarek whipped around in time to see Golga winding up to hurl his massive shield at them from fifteen yards away.

  Jarek leapt over Elise and Alton and touched down with the Whacker raised in a two-handed cross guard, angled to deflect.

  The wingtip hit with an awful grinding crash and the momentum of a small car, but Jarek was firmly planted. He managed to hold his ground. By some minor miracle, the Whacker held its own as well, and the hunk of metal smashed off and went spinning up and over Jarek’s left shoulder, twirling through the air like a giant skipping stone.

  Golga was still coming, his charge shaking the ground beneath Jarek’s feet.

  Jarek stepped back, preparing to turn aside another savage blow from that giant club.

  Elise slipped past him at the last second, quick and fluid, and dropped to plant one end of her staff to the ground, aiming the other at Zar’Golga’s chest. As she moved, the tip of the staff flipped open to reveal a long, dark spearhead.

  It was a perfectly timed surprise attack.