Retribution: Book Four of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  “Right, then,” Fraga thought, “let us begin, brother shade, mine.”

  29

  Rachel woke to near-complete darkness and a moment of profound disorientation. There were shouts and sounds of booted feet storming by outside.

  Outside where?

  Her own nakedness and the feel of soft blankets around her, hard floor beneath her, and a chilled, exposed back guided her discombobulated mind back to the tiny little broom closet of a room she’d been nestled up in with—

  Where was Jarek?

  She rolled groggily over and felt more than saw him already scrambling into Fela in the dark corner of their miniature abode.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes even as the first hints of adrenaline tickled at her chest.

  “Three guesses,” Jarek said as Fela closed around him with a series of clicks and clacks.

  Rachel felt around for her clothes, casting her senses out to search for new, unfriendly minds or anything else out of the ordinary. At first, there was nothing close by, aside from a few small groups of people making their hurried ways past, clearly upset about something.

  Then the alarms started.

  “That’s never good,” Jarek murmured. “Are you decent?” he added, a second before she heard the familiar sound of his faceplate sliding shut. Then, “Ooh. I don’t think decent does that justice.”

  Rachel finished yanking on her jeans and reached for her sports bra, too worried about what might be happening out there to even bother rolling her eyes at him.

  The sound of gunfire didn’t ease her concerns.

  “Shit,” Jarek hissed, clicking on a light for her as she finished dressing and gathered up her staff and other gear. “Did they get inside?”

  He checked to make sure she was ready, then pulled the door open and stepped into the stale yellow light of the hallway outside, one hand on his sword hilt.

  For a second, the gunfire lulled. Then it redoubled, along with a choir of alarmed cries that seemed to answer Jarek’s question clearly enough. Somehow, the enemy had found a way in as they slept.

  Something blurred around the corner ahead.

  Jarek whipped his sword free from his back, but at second glance, they realized it was one of Krogoth’s younger raknoth. He came bolting toward them, crimson eyes wide with alarm, skin shifting to light green scales in splotches.

  “Where are they?” Jarek called.

  The raknoth skidded to a halt and jerked his finger down the hallway he’d come from, toward the larger tunnels that ran between buildings.

  “How many?” Rachel asked.

  “At least two,” the raknoth said, waving for them to hurry. “Zar’Krogoth sent me to rouse you as soon as he felt them, Rachel Cross.”

  That caught her by surprise just as much as it clearly caught Jarek. She couldn’t help but smile a tad at the confused tilt of his head as he glanced over at her.

  “I’m special,” she said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jarek said, returning his sword to his back as he started into a run beside her. “Let’s just get there before any more raknoth decide to try to steal my girlfriend.”

  “Your what?” she gasped, already breathing heavy from the running as they kicked through the door into the larger tunnel.

  Jarek, apparently noticing the exertion, scooped her up into his arms and ignored her cry of protest as he put on a burst of speed to catch them up to their raknoth guide.

  “Face it, Goldilocks,” he said as the cavernous ceiling blurred by overhead. “We’re basically stuck with each other at this poi—holy shit!”

  Jarek went rigid, digging his sharp heels in to skid them to a stop as something small streaked into the intersection ahead with a light popping sound, almost like a miniature thunderclap.

  “Is that a leprechaun?” Jarek murmured.

  The thing hit the wall and hung there for longer than seemed to make physical sense until Rachel noticed the many small claws on its foot-like appendages and the dark, glassy dagger it had driven into the wall as if the structure were made of flimsy cardboard.

  Leprechaun may have been a fair word to describe the thing in stature, but that was most certainly where the similarities ended. Sickly orange plates covered its body like some kind of organic armor, teeming with burrs and sharp edges. Its face was that of a hellish goblin.

  And the way their raknoth guide slid to a halt beside them and threw a warning arm out to block their way could only mean it was a Kul they were looking at.

  It turned startlingly crimson eyes on them, its lips pulling into an eager snarl. Then it vanished.

  There was a ferocious roar, and Krogoth’s rustred form came flying into the wall the Kul had just vacated. He hit hard enough that the metal crumpled in around the hand and foot he extended to catch himself.

  “Move!” he roared.

  Too late.

  There was another popping sound beside them. Their raknoth guide shrieked in pain and hit the ground with a long gash across his hamstrings.

  Jarek adapted to the impossible faster than Rachel, dishing her to her feet behind him as he spun into a low, sweeping kick.

  The Kul effortlessly jumped the kick with a high, twisting aerial maneuver. Jarek kept spinning and whipped his sword free and into a horizontal slice.

  The speedy little bastard tucked over again and actually hopped off of the flat of Jarek’s blade as it swished through the air he’d just occupied, using the touch point to lunge for Jarek with his gleaming black daggers.

  Rachel reached out and caught him with telekinesis, more out of reflex than conscious thought.

  The Kul’s fiery eyes widened for an instant. Then he hurled one of his daggers at her.

  The blade whistled toward her almost faster than her eyes could track. Too fast for her to raise her defenses. Too fast—

  The blade jolted to a halt in midair and clattered to the stone floor. It took her stunned brain a moment to realize the Kul had thrown the knife fast enough that her bullet-catcher had picked up on the threat.

  Krogoth and his raknoth were coming now.

  Rachel clenched her fist and telekinetically slammed the Kul to the ground. Or tried to.

  The instant before the little gremlin hit, he disappeared with a pop. A pained roar to the right announced his re-arrival down the tunnel.

  By the time Rachel turned, the Kul was already yanking his glassy dagger from a raknoth’s chest and aiming another stab at his victim’s head.

  Krogoth lunged in and forced the Kul off before he could land his killing blow. The creature vanished and popped into existence behind Krogoth, dagger plummeting for the side of his rustred skull. But Krogoth was already rolling clear of the strike.

  Al’Brandt darted in and caught the Kul with a punch that sent him flying toward Jarek and his sword like a lovely gremlin fastball.

  Jarek cocked back. Swung.

  The Kul vanished just before the blade hit and popped back into existence by Rachel, where he scooped up his thrown dagger and promptly vanished again. He paused further down the tunnel to give them a snarl and a creepy little wave of his daggers, then he scampered away in the direction of the front entrance.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jarek murmured. “That was one of them?”

  “Kul’Fraga,” Krogoth confirmed. “We will deal with him.” He turned an uncertain look at Rachel. “You should find Al’Drogan. He may need your help with—”

  Gunfire from one of the buildings further down the tunnel in the other direction announced that the Kul’s partner was still busy at work.

  “Kul’Vaish has come,” Drogan’s voice growled at the edge of Rachel’s senses.

  “Go,” Krogoth said, apparently having heard as well. “We will deal with Kul’Fraga.”

  He must’ve been issuing telepathic orders in the meantime, because three of his raknoth stepped to join her and Jarek while Brandt and the rest followed him without a word.

  The pack set off afte
r Fraga at an unnaturally fast sprint.

  “Be wary, Rachel Cross,” Krogoth’s voice came to her as he reached the next intersection and rounded out of sight. “Kul’Vaish is not to be trifled with.”

  Were any of the Kul?

  Between her near-dagger experience and Krogoth’s apparent concern, she was too surprised to make any reply before he was gone.

  “C’mon.” Jarek started for the sounds of fighting and paused to wave her on. “Let’s not leave Stumpy hanging. You okay?”

  She nodded dumbly and set off with him and the rest of the raknoth at a run.

  When they reached the big white building the shots were coming from, the dark green raknoth who’d taken the lead ignored the stairs leading up to the doorway. Instead, he threw himself straight up and through the door with a rumbling battle cry. The door gave way with a sharp snap, and the other raknoth rushed into the building, Jarek on their heels and Rachel on his.

  At the top of the stairs, Rachel’s first sight was of soldiers fleeing toward them, wild-eyed and frantic at whatever they’d just escaped.

  Not the best sign.

  She hurried after Jarek and the raknoth anyway. When they rounded the corner and caught sight of the thing the troops had fled, she couldn’t say she blamed them.

  Her first impression was of the Grim Reaper made flesh and blood. Only, at second glance, she wasn’t so sure about the flesh, or the blood. Dark swirling cloud of death, was more like it.

  Kul’Vaish glided through armed men like flowing smoke—his cruel, spindly appendages incorporeal one moment, then dripping blood the next as they solidified in the center of one man’s chest, then another’s head.

  Drogan faced the wraith with only one other raknoth in the narrow hallway, both of them doing their best to corral the soldiers away from Vaish while keeping their distance themselves.

  Drogan turned at their entrance, looking grim.

  The wraith turned as well. There were no crimson orbs, no eyes at all that Rachel could see in the swirling darkness. But somehow she was still certain the thing followed Drogan’s gaze straight to her.

  Her step faltered.

  “Rachel Cross,” Drogan sent rapidly, “you must Kul—”

  “Look out!” Jarek barked as, behind Drogan, the wraith surged forward with surprising speed.

  Drogan hit the deck just as Vaish’s wickedly sharp arm solidified and whistled through the air where his head had been.

  Vaish continued on, straight toward them.

  Rachel extended her hand and cast out with telekinesis to slow him down. It was like trying to catch sand with a net. Vaish slowed but continued sliding forward.

  She raised her staff, thinking to try fire or a strong gale.

  The wraith came faster. Too fast.

  Armored arms grabbed her and yanked her from her feet, back into the hallway they’d come from. Their raknoth allies scattered in the other direction. Jarek deftly deposited her back to the floor—just as Vaish ghosted through the wall after them.

  “Behind you,” Rachel snapped.

  Jarek was already whirling around with the Whacker.

  The hallway flashed azure. The wraith’s dark form billowed out in wispy streaks around Jarek’s sizzling blade but quickly pulled back into its original shape.

  Then something dark and pointy emerged from Jarek’s left hamstring, and he cried out in pain.

  Desperation gripped Rachel’s chest. She reached out, pulling the energy to lash out. To do anything.

  Jarek’s left leg buckled, taking him to the knee. Above him, Vaish aimed another spiky tendril of darkness. But Jarek wasn’t done.

  He flipped his sword reverse-grip with an angry snarl and aimed a sweeping cut at the first dark appendage where it protruded from his thigh. Vaish’s body still looked incorporeal.

  The appendage wasn’t.

  The air flashed azure again, and Jarek fell back from Vaish with the narrow spear of the Kul’s dark, severed appendage still buried in his leg.

  Erratic spasms rushed through Vaish’s swirling body, and from his dark depths came a sound like the wind itself screaming in agony. The Kul rocked back and bumped into the wall with part of his body, while the rest passed halfway through. It was as if the pain had dulled Vaish’s control.

  Drogan didn’t wait around for him to get it back. He appeared at Vaish’s side, sank his claws into the Kul’s flickering torso, and yanked Vaish around the corner and away from them. The other raknoth followed with a round of eager roars.

  Rachel waited a moment to be sure they were clear, then dropped to the floor beside Jarek, cupping the back of his neck in one hand as she leaned over to inspect the damage.

  Jarek dropped his sword and grabbed the severed end of Vaish’s appendage with both hands.

  “Jarek, wait,” she gasped, “are you sure that’s—”

  He yanked the alien limb free with a heavy groan and a wet sucking sound that made Rachel’s stomach squirm.

  “It’s fine,” he grunted. “Missed the bone. Al’s compressing it.” He looked up at the sound of a pained roar from around the corner. “Got any tricks to keep that shifty bastard solid?”

  Several soldiers watched them nearby, weapons clutched tightly, their stares like silent prayers for her to confirm that she did indeed have some master plan to stop that thing.

  What had Drogan tried to say?

  She must … had he said Kul?

  No. Not Kul. That made no sense.

  Cool.

  “Cold,” she muttered as the logic fell into place and she started considering the logistics of how the hell she was going to do it. “I think we need to freeze him.”

  Jarek’s faceplate swung to face her as he considered that, then he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” His breathing sounded labored as he looked around this way and that for some kind of inspiration. “Cold things don’t move so good, right? You got any ide—”

  His attention snapped back to her like he’d found that inspiration.

  She was opening her mouth to ask what he was thinking when he snaked a hand around the small of her back and yanked her bullet-catcher from her belt. He held it up and cocked his head in question.

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded in astonishment.

  It was so simple.

  Jarek pulled himself to his feet with a few grunts and gestured to the troops with the disc-shaped bullet-catcher. “Time to shoot some skeet, boys and girls!”

  “Get ready to clear the way,” Rachel sent at Drogan, who returned a strained affirmative.

  Then Jarek rounded the corner and tossed the catcher at Vaish. It landed just below the swirling darkness of the Kul’s lower body.

  One of the raknoth already lay dead in the hallway. Drogan and the rest dove clear.

  “Open fire!” Jarek bellowed. “Everyone!”

  Most of them probably didn’t have half a clue what the hell he was up to, but they were past asking questions.

  Gunfire erupted from eight or nine weapons beside Rachel and Jarek. At a Fela-amplified shout from Jarek, the troops on the other end of the hallway opened up too, catching Vaish in a cross fire. There was little risk of them hitting each other, as Vaish was finding out.

  The Kul shifted confusedly back and forth, observing the hundreds of bullets slamming into thin air just short of his swirling form and falling harmlessly to the floor. A ring of spent lead quickly formed around him, an unnatural breeze sweeping through the hallway as her catcher absorbed the heat from the air to counteract the kinetic energy of each and every one of those bullets, cooling the air rapidly enough to leave a nice, big pressure differential.

  That’s when Vaish realized what they were up to.

  “Do not let him shift out of this hallway, Rachel Cross!” Drogan’s voice cried in her mind as Vaish began drifting for the nearest wall.

  She reached for the Kul, all too happy to oblige.

  It still wasn’t easy, latching onto Vaish with telekinesis. But with every bullet t
hat struck the catcher’s field, and every degree the hallway dropped, the Kul grew incrementally less slippery to her grip.

  Rachel held stubbornly on, channeling even more heat from the hallway to fuel the effort.

  Even ten yards away from the center of it, her breath was condensing into beautiful white mist. It was well below freezing, now, by the feel of it.

  The soldiers were all still shooting, eyes wide but senses sharp enough to stagger their reloads and keep the pressure on. Jarek had both of his pistols out too.

  Vaish let out another airy scream, his nebulous swirling weakening now, slowing until he nearly looked solid throughout. Solid enough that Drogan and another raknoth lunged in to attack.

  “Keep shooting the disc!” Jarek cried, holstering his pistols. Then he drew his sword and rushed after them with a pronounced limp.

  Drogan must’ve sensed him coming. The raknoth dodged around Vaish, drawing the Kul’s attention just as Jarek closed and brought his sword down.

  The blade raked across Vaish’s turned back in a bizarre fashion, almost as if it were only cutting at points and passing through others entirely without resistance. So he wasn’t as solid as he looked yet. But something still seared, and Vaish didn’t look happy about it.

  The gunfire had faltered as Jarek and the raknoth charged. Now that the soldiers understood the plan, though, it picked back up quickly enough as they adapted to the development and took more careful aim to hit the catcher and not their allies, who danced in and out of the catcher’s field, keeping the disgruntled Kul busy.

  With Vaish distracted, Rachel shifted her focus from preventing his escape to cranking their makeshift freezer into overdrive.

  Channeling more heat out of the area was the first and most obvious thought, but not the most useful. Their allies’ bullets were already sapping plenty of heat from the area, though many of them seemed to be running low on ammo at this point. What she needed to do was make their shots count.

  Thermodynamics was the enemy here.

  The thought was murky from conception as she reached out to the area around the combatants. If she could somehow bubble off that short section of hallway—somehow stymie the natural flow of heat along its gradient from high to low …