Part One
By
Cheezey
After several hours, the ride back to Doom from Arus was nearly over. Once again, Zarkon’s crew had suffered a defeat, although the king himself was not involved in the failed scheme. The one in charge of that failed mission had been Queen Merla, but once she had taken Princess Allura captive it had been only a matter of time before Prince Lotor had stepped in to take over the show himself.
Both the witch Haggar and Commander Cossack had also been involved in the fiasco, although neither were particularly enthused about or pleased with the plan—Haggar because she disliked Merla’s presumptuousness and arrogance, and Cossack because the seventh kingdom queen had stuck him in her torture machine, the Cosmotron, earlier that day in a demonstration to impress Zarkon. Cossack and Haggar both took mean-spirited pleasure in seeing Merla’s little scheme fail, and they spent much of the ride back to Doom alternately grumbling about Merla and making snide remarks at her expense. Since Merla had chosen to fly back alone with her Dwarflings in her star-cutter, and Lotor had decided to brood about losing Allura again in his private quarters, it made it all the easier for them to do so freely as well.
The looming sphere of the dark planet called Doom appeared on the view screen as their craft approached and prepared for landing. Content to let the robots handle the technicalities of the procedure, Cossack leaned back in his chair and swiveled it to face Haggar. “Almost home. I wonder if Zarkon will find Merla so impressive now. Seems to me like she’s a lot more talk than action, except when it comes to pushing us around,” he finished, and stretched.
As he did so, Haggar noticed some light markings on Cossack’s blue-skinned arms, and peered at him curiously from beneath her hood. “Cossack,” she said as she leaned over, “did you manage to bruise yourself just piloting the ship?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered with a puzzled frown, and followed her gaze down to his left arm where he saw several purplish-red lines upon the surface of his skin. “What the…” He rubbed the skin lightly and his frown deepened to an irritated glare when he felt a stinging sensation. “Feels like some kind of sunburn or something. I didn’t think we were out on Arus that long.”
“Let me see it,” Haggar said, and grasped his arm, pulling it toward her. She ran her cold and bony finger across the markings. “That’s not a natural burn.”
“What is it, then? Where’d it come from?”
Haggar’s eyes narrowed as she met Cossack’s puzzled gaze. “Where do you think?” she hissed contemptuously, although her disgust was not aimed at the man whose arm she examined. “Merla.”
When he heard her answer, Cossack’s expression hardened as well. “You mean the Cosmotron did this?”
Haggar nodded. “And her oh-so-charming charmed quarks. It would seem that exposure to them has a rather ugly side effect in addition to the pain the procedure induces.”
When he heard that, Cossack’s hand tightened into an angry fist. He’d thought it was bad enough that Merla blatantly abused her power in embarrassing him in front of King Zarkon and treating him like a guinea pig—even if he had volunteered—but for her to not even have the courtesy to warn him about the effects afterward? Volunteer or not, he was still Zarkon’s high fleet commander, and he was due a certain level of respect. But in the short time Merla had been a guest of the royal house of Doom, she had not bothered to show much of that to anyone except the king whose blue hindquarters she kissed every chance she got. “That bitch,” Cossack snarled indignantly. “I ought to take her by that braid and shove it—”
“Shhh,” Haggar interrupted, her voice barely a whisper as she placed her finger to her lips for effect. “We’re landing, and her ship is already in the bay.” She pointed to the view screen, which showed that Merla’s star-cutter had already docked. “Until we know more about the range of her telepathic powers, it would be wise to keep our overtly… hostile… thoughts shielded and unspoken.”
Cossack growled angrily once more, but conceded to Haggar with a nod. “You’re probably right. But she still won’t get away with this. Cossack the Terrible doesn’t forgive and forget.”
“Nor should he, or I for that matter in her rudeness to me,” Haggar agreed as their ship came to a full landing and the robots signaled that it was safe to disembark. “But be patient. She’ll have her time of humbling.”
* * *
Alone in her chambers several hours later, Haggar heard a timid knock on the door. She was not expecting a visitor, so she made her way over to the door feeling rather irritated at being disturbed. Her mood was already foul from the nonsense earlier with Merla, and being pestered at such an hour did not help matters. She had no idea who was calling upon her other than it was likely not King Zarkon or Prince Lotor, for neither of them would have bothered to knock to begin with.
When she opened the door, she saw the figure of a female clad in slave linens standing before her, bowing her head to her in a gesture of fearful respect. At a closer glance Haggar recognized the dark-haired woman as the servant that tended to Cossack and his quarters. Still annoyed, but now also somewhat curious, Haggar stared intently at her. “Yes?”
“My apologies for bothering you, Witch Haggar,” the slave murmured in a humble tone. “But I didn’t know where else to go. Commander Cossack is ill and I’m concerned for him.”
Haggar sighed irritably, having little patience for the foolishness of Cossack’s help. “Slave, did it not occur to you to go to the medical bay or seek the castle healer instead of disturbing me? I am a witch, child, or do you not understand what that means?”
The slave’s bow deepened. “I’m sorry, my lady. I—I already went to see Master Thaileus, but he’s having very little luck with the commander. I thought that perhaps with your magic you could—”
“Could what?” Haggar snapped, her shrill voice taking on a ragged edge in its impatience.
“Help him, wise witch.” She lifted her bowed head to meet Haggar’s eyes somewhat imploringly. “Master Cossack thinks highly of you, my lady, and I thought that perhaps if I came to you…”
At that, Haggar could not help but chortle. “Cossack thinks highly of me? And what gave you that idea?”
The slave straightened, relaxing a little now that she was relatively certain she had not roused Haggar’s ire. “He speaks well of you in his way of doing so.”
“Does he?” Haggar turned back into her room so that she could retrieve her staff. “And what does he say about me, slave?”
“Er… I can’t recall the words exactly,” she hedged, knowing that repeating verbatim some of her master’s more colorful statements about Haggar, backhanded compliments that most of them were, could very well land her in the Pit of Skulls or worse at the hands of the witch’s magic. “But surely knowing him as well as you must, you understand the commander’s way of letting one know how he feels. He doesn’t hold back. And I’ve yet to hear him refer to you or our rightful rulers in true contempt.”
Although hearing that Cossack had a high opinion of her was nothing of real consequence to her, Haggar did feel a measure of satisfaction from the slave’s statement, mostly in what was left unsaid in the polite omission of Queen Merla’s name. With her staff in hand, she joined the girl in the hallway and began to walk with her to Cossack’s quarters.
The slave bowed again in gratitude. “Thank you for coming, Witch Haggar.” Like most slaves that survived longer than a week in Castle Doom, Haggar noticed that she was careful to show respect and submission to her superiors in every gesture and spoken word.
Less impressed by the flattery and show than those with larger egos might have been, Haggar eyed the girl with a touch of curiosity. “What’s your name, slave?”
“Almika, Mistress.”
“I see. Well, Almika, you’re surprisingly loyal to your master for a slave. You must fear his wrath considerably.”
Almika shook her head meekly and answered in a low tone, as if fearful of being heard by anyone but Haggar. “If I may be honest with you, wise witch, it’s not his wrath I fear, but what my fate would be if the worst happens to the commander.” She kept her gaze down toward the floor while they continued through the darkened hallway.
Haggar found her statement somewhat curious. She could tell that the girl was well broken and conditioned, for she was as timid as a space rodent and nervousness radiated from her very aura. That pleased her. When it was required to deal with the slaves, she preferred ones that knew their place, were not impudent, and did not require any discipline. She had neither the time nor patience for such mundane hassles. She cast the girl a stern look. “Don’t you think it’s rather foolish to not fear the wrath of your master, child? You must know Cossack the Terrible’s reputation.” Of course, much like the rest of the royal court of Doom, Haggar herself hardly feared Cossack “the Terrible’s” wrath, but she also knew that the fleet commander’s subordinates did take his reputation for ruthlessness seriously, and with good reason. Despite Cossack’s snarky attitude and impetuous nature, Haggar knew full well that one did not get as far as he had in the Doom military without a considerable measure of tactical skill and brutality.
“Master Cossack is not so terrible if I don’t anger him. He treats me well if I do him the same, and that’s why I don’t want to see harm come to him,” Almika confided in her. “I never want to go back to the position I served before I was given to Commander Cossack. It’s far better serving one man in a position of power than it is to be forced to submit to many who wish they were in one, but aren’t.”
“You came from the soldiers’ bordello, then?” Haggar guessed, and the slave confirmed her speculation with a nod. Haggar made a distasteful face at the thought of enduring the crude and licentious advances of the average Doom soldier. “Then I can see why you wouldn’t want to return. Poor child. Had you been blond, you might have caught the eye of Prince Lotor. But then again, his ladies have a way of winding up in the Pit of Skulls or having unfortunate accidents when he tires of them, so perhaps you were lucky to have been given to one more easily satisfied than our fickle prince,” she finished as they rounded the corner and reached Cossack’s quarters.
As the pair made their way to Cossack’s bedroom, the healer Thaileus heard their approach and looked up from his patient. Cossack himself was unconscious on the bed, clearly in a fitful rest. Sweat covered his blue forehead and matted his hair, and the reddish streaks that had been present on his skin earlier had multiplied and become more angry and pronounced. “He has gotten worse,” Haggar remarked as she walked over to his bedside.
“The slave said something about him being put in a Cosmotron belonging to Queen Merla. You were present for this?” Thaileus questioned Haggar.
“Yes, she used Cossack to demonstrate her weapon. ‘Charmed quarks,’ she called them.”
“Charmed quarks are a nasty form of radiation that does specific cellular damage,” Thaileus said. “But few experiments have been done with them. It’s a rather unstable form of energy, from what I’ve been told. Devices that use them tend to have issues with spontaneous explosions.”
“With how much Cossack enjoys bombing things, it’s almost fitting in a sad way.” And perhaps if he recovers, he would enjoy helping Merla’s machine have a not-so-spontaneous explosion with the help of one, she added silently. She knew she would certainly not mind seeing the uppity queen’s plans turned upside down with a big bang. In fact, she would be happy to make a bomb-bearing indoor robeast for just such an occasion.
“Anyway, there’s very little I can do except let it run its course. There are no real treatments other than topical salves and pain medication. I’ve taken the liberty of giving Commander Cossack a hefty dose of delbinium, so you can expect him to sleep for a while. Unless, of course, you were to use healing magic,” Thaileus added with a clear note of condescension in his tone at the notion.
“Keeping King Zarkon’s constitution strong is one thing, but treating the ill is another. My magic isn’t specialized in that discipline.” She paused and eyed Thaileus evenly. “Which is fortunate for you, considering that healing is your job.”
Thaileus bristled at the insult, but he held his tongue, for he also knew how unwise it was to risk Haggar’s wrath. “Then I’ll leave you to work your magic then, witch. I’ll be back later,” he stated huffily, and strode out of the room.
“Officious little worm,” Haggar muttered once the door clicked shut, signaling the healer’s exit. “I never liked him. Marguil was much better.”
Almika looked over at the witch curiously. “Who is Marguil, Lady Haggar?”
“A healer we once had on staff here. He retired long ago, far before your time.” She glanced at the slave. “You’re dismissed. Leave Cossack to me for now.”
Almika bowed. “As you wish, wise witch,” she said, and slipped out the door without another word, leaving Haggar alone in the room with the sleeping Cossack.
She reached down and laid her fingers upon the ailing man’s arm, eyeing the ugly reddish marks that marred his skin with disgust. Although one could hardly call Haggar a compassionate soul, she certainly had no love for the arrogant pink-haired queen that had done that to him, and that granted him a considerable measure of her sympathy by default. But still, even without benefit of Merla’s viciousness, Haggar would have felt a touch of concern for Cossack. Odd as it was and equally difficult for her to explain, she was genuinely fond of the buffoon of a commander, and in her own way, she was protective of him. Why that was so was a complicated issue and a long story that had its roots far in Haggar’s past, in a time many years before Cossack’s birth…
“Take me to him,” Haggar demanded, and struggled to sit upright in the plush sheets of her bedding despite her condition. She was alone with Marguil in the dark chambers that were her quarters, quarters that were still hers to that very day in the future where she stood at Cossack’s bedside, alit only by the soft light of her skull and wax candles and the eerie glow of her scrying globe on the pedestal of the west wall. Haggar, far younger then and still more a beautiful woman than crone by appearance, shoved with what strength she could muster against the Doomite healer’s restraint. His proved mightier, however, and he held her in place on the bed.
“Until you calm yourself and cease this tirade I will take you nowhere,” Marguil stated firmly.
“You will,” Haggar hissed viciously, “or else!”
Marguil dropped her arm and eyed her coolly, unfazed by her theatrics. “You’ll what?” he challenged. “Turn me into a reptile of some sort?”
Haggar swung her legs off of the bed and stood on the dark tile floor in her bare feet. She was clad in a flowing nightgown that she quickly covered with a robe that hung upon her bedpost. “I can do far worse to you than that if I want, either with my magic or a whispered word to Zarkon,” she retorted, tucking her once honey-colored hair—now prematurely half gray from the stresses of her chosen lifestyle—and tucked it beneath the hood of her robe.
“Oh, Haggar,” Marguil said with a sigh. “You and I have known one another for many years now, so let’s not play games. You know as well as I do that your influence with Zarkon is not, shall we say, what it once was. Especially now that—”
“That I’ve been replaced?” she snapped, turning to eye him sharply. He frowned, but did not challenge her statement, and instead only gave a subtle nod. “Only as his consort, Marguil. His need for my magic is stronger than ever.”
“As his highness will undoubtedly expect the potency of your magic to be, and what it will lack if you do not allow yourself the rest needed to recover from what you’ve been through.”
“I’ll rest when you get out of my way and let me see him.”
“Your son?” Marguil said with a defeated sigh. “I sympathize, but you must understand that he is not well, as you are not after such a difficult delivery. It was insanity to let this go as far as it did. Zarkon’s blood does not mix well with your kind. Do you know how few children of such a cross survive past their fifth birthday?”
Haggar ignored Marguil and took her staff from where it leaned against an altar. Normally she carried it as a means with which to amplify her magic, but that night she needed it as a walking stick as well. “Zarkon would have had both me and Sivich killed if he knew that child was his. That’s why only you know who his father is. You know as well as I do that kings don’t like illegitimate heirs cropping up out of nowhere, and ones of his station don’t marry lovers not of royal birth.”
Marguil shook his head in disbelief. “And even still you named the boy? You couldn’t even bother to think of a name for his alleged father, and that sordid little tale will last longer in the court’s memory than your child is likely to live if left to nature alone.”
She paused in her labored gait long enough to meet his gaze. Naturally, Haggar had never planned on conceiving a child by Zarkon, but she had been irresistibly attracted to his power, and the allure of being the consort of the king of an empire had been too much for her to resist. She supposed she had become careless, for as Marguil had said, hybrids of her race and Zarkon’s were all but unheard of in the galaxy. She had never considered that a possibility, and when it had happened she had been stunned. However, when she discovered that the child would be born during the Tozrayn alignment—a planetary configuration that occurred only once every few centuries that was astrologically significant to those that followed her dark spirit masters—Haggar had taken it as an omen that the Ancient Ones were rewarding her for her diligent service to them. She believed wholeheartedly that one day the child would grow up to be strong, powerful, and important like his father.
Of course, in order to secure the child’s safety, she had been forced to fabricate a tale as to his parentage. Once Zarkon heard it, he had been finished with her as a consort for good. After all, there were plenty of attractive women, much younger and prettier than she after many years in his service, that were all too available and willing to satisfy his physical needs without any reminders that he was sharing with someone else. Royal egos did not take such things well, and it was only because Haggar had shown such skill in magic that Zarkon did not dismiss her from his court entirely. His cold rejection had caused her almost as much anguish emotionally as bearing the child had on her physically, but she was nothing if not a resourceful woman, and in time she knew she could control and harness those raw emotions into something more productive. Dark magic was wonderfully efficient for that.
“You really don’t think he’ll live, even with my magical intervention?”
“I’m your friend, Haggar, and because of that I’m being honest with you,” Marguil told her bluntly. “His chances are very slim. I urge you not to get attached to that child.”
Haggar closed her eyes and began to walk again. “Then I should hurry to see him while I can, shouldn’t I?” When no answer was forthcoming from Marguil, she quickened her pace as best she could in her exhausted state and pushed open the door to the room that served as the nursery for the newborn.
“I don’t think it’s in my power to stop you.” Marguil watched her make her way over to the crib that held the tiny blue son of her and Zarkon.
Haggar gently picked up the child and held him against her. She sensed a frailty about the boy as soon as she touched him, and felt an uneasy coolness in his flesh. He let out a soft cry, more strained than it should have been, and relaxed against her. “He’s not warm as he should be, and his cry is weak,” Haggar said, turning toward Marguil. “But he was born on the apex of the alignment. That should’ve made him at least a little stronger.”
“Sometimes nature holds more power than magic and mysticism,” Marguil suggested, not arrogantly, but only as a statement of fact.
Haggar did not appreciate it. “We will see about that.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A talisman,” Haggar told him. “Drawn in the most powerful blood I can find. The snake symbol of the spirits will protect him from harm. The Ancient Ones watch over their chosen and fools.”
“Which explains why you’ve been so lucky thus far in hiding the truth about this boy from King Zarkon,” he responded smoothly. His gaze shifted from Haggar to the infant and then back to her. She was smiling with a devilish determination to cheat fate. “Should I be worried about this plan of yours?”
Haggar held her child close for one more long moment, kissed his forehead, and then replaced him gently in the crib, carefully covering his tiny body so that he would not catch an additional chill. “Not unless you continue to ask questions.” She smiled down at the baby, who had already settled into sleep, and brushed her fingers against his forehead. “Sleep well, my Sivich. Soon you’ll be out of easy reach of death.”
With that she took up her staff, smiled confidently at Marguil, and headed back to her chambers, her emboldened resolve strengthening her enough physically that one who had not known the circumstances might not have noticed she had been ailing at all.
* * *
The remainder of the night passed without incident, and a good portion of the following day as well went on with only passing notice given to Haggar’s absence. She was holed up in her quarters, working on a potent talisman of strength and stamina for her suffering child. She had many of the ingredients it required on hand already in her laboratory, and had the concoction simmering in the eerie magical fires of her creation as it awaited the final ingredient, the one that gave the formula all of its power.
The ancient spell called for strong blood, and Haggar intended to use the strongest she could get to save the boy. While the blood of any strong slave or soldier in Zarkon’s service could have worked well enough, she intended to take no chances. Had she trusted her own blood to be stronger she would have used that, but she knew that while her magic was strong, her constitution was weak, and it would do Sivich no favors. He needed far more potent, vital, and tenacious blood for that. Her son’s talisman would be tempered in blood from one who could, and would, live longer than most mortals, one who was being sustained and strengthened through the powers of dark arts himself—his father’s blood. The blood of King Zarkon.
Haggar wrapped her cold fingers around a silvery vial and slipped it into her robe. Taking a sample of Zarkon’s blood would be easier said than done. He was suspicious, and she certainly could not just walk up to him with a sacrificial knife and ask him if he would mind a little scratch. While he might be willing to offer her blood for magical purposes that served him, he did not require any sustaining treatments in the near future, and she did not want to be in a situation that posed inconvenient questions, not when she had no time to plan it out properly. No, she had to act quickly. If Marguil’s prediction was an accurate one, Sivich’s young life depended upon her timeliness.
Fortunately, she had an idea in mind for a quick way to acquire the vital fluid she needed, and although it would be messy, it would be efficient. Glancing at the nearby timepiece, she knew it to be the hour of the afternoon when Zarkon usually indulged in a goblet or two of fine wine, and that was always served in crystal decanters. Fine, sharp crystal that shattered quite easily and formed jagged pieces that could leave quite a nasty cut if one was unfortunate enough to handle it improperly. A cruel and calculating smile flickered across her features as she scooped up her familiar in her arms and left her chambers, bound for the throne room.
When Haggar reached the grand hall of Castle Doom, she found Zarkon seated on his throne as usual, speaking with a governor from a conquered world in the empire. She saw two servants off to the side with a cart that held the spirits and crystal they would serve to the king when he gave the order, likely when he was finished speaking to his visitor. She eyed them for a moment, until they averted their eyes and bowed their heads in respect to her. Casually she stroked her familiar’s head, and then she leaned down to whisper to him. Those observing would mistake it for affection when in truth it was her instructing her cat on what to do to help her get what she needed. When she finished, Coba began to purr, and Haggar at Zarkon with a mild smile on her stress-worn features.
He looked up when he saw her approach. “What do you want, witch?”
“Merely to discuss with you some of the progress I’ve made on that robeast prototype you asked about recently,” she lied. “But if you’re busy, it can wait.”
Zarkon eyed her coolly. “I’m surprised you finally got around to it with how slow you’ve been about other things lately.”
“My apologies, sire. My health has not been the best as of late,” she said, lowering her head not so much as a gesture of humility, but more to hide the emotion that surged at being spoken to so coldly and contemptuously by him. In the months that had passed since she had fallen out of his favor she had grown used to it and had come to accept it, but time had yet to fully heal the wounds he had left on her heart to the jagged scars that they would later become.
“I’m not interested in your excuses. I’m interested in results.” Zarkon then turned to the visiting delegate. “Have we covered everything you came to discuss?”
The alien governor nodded and then bowed to the monarch. “We have, sire.”
“All right, then,” Zarkon said with an authoritative nod in the slaves’ direction. “Pour the three of us some wine and let’s hear the witch’s report.”
The slaves obediently pulled out goblets for those assembled. Unaware of Haggar’s sinister intentions as she set her familiar on the floor, they poured generous portions of the fine vintage for Zarkon and his guests. Meanwhile, Coba padded softly to the foot of Zarkon’s throne and rubbed against his feet with an affectionate purr.
Zarkon glanced down at the cat. “Haggar, your cat better not leave fur on my good robe.”
“He’s merely fond of you, sire. But I keep his shedding to a minimum through my magic, so your attire should be suitably regal even if he does show you loyalty in his way.”
“If you say so,” Zarkon said with a shrug as he took the crystal goblet one of the slaves handed him. Haggar kept her eyes fixed on Zarkon except for the briefest glance at Coba as the other slave handed her a wine glass and then moved on to serve the alien governor. No one noticed the subtle nod she gave her familiar as Zarkon’s fingers closed around the stem of the goblet.
In a flash Coba was at the slave beside Zarkon’s feet, and a moment later his feline fangs and claws sank painfully into his calf with more force than a mortal cat of its size should have been able to inflict. The slave, a human originally from the recently conquered planet Tyrus, screamed in pain and clenched at the delicate crystal goblet with adrenaline strength, causing it to shatter in his hands. Just as Haggar had hoped, the sharp shards not only cut the hands of the slave but fell onto Zarkon’s arm and made a long cut across the back of his wrist. By the time the slave recovered, Coba had quickly returned to Haggar’s side as though he had never been at the top of Zarkon’s throne. Through benefit of her illusory magic, Haggar also managed to conjure an image to conceal the slave’s wounds from sight.
Zarkon let out a shout of pain and glared with unbridled fury at the slave. “Clumsy fool!”
“I—I’m sorry your highness,” the slave whispered in horror, knowing full well what terrible fate could await him after hurting the king, even inadvertently, in such a manner. “The witch’s cat attacked me and—”
“Liar!” Haggar hissed contemptuously, fixing her cruel glare upon the horrified slave as she set her goblet down and scooped Coba into her arms for a moment to console him from the insult. “My cat is right here. Swift as he is, he couldn’t have attacked you viciously enough to cause that. Are you even bleeding?” Her tone was accusing as she set her familiar back down onto the floor and ascended the steps of the throne, the perfect picture of concern.
“He attacked my leg, I swear!”
The alien governor glanced suspiciously at the slave. “He’s not even cut from what I can tell from here.”
Zarkon scowled at the slave. “You dare to do this and then lie to me?” He held up his bleeding arm to the slave’s face, while Haggar came to his side with a linen napkin taken from the wine cart that she immediately pressed to the wound.
“The cut is mostly superficial, my liege,” she assured him. “His attempt to harm you in rebellion was as inept as his service.”
“That’s not what happened!” the slave wailed in protest. “I didn’t do it on purpose, sire! Her cat—”
“That’s enough!” Zarkon bellowed. “Had you been only incompetent and offered a suitably humble apology for your clumsiness, I might have forgiven you, but lying to me is something I consider unforgivable. Guards! Take this wretch to the Pit of Skulls!”
The slave went pale in terror and fell to his knees. “No, sire, please! I’m sorry, I beg you…”
The other slave, feeling sorry for his partner, looked up at the king imploringly. “King Zarkon—”
Zarkon ignored the offender’s last minute pleas for mercy and cast a glare down at the other slave, unnoticing of how carefully Haggar wrapped the cloth around his bleeding wound, soaking in as much of his vital fluid as possible. “Do you think I’m wrong in my decision, slave? Did you see my witch’s cat attack him?”
Holding her hands tightly around Zarkon’s cut, Haggar cast a threatening look down at the other slave. “You didn’t actually see Coba attack, did you? Weren’t you pouring the Governor wine?”
The other slave swallowed hard. He had seen a blue flash he thought was the witch’s cat coming back to her side from near the king’s feet, but he had not actually seen him bite his partner. Furthermore, he could tell a threat when he saw it. The truth he knew would not be enough to spare the other slave’s fate, and if he made a conjecture that displeased the king he could very well wind up in the Pit of Skulls beside his unfortunate partner, or subject to something horrific at the witch’s hands if she did not like his answer. Life as a slave on Doom was difficult enough, but he had no desire to leave it through a painful death. He lowered his head in fearful respect. “I did not, and I was,” he said quietly, his voice holding an apologetic note for the other slave.
Haggar turned and looked up at Zarkon. “Clearly then he was lying to cover himself.”
Zarkon let out a grunt of acknowledgement and nodded to his guards, who had already ascended the stairs and surrounded the unfortunate slave. “Take him away. I want him out of my sight. And for the gods’ sake, get the healer in here to bandage this. It’s bleeding like a do-gooder’s heart.”
“As you wish, sire,” one of the guards replied as they secured the slave in their grasp and took him, screaming in protest and begging for forgiveness in vain, out of Zarkon’s throne room.
“Marguil’s skill will assure that this leaves no unsightly scar, my lord,” Haggar whispered sweetly as she applied more pressure to the wound. Very subtly she slipped the vial beneath the folds of the napkin to squeeze some of his blood directly into it. She was fairly certain she would be able to extract enough from the linen itself, but the more she got in its liquid form, the better. Zarkon was too angry at the situation to notice, and just as she heard Marguil’s voice in the doorway, Haggar slipped the vial back into her sleeve and casually stepped aside to allow the healer to tend to their ruler.
Marguil hurried to King Zarkon’s side immediately and tore the blood-soaked cloth away to examine the wound. “This is ugly, but nothing to worry about for someone of your constitution, sire,” he assured him as he reached into his bag for an antiseptic. As he did so, he noticed Haggar snatch the discarded napkin. He had a dark flash of realization, but as Haggar’s friend and confidant and also as one loyal to the monarch he tended to, he remained silent. Whatever Haggar’s scheme was, he would have no part of it.
Haggar, meanwhile, smiled innocently at Marguil and Zarkon as she stepped backward, the bloody cloth concealed behind her back and the vial with the king’s blood already capped and hidden in her sleeve. “I’ll leave you to tend to him, Marguil, and I’ll discuss the robeast with you at a better time, King Zarkon.” When he acknowledged her with a distracted nod, she quickly slipped out the door with her cat behind her.
Once out in the hallway, Haggar’s concerned expression melted into one of cruel satisfaction. The bloody linen in one hand and the vial in the other, she hurried in the swiftest pace she could manage to her laboratory. She now had everything she needed for the talisman, and it was only a matter of hours—the time it would take the magic formulation to brew to full potency—before she could ensure that her son would not only survive, but live as strong and long as his father.
* * *
Six hours later, Haggar was nearly out of her mind as she paced the cold floor of her laboratory waiting for the magical potion to finish. The texts from which she had taken the spell were specific about the fact that it had to simmer in magical fire for at least that long to be at full effectiveness, so she waited restlessly as the time passed, but the wait had become maddening to her.
She had visited Sivich a short while ago, and when she had held his frail and cold infant body against her own, she had nearly felt her own heart breaking. His increasing weakness had become far more evident in the last few hours. The labored cough that the boy had let out in the midst of a coo haunted her like the most relentless of specters, and she prayed to her dark masters with all the fervor she could muster that her talisman would be strong enough to save him. Despite having traveled a spiritually dark path for many a season, her heart was still not fully hardened to the concept of love, and she had spent the last long months after which Zarkon had rejected her affections channeling her spurned love toward that of her newly born child. If she were to lose him…
As she waited, Haggar glanced for what must have been the hundredth time at the scorched remains of the blood-soaked napkin she had taken from the throne room earlier that day. The once white and crimson cloth was now little more than scraps of burnt linen, with every last trace of Zarkon’s blood burnt off of it in the fires of a magical extraction. Although she had been able to collect some of his blood in its raw form, she had not collected quite enough for the formula, so she had been forced to get the rest from what had been soaked into the cloth. It had been time consuming and cost her another forty-nine minutes—she knew, for she had tracked the numbers upon the timepiece obsessively from the beginning to the end of the spell—but it had been a necessary step. The cloth had provided ample supply to try a second potion if necessary, but she hoped in the name of the Ancient Ones themselves that she would not need it. She had no confidence that her child had that much time, and Marguil’s well meaning but entirely too practical advice to not get attached only deepened her worries.
After what felt like an eternity, the numbers on the
timepiece read the time that she had been waiting for. Without wasting even as much as a second, she snatched the flask from the azure fire in which it incubated in one hand
and her staff with the other, and set off down the hall toward the quarters
that held her infant son.
Soon, my Sivich, she thought
determinedly. Soon this will all be nothing more than a miserable memory for the both
of us.
Clenching the vial tightly in her bony fingers, she ascended the few steps leading to the hall that held her son’s room and for a brief moment, she felt her blood run cold. Deathly cold. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for the briefest moment she paused, as if stopped by an unseen force that felt in that instant like an insurmountable barrier. The delay troubled her only for a second, however, and with a strengthened resolve she thrust her staff forward as if to push it away physically and strode into the room, clutching the vial of life-giving potion in defiant victory.
What she saw, however, was not the solitary and peacefully sleeping form of her son in his crib, but Marguil and a nursemaid slave standing over it instead. As soon as she came into the room, Marguil looked up and met her eyes with a somber—and was it sympathetic?—expression that she would never forget in all of her long years. “Haggar,” he began quietly, and then let go of the side of Sivich’s crib and stepped toward her. “I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes went wide and she in turn stepped forward, wildly in denial of the ominous aura of death that permeated the very atmosphere of the room. “I have the talisman! Hurry, I need to—”
The slave nursemaid let out a startled gasp, not knowing what she should or should not say both out of a feeling of sympathy for the witch and a sense of self-preservation knowing her reputation. Marguil, on the other hand, came to Haggar’s side and put an arm around her in an attempt to be comforting. “No, Haggar. Don’t. You don’t need to see him. There’s… there was nothing any of us could do. I’m sorry.”
Even as the cold reality of her child’s fate flashed through her like a thunderbolt, Haggar stared at the healer in belligerent desperation, not yet ready to accept it. “Let go of me! I need to use this before it’s too late!”
“It’s already too late,” Marguil said softly. “The nursemaid called me here twenty minutes ago fearing the worst, and despite my best efforts, he’s already gone. I know what he meant to you, Haggar, but—”
Haggar stood there for several moments shaking in the throes of emotion—grief, outrage, fury, resentment, and loss all at once—before she spoke. She stared fiercely at Marguil. “I want to see him.”
He met her eyes with a measure of compassion, but also firmness. “Your son is dead, Haggar. I don’t think you want to see that.”
She stifled a sob as the harsh truth of Marguil’s words hit her and that time, began to sink in. “I have to,” she rasped insistently, and wrenched out of his grip. Marguil let out a sigh as she shoved past him, and the nursemaid also stepped back and away from the crib to give Haggar her space. She tried to prepare herself for it, but even though she had seen many an unspeakable horror in visions while serving her dark spirit masters over the years, not even that was quite enough to prepare her for the terrible sight—the painfully close to her sight—of the still form of her infant son in the crib.
She set the vial of life-strengthening potion down in the crib beside Sivich to free her hand while gripping her staff tightly with the other to keep her balance, and then extended her fingers to the fair azure skin of the child’s face. He was cool to the touch, cool enough that she knew instantly that the hand of death had indeed touched him, but still with enough of a trace of warmth to know that she had missed his final breath only by minutes. It was that realization that hit her the hardest—that if she had just been that much faster…
“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper, choked up with and overcome by emotion. She fell forward against the side of the crib, her weight partly supported by it and the rest of the way by her staff. Marguil reached her side first, followed by the nursemaid slave a moment later, and they kept her from falling completely. “Too late,” she murmured miserably. “I was too late.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself, Haggar,” Marguil tried to assure her. “It was nature’s choice. There was nothing you could have done. You must know that.”
“If I had been that much faster… if he had bled that much sooner… if I had taken someone else’s first…”
The slave tightened her grip on Haggar, but she temporarily lost her strength and slumped over in their grasp as dead weight. “Witch Haggar,” the nursemaid said softly, “you should rest.”
Marguil nodded. “She’s right. Come, Haggar. I can help you sleep. It won’t make it any easier, but staying in here will only make it worse. We can take care of what needs to be done.” He hoisted Haggar gently to her feet. He noticed that she still murmured to herself, whispers of both blame and sorrow, almost as if she was no longer even fully aware that he and the nursemaid were there. “Come with us now,” Marguil urged, guiding her toward the door.
It was only when he actively tried to move her that Haggar snapped out of her grief for a moment. “Not yet.” She turned back to the crib one last time, her strength regained. She took a long look at Sivich’s still form before she scooped him up one last time, as if to confirm that there could be no mistake. Tears welled up in her normally hardened eyes as she came to terms with the reality that he was beyond her reach, and silently she said her goodbyes and lamentations before setting him back down in the crib. As she tucked the blanket back around him, she wondered why the Ancient Ones had given him to her only to take him away again. She tried to understand their reasons, but she supposed that would be something she would only truly know when she encountered them in the afterlife.
As she withdrew her hand, she spied the potion for the life-protecting talisman that she had gone through such efforts to obtain now sitting uselessly amidst the baby blankets. All the protection and strength of the Ancients this grants, but giving life where none dwells is a power beyond it even with the blood of your father, Haggar thought bitterly as she scooped the flask up in the palm of her hand. Though it was not a healing spell, the talisman was promised to grant the full grace and protection of her masters to whomever it was drawn upon, and the formula, once made, would keep forever. Now the one she intended it for was completely out of its reach, also forever. The cruel realization was enough to make her want to hurl it across the room and splatter it against the stone wall out of spite… but, while insulting the masters that gave her the power to save the one they would take from her before she could have the chance to do so would be undoubtedly gratifying, she knew somehow in her grief that it had all been a test of theirs, a test to see if her spirit truly had what it took to serve them as they demanded.
Would it spite them
more to prove them right? Haggar wondered for a moment, and she knew her
answer as she felt herself clutching the vial. Yes. Yes it would.
I won’t break that easily, she
resolved darkly. I won’t waste my powers and dishonor
Sivich’s memory by doing so in such a way.
Someday this will have a use, even if that day takes a thousand years to
come.
Finally ready to leave, she met Marguil’s concerned look with acceptance as the emotional stone that surrounded her heart to that day so many years later began to form a new and impermeable layer. “I’m ready to go now.” Marguil nodded back to her without a word, and with the help of the slave nursemaid, they escorted her back to her quarters for a well-deserved rest.
* * *
Countless years later within the shadowy confines of Cossack’s quarters, a deep scowl lined the haggard features of the aged witch as old and painful memories she did her best to keep locked away flashed through her mind. After her child’s death, Haggar had thrown herself wholeheartedly in her work and service to the Ancient Ones. Anger and grief had fueled her body into recovery, and over time the demands and distractions of her work not only honed her power to new strength, but also gave her plenty of resolve to move past the situation over the long and lonely years that followed. She never spoke of it again to anyone, not even Marguil, who wisely left her the space she needed to deal with the matter.
It had in fact been some time since she had last thought at all about Sivich and the unpleasant memories associated with him. As she looked down at Cossack in his fitful rest, it occurred to her that it had been him who had inadvertently dredged it up then, too, though he knew nothing about any of it. It had been what piqued her interest and drew her to Cossack. Although he was quite ignorant of the fact—like he was of so many others, Haggar thought—Cossack had something in common with her lost son.
Her thoughts then began to slip back through time once more. Not to the distant past of her early days with Zarkon, however, but to a memory much more recent, one from barely a standard year prior.
* * *
King Zarkon was in a foul mood as he dismissed his three surviving military advisers from his throne room, leaving him alone with Haggar. He had just managed to re-establish his authority on Doom after a nearly successful but ultimately failed takeover by his son, king-for-a-day but prince-once-again-and-for-a-good-while-longer Lotor. “First Lotor goes above my head to the Drule Empire and tries to have me overthrown, and then he shoots himself in the foot by failing himself. Damned fool that he is,” Zarkon ranted for what must have been the fiftieth time to his loyal witch. “I should’ve just had him executed and been done with it, but then I wouldn’t have an heir at all.” He snarled in disgust. “Though remind me why that’s a bad thing if I’m going to stick around so many more years.”
“No one can live forever, sire, and even though I can sustain you for a long time, we are mortals and our powers are finite,” she told him. “Besides, Lotor might one day grow into a fine king. He’s brash and immature, but one day he may,” she smiled knowingly, “mellow the way you have.”
Zarkon let out a chortle despite his sour mood. “Perhaps so. I could just ground him for another twenty years, but I fear that won’t be long enough to make him grow up. Besides, I don’t think we have enough slaves on staff right now to withstand the tantrum he’d throw.” He glanced at the floor of his throne room, finally clean of the corpses and bloodstains left on it and left there after Lotor’s expulsion from the throne. “I can’t believe that idiot slashed through half of my advisory court and my fleet commander just because they told him ‘no.’”
Haggar glanced at the floor, recalling the grisly sight of bodies that had been there when they had first returned. “It might be for the best that Mogor was eliminated, sire. After how easily he sided with Lotor against you, only to then turn on Lotor, it’s clear his loyalties were only to himself and perhaps to his house. I only served ‘King’ Lotor as I was forced to by law, but Mogor assisted him in the coup. Had he survived Lotor’s rage, I wouldn’t trust him, and I’d be wary of anyone from house Garat’eth in that position after such treachery.”
“Yes, on that count you’re probably right, old witch.”
“I usually am.”
“Unfortunately, I still need a fleet commander, and after the latest nonsense, the whole pantheon can strike me with lightning if I put Lotor in sole charge of things again. We all know how that turned out the first time. So I’ll need to promote someone else.” Zarkon frowned thoughtfully. “Find me one of my administrative advisors, provided Lotor didn’t kill them all, and get me a list and performance records of every officer in the fleet from any of the nine high houses of Doom.”
“As you wish, King Zarkon.” Haggar bowed obediently and then made haste to set his orders into motion. Three hours later she returned to the throne room with a stack of papers in hand. “It took some hunting, but luckily Advisor Litos was out to lunch when Lotor exercised his powers of dismissal, so he was able to help me compile these for you. I didn’t get a chance to look through them yet, though, because I wanted to get them to you as fast as I could.”
Zarkon acknowledged Haggar with a grunt and took the papers from her before she could finish her sentence. Immediately he skimmed the top page, and a moment later let out an aggravated groan. “Oh, it figures.”
“What? Who is it?” Haggar inquired.
“Guess who our first candidate on the list is? Galohar of Garat’eth. Mogor’s brother. Apparently he’s got command of one of the units out in the south rim of the galaxy. I ought to demote him on principle, but I’ve got other things to worry about first. Next!” He turned the page.
“Let me guess, someone from house Tonorm’oith is on the next page?” Haggar surmised with a note of sarcasm, naming the noble house that the commander prior to Mogor, former Commander Yurak, had hailed from.
“No. Sorry to disappoint you, much as I’m sure you’d have loved to work with someone as charming as Yurak again,” Zarkon said dryly, remembering how fondly Haggar and Yurak had, or rather most emphatically had not, interacted with one another. “I don’t think we even have much of his family in the service these days. I know we retired his brother-in-law from the royal guard back before Voltron even showed up, and Lady Kuryaki’s probably put a ban on anyone else from her clan enlisting at this point.” He rolled his eyes, as he often did when speaking of the higher echelons of Doom’s nobility, as he thought they were all a bit loopy. It was a fair enough assessment; most of them were. Doom’s society had a strict snobbish adherence to Drule-originated customs, including the importance of noble bloodlines. As a result, said lines tended to cross a little too often, and if it had not been for the fact that they were allowed to marry off-planet nobility and that there was a law preventing anyone related within three generations from marrying—a law Zarkon had been all to happy to sign into the books years ago after sorting out an ugly mess involving a claim to one of the houses’ high seatings when the last of the direct heirs of said family had died off due to a rare genetic disorder that was the direct result of inbreeding—they would have been even nuttier.
“May I look over some of the candidates, sire? Perhaps I can help you weed out the clearly useless ones to save some time.”
“Fine,” Zarkon replied absently, and handed her some of the paperwork from the stack. “Ugh, please!” He rolled his eyes as he finished reading the sheet in his hands. When she heard the outburst, Haggar looked up from the page she had been given, but he answered her curious look before she could say anything. “Here we’ve got an officer from a house that hasn’t managed to piss me off lately, except he’s eighteen standard years old and just joined the fleet last month. Thanks, but I’ll pass on someone even less mature than my beloved idiot of a son.”
Haggar glanced down at her printout again, which listed an eligible candidate from house Aldar’ach. The officer was of appropriate age for promotion, and although his rank was a bit lower than ones traditionally offered the title of fleet commander, he still had an excellent record, at least as far as performance in battle and earned achievements went. He even had enough of a reputation for brutality that he had earned himself an unofficial title in honor of it among those who served under him. Haggar did notice more than one note on his record regarding his decorum with fellow officers, several from the admiral he currently reported to and a few from others, including early ones from former Commander Yurak, but none of it hinted at mutinous or treacherous behavior, only ‘brash personal demeanor.’ She was about to set the page aside as a possibility when she noticed the date of the officer’s birth. He had been born during the last Tozrayn alignment.
Though the time for another of those alignments had come and gone between the one most significant to her and the one in which the first son of house Aldar’ach had been born, the date of any Tozrayn configurations would always serve to remind her of what could have and perhaps should have been, but was not. Its personal significance to Haggar aside, however, she knew it to be a favorable blessing from those she served to be born or wed in such a time. She had the thought that it might be a message from her masters as to what course to advise King Zarkon, one of the Ancient Ones’ chosen through the sustaining treatments she gave him, to pursue.
“Sire, look at this one.” Haggar thrust the paper on top of the one Zarkon was in the midst of reading. “He shows great promise.”
Zarkon gave her an annoyed look, but took the paper, mostly because there was nothing outstanding in the candidate he had just been reviewing anyway. He got as far as the officer’s name before he blinked dubiously at Haggar. “‘Cossack the Terrible?’”
“The file says it’s an unofficial title given to him by his fleet men in recognition of his ruthlessness,” Haggar explained.
“Eh, well, ruthless is a good quality in someone who’d have to deal with Voltron on a regular basis,” Zarkon conceded as he skimmed down the page. “‘Force Captain Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar’ach and high seats Tadack and Visycka,’” he read, and then looked over at Haggar for a moment. “Old witch, do you have any idea how glad I am that they used the abbreviated versions of the names on these printouts?”
“Oh, we’d be here all day and night otherwise,” Haggar agreed. Although she was not originally from Doom, she had become used to its nobility and their cumbersome habit of having their names and titles seemingly extend into infinity.
Zarkon nodded and continued to read through the page. “This Cossack is one of the more promising ones we’ve seen so far, but there are still a lot of others here, and a force captain isn’t going to have the experience of an admiral or higher.” He glanced at the rest of the paperwork he had been given.
Haggar gave a nod of acknowledgement, but pursed her lips in disagreement. “With all due respect, Sire, Lotor executed a good number of your high admirals, and the high admirals and admirals remaining are going to be needed to take on the duties previously held by the departed.” She raised an eyebrow. “And can you be certain which ones are, aren’t, were, or weren’t politically in league with Mogor, Lotor, or acting as puppets for Emperor Zeppo?”
Zarkon’s expression darkened. “I suppose I can’t. I can’t exactly execute them all on suspicion though. I need some able bodies to run my forces that don’t need training. I need to keep them around at least long enough to sort who’s loyal and who isn’t.”
“A force captain has enough experience to learn the ropes of a fleet commander’s post easily enough, and I doubt you’ll find one more qualified unless there’s another in the choices here born on a Tozrayn alignment.”
“A what?” Zarkon’s tone was incredulous.
“A planetary alignment highly favorable to the Ancient Ones that occurs very rarely. Fortune smiles upon those born under it, especially if they follow or are anointed with the grace of my masters,” she explained. For a brief moment her thoughts flashed back to Sivich, but she refused to linger on that depressing notion lest old and unwelcome feelings long buried come to the surface, so she shook it off and focused on the matter at hand once more. “I believe a fleet commander born during a Tozrayn alignment would be a promising choice for one such as you that’s been strengthened by the magic of the Ancient Ones.”
“That sounds like a lot of superstitious mysticism to me, but your magic has served me well over the years,” Zarkon agreed after a moment of consideration. “All right. Have someone send for Cossack of Aldar’ach to meet with me, and I’ll finish going over the rest of these candidates just in case I find something that changes my mind.”
“You won’t,” Haggar assured her king as she headed out the door.
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