Part Two
By
Cheezey
Less than an hour later, a gleaming black metal shuttlecraft
bearing the royal skull insignia of King Zarkon’s empire docked in the landing
Cossack wondered if it had something to do with the political unrest as of late and if Zarkon wanted to see him about some matter involving that and his house. However, that sort of thing was usually handled by one of the high seats—his parents—rather than him, so if that was the case Cossack would have been surprised unless for some reason the king wanted to speak to a fleet officer from house Aldar’ach on business. That would mean him, for his parents and most of his siblings dealt in the family business—the overseeing of the family Doom grape plantations and wine business—rather than the military.
He then had the thought that Zarkon might have sent for him in regards to the recent matter of the destruction of the Biatash-Tor, one of the newer high-tech prototype ships his unit had been given. The explosion had officially been ruled an accident for which no one was at fault, and rightfully so in Cossack’s opinion. After all, no one had told him the lazon gun unit’s power core was an experimental design and might have an issue with overheating from excessive use. His soldiers needed training in marksmanship, and what better way to do that than blasting asteroids in a backwater galaxy to improve their skill on a slow day? Besides, Admiral Vardash had already chewed him out about that matter at length, and Cossack liked to think the king had better things to do than rail on a force captain about a lost ship that the admiral in charge had already given him a reaming for—even if it had been the only functioning prototype.
“You may disembark, Force Captain Cossack,” the robot informed him as it pressed the button to open the hatch.
“Ok. Thanks for the ride, tin-head,” he replied as he got to his feet and stepped outside, where he was promptly greeted by a group of four more robots that saluted him respectfully in greeting. Cossack nodded to them in acknowledgement, and they indicated for him to follow them to the throne room. The sentries fell into formation around him and they made their way through the halls at a swift pace, as the king did not like to be kept waiting and Cossack was eager to find out what was going on.
“So, uh, you know what this is about?” Cossack asked the robot in the lead.
“King Zarkon wishes to speak with you,” the robot replied.
He frowned. “I know that,” he said, mildly insulted at the robot’s insinuation that he had failed to grasp the obvious. “But what does he want to speak with me about?”
“He did not state his intentions, sir, our orders were simply to retrieve you and bring you to him for a meeting,” was the sentry’s response.
“Great,” Cossack mumbled back, and then lapsed into silence as they ascended a short carpeted staircase that led to the grand hall outside the throne room. Cossack had only been in the heart of Castle Doom a handful of times, usually to attend a ceremony of some sort, but never to speak one on one with a member of the royal court—especially not the king himself. He glanced down at his uniform. It was neat enough, but it had been worn all day and had some light wrinkles, and he noticed traces of asteroid dust on his boots. He tried to casually brush it off on the carpeting without tripping as he walked.
Soon the assembled group reached the door to the throne room and the robot in the lead stepped in. “Your highness King Zarkon, we have brought you Force Captain Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar’ach and high seats Tadack and Visycka, as per your request,” it announced, and then finished with a bow.
As Cossack joined his accompanying robots in a respectful bow to the king of Doom, he smiled to himself. Wow, they used my title and everything. Maybe this is good news after all, he hoped optimistically. Not every head honcho in the fleet acknowledged him as Cossack the Terrible, especially not his direct superior Admiral Vardash. It pleased him to know that the robots had heard it and used it to introduce him to King Zarkon.
From his seat Zarkon nodded regally and motioned for the group to come to the foot of his throne. Atop the platform and standing beside the throne was Haggar, with her blue cat at her feet. Cossack had never encountered her personally before, but everyone on Doom knew of Zarkon’s favored witch, and he recognized the hooded figure instantly. Haggar was reputed to be among the most if not the most powerful—and ugly—sorceresses in the galaxy. Furthermore, like all of those in the higher circle of fleet command, Cossack also knew of the witch’s role in the former fleet commander Yurak’s untimely end.
Turned into a robeast and sliced and diced by Voltron, what a way to go, Cossack thought as they made their approach. He had known Yurak on an acquaintance basis, as most of Doom’s nobility of the first circle knew one another in passing or at least by family name. Yurak had been a bit older than he, and when Cossack had first joined the fleet, Yurak had been the force captain in charge of his unit for a brief time before being promoted out. He remembered him as competent and ambitious, but also stern, gruff, arrogant, and in dire need of a sense of humor.
The most recent fleet commander, Mogor, had subsequently been promoted to Yurak’s old position shortly after Prince Lotor had returned to Doom to handle the Voltron situation and the Arusian war, and all the gossip of the management changes had been the talk of the military and noble circles for weeks. And now ol’ Commander Mogor’s gone too, Cossack mused, thinking that the recently departed fleet commander had probably the shortest term of any fleet commander in recent years. Oh well, he was kind of a weenie anyway. Though he had not had nearly as many run-ins with Mogor as he had other superiors in the fleet, he had always struck Cossack as a little too quiet, and that—as well as the fact that he sweated profusely even on a cold day—made Cossack wary of him.
Shifting his attention back to the situation at hand as they
reached the base of the throne, Cossack stood tall and remained silent until
the robot in the lead turned to face him.
“Force Captain Cossack, I present you to his most honored highness King
Zarkon of Dar’skel’
“Greetings, sire,” Cossack addressed the king. He removed his helmet and offered a second bow to Zarkon.
“Robots, you’re dismissed,” Zarkon stated authoritatively, waving them off. Obediently the robots retreated and left him alone with his witch and his guest. As it turned out, none of the other candidates on paper had shown any quality exceptional enough to supercede Haggar’s original recommendation of Cossack, so Zarkon decided that if Cossack seemed competent enough in person for the job, he would give it to him. He was eager enough to have the position filled with someone who could be trusted and controlled that he would take the gamble. He was not going to trust Lotor to make the appointment again, and odds were that anyone he promoted would be loyal to him first and Lotor second, and that was exactly how he wanted it.
Additionally, it was a mark in Cossack’s favor that house Aldar’ach had been completely uninvolved in any of the recent political uproar with Lotor’s failed coup and the Drule Empire’s mercurial whims as to who should be in charge of Doom. Also, the house’s monopoly of Doom’s wine industry could mean a significant discount on Castle Doom’s wine bill in exchange for promoting their first son, and that was no small tab with how much of the stuff Lotor went through.
Zarkon fixed his commanding stare upon the soldier at the foot of his throne. “Force Captain Cossack, do you know why I summoned you here?”
Cossack met the king’s gaze somewhat nervously. Although he had met King Zarkon before at ceremonies and such, and he’d known was tall, up close and standing right before him the ruler of Doom seemed twice as intimidating. “I don’t, sire,” Cossack admitted honestly, and then wondered from the king’s serious expression if he had been summoned about the matter with the prototype ship after all. If so, Cossack reasoned, perhaps it would be better for him if he brought it up first and apologized to him directly. Even if it was not about that, an apology to the king was never a bad idea. As a general rule, royals soaked in all of that stuff like a robeast did lazon. “But if it has anything to do with the explosion of the Biatash-Tor,” he continued, “I offer my sincerest apologies. I had no idea—”
Not expecting that answer, Zarkon frowned a moment as he tried to recall the name Cossack mentioned, until Haggar leaned over to remind him. “That experimental ship with the unstable lazon core,” she whispered. “The one that exploded out in the asteroid belt.”
“Oh, that,” Zarkon said with a dismissive wave, one that did not go unnoticed and came as an immediate relief to Cossack. “It was a design flaw that did that ship in,” Zarkon went on to explain. “Actually I recommended to Admiral Vardash that whatever officer was in charge of that vessel be given a commendation and consideration for a promotion. I’d rather my prototypes be tested and find out that way that they’re weak when dishing out or receiving heavy fire as opposed to causing Doom to lose face and equipment against Voltron or any other Galaxy Alliance idiots.”
Cossack blinked in surprise, and then his expression darkened considerably as the realization hit him that if what Zarkon said was true, it meant that Vardash had screwed him out of a commendation and a possible promotion. Immediately afterward, Cossack also realized, and with considerable anger, that when the bald and huffy admiral—who had given him attitude since day one—had stated that Cossack would never see a promotion as long as he served under him, that he had not been merely talking out of his ass as Cossack felt he generally did. “Heh, well I guess I didn’t see that draft of the report,” he said quietly after a moment of thinking about how nice it would be to demonstrate to the weenie up close and personal just how he had earned his unofficial title.
Noticing the shift in Cossack’s mood, Zarkon sat up a little straighter and eyed him curiously. “So how were you involved in all of that, anyway?”
“Actually, sire, I was the force captain in charge of the Biatash-Tor.”
Smiling pleasantly, Zarkon relaxed a bit and folded his hands together. “Oh, that was you? Well-handled, soldier, although being that you still have the same rank, I see that your promotion hasn’t gone through yet.”
Cossack thought again of Admiral Vardash and his desire to inflict upon him gratuitous bodily harm, but not only would that seriously jeopardize his career, it would certainly not win him any brownie points with the king who had called him in to speak with him and still not told him why. Cossack did hope, however, that if Zarkon would be satisfied with whatever it was he had called him in for that he might later mention something to Vardash to get him off his back and give him said promotion.
In the meantime, Cossack simply shook his head and answered Zarkon’s question in a low and polite tone that took some effort for him to manage considering how enraged he was at the fat, officious weenie holding back his fleet career. “No, not yet, my lord.”
Zarkon raised an eyebrow, annoyed that one of his royal recommendations had been ignored by a mere admiral. Although his statement had been only a recommendation and not an order, as a king he was not used to having his suggestions judged unnecessary. He stared intensely at Cossack again, and was pleased to see him straighten respectfully without cringing back. He liked that. He liked confidence and did not want a sniveling sycophant for a fleet commander. He had enough individuals in his court—aside from the ones Lotor culled recently—that sadly fit that bill already in his opinion. “Well, I do hope that Admiral Vardash at least passed along my commendations to you?”
Unable to contain his contempt for Vardash any longer and certainly not terribly concerned about going over his head and possibly putting the screws to him by what he was about to say, Cossack cocked his head to one side and let loose with a dose of blunt honesty. One had to honor the wishes of one’s superior officer, after all, and it didn’t get much more superior than King Zarkon. “Well, Sire, unless your commendation was to have him pull me into his office and call me a ‘toad pond born jackass’ and a ‘reckless idiot without the sense the gods gave a dirt-worm,’ then I would have to report that something must’ve gotten lost in the memo transfer.”
Stunned by both Cossack’s candor and the fact that an admiral under Zarkon had been brazen enough to so blatantly disregard a statement from his king, Haggar looked from the force captain to Zarkon to see his reaction. She supposed that they had just been witness to an example of the “brash personal demeanor” noted in Cossack’s file. If so, she did not feel it was necessarily a bad thing, as long as it was kept in check.
Zarkon meanwhile had no issue at all with the direct phrasing of Cossack’s response, but he had plenty with the fact that Admiral Vardash had insulted him in such a way. While Zarkon personally did not give a whit about some force captain, he took great offense at the fact that one of his admirals, and not even a high admiral at that, dared to override his opinion on any matter, no matter how trivial.
In a tone barely hiding the contempt he felt for Vardash, Zarkon rose to his feet and descended the steps of the throne until he stood on even ground in front of Cossack. “In that case, let me apologize personally for the inept manner in which my words were handled, and rectify the error by giving you the promotion that it seems you’re overdue for, Fleet Commander Cossack.”
Cossack’s eyes went wide in utter shock when he heard the king’s words, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Fleet Commander? Had he heard the king correctly, addressing him with the highest non-royal rank in Doom’s military, well above his current and even above admiral and high admiral? The same prestigious position held formerly by Commanders Yurak and Mogor? Cossack stared in dubious amazement at King Zarkon and numbly took the ruler’s now extended hand. “S—sire?” he coughed out in disbelief.
“Are you hard of hearing, Commander? Do I need to repeat myself?” Zarkon asked, while Haggar smiled quietly from beside the empty throne, clearly pleased with Zarkon’s decision to choose the candidate she had selected.
Immediately Cossack shook his head a vehement no and grinned with unashamed pride and gratitude at the king. “No, sire,” he babbled in a rush. “I’m just surprised, King Zarkon, but thankful—very thankful,” he assured him, and then added after taking a moment to regain his composure, “I just kinda expected to wake up in a minute, that’s all.”
At that, Zarkon let out a hearty laugh. “No, that was why I called you here to begin with, Commander. You were a candidate under consideration for the position, which as you know was unfortunately vacated recently.”
“Yes, I heard about what happened to Commander Mogor. Messy,” Cossack replied, making a slight face to accentuate the statement.
“In more ways than one,” Haggar agreed as she descended the staircase to Zarkon’s throne to join them. “Congratulations, Commander Cossack. I’m Haggar. It was I that recommended you to King Zarkon.”
The newly promoted fleet commander, still basking the realization that it was real and not a dream that he was now the head of Doom’s fleet, turned and gave a dramatic bow to the hooded figure. “Thank you, Witch Haggar, and nice to meet you!” he greeted her enthusiastically. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your magic. Impressive stuff, especially those robeasts! I can’t wait to handle one of those on command!”
“Oh, there will be plenty of time for that I’m sure with how often we run into Voltron,” Haggar assured him with a smile, quite pleased with her choice and Zarkon’s decision to promote him. Rough around the edges or not, Cossack already struck her as more personable than either Yurak or Mogor, although as one who had never gotten along with Yurak to begin with, the first requirement had not been a tough order to fill. The lore of the Ancients could not be denied, she thought satisfactorily, although she would be the first to admit she did not understand them at times.
“Indeed,” Zarkon agreed with his witch. “I do have a question for you though, Cossack.”
Cossack smiled amiably at the king. “Shoot.”
Zarkon blinked, not quite used to being addressed so casually, but he brushed it off for the time being. “There were notes in your file about ‘brash personal demeanor’—I assume that’s not anything I’ll have to worry about?” Although the king’s tone was still pleasant, it also had a distinct no-nonsense edge to it.
Cossack folded his arms across his chest and shifted slightly where he stood so that he faced both the king and Haggar. “Oh no, sire, of course not,” he assured him firmly. “I’ve got nothing but the highest respect for you.” He nodded to Haggar. “And you too of course. ‘Cause I’ve seen what happens to guys that get on your bad side.” He grinned.
“Good, then we shouldn’t have any problems,” Zarkon replied, satisfied by the answer, “which leads me to my first task for you, incidentally.”
“Sure,” Cossack replied, eager to tackle it and prove his worthiness in the lofty new position he had been given.
“Your soldiers gave you the name ‘Cossack the Terrible’ in honor of your brutality in battle, correct?” When Cossack nodded an affirmative, Zarkon continued. “I want you to show me an example of your reputed ‘terrible’ nature by dealing with Admiral Vardash’s rudeness in ignoring my royal commendation.” A devious smile lit up the king’s features as he reached into his robe and withdrew a silver-colored personal communicator decorated with the emblem of Cossack’s newly acquired rank, and handed it to him. “Give him a call while this robot here,” he motioned for one of the silent royal sentries across the room to come over, “fits and measures you with the appropriate upgrades to your uniform. Oh, and feel free to be as brash as you wish. Have fun with it.”
Cossack matched the king’s smile with an impish one of his own. “Right away, King Zarkon. I’ll be more than happy to have a word with Admiral Vardash on your behalf and let him know what I think.”
A chortle came from the otherwise quiet Haggar as the robot took Cossack’s force captain helmet and retouched it with the proper design for his new rank. “This ought to be interesting.”
“And it couldn’t happen to a nicer weenie,” Cossack replied sarcastically, and then smiled at Haggar as an afterthought in the hopes that he hadn’t offended her. Although he generally was not someone who cared about rubbing others the wrong way, he did legitimately want to stay on her good side as well as that of King Zarkon. The latter could send him to the Pit of Skulls while the other, well, after hearing some of the things he had heard about Haggar’s magic, he would rather not ponder what could happen to him if he got on her bad side. Besides, she had recommended him for his new position for whatever reason, and while Cossack had no idea what she knew about him that she found so favorable, he was not about to lo look a gift horse—or witch as the case might be—in the mouth.
Zarkon watched as the robot shined Cossack’s helmet and fitted a new cloak with an ivory skull insignia around the fleet commander and smirked with amusement. “That Admiral Vardash is an annoying kiss-ass, isn’t he? I remember him following Yurak around like a lost dog.” He shook his head while Cossack forced back a chortle. “Ah well. Proceed!”
Grinning with anticipation like a cat that just eaten the proverbial canary, Cossack flipped open the communicator and punched in the frequency of Admiral Vardash’s office. It only took a moment for the bald, plump-cheeked Doomite’s face to pop on the screen. “Hello Admiral,” Cossack greeted his former superior smugly.
Vardash’s face twisted to an irritated scowl when he saw Cossack’s smirking visage on the other end. “What do you want, Cossack? This had better be good. I don’t have the time for your nonsense today.”
“Oh, I think you have time for this, Vardy-kins,” Cossack replied. “It won’t take long to tell you the good news. I’ve been promoted, so worrying about how I run my unit won’t be a problem for you anymore.”
The admiral’s glare deepened at Cossack’s flippancy. “Firstly, Force Captain, you will address me with the respect my position deserves, or you’ll find your wise ass scrubbing the decks of a battleship for the next six weeks. Secondly,” he growled irately, “you’ll find out that bothering me with your idiotic brand of wit—as a promotion for you couldn’t be anything but a joke—will land you in position that’ll make you wish I had only ordered you to scrub floors. How does an extended involuntary expedition to the frost planet Azuit sound?”
“Well now, that sounds cool, but I’m afraid my new boss might disagree with your orders,” Cossack snapped back, unfazed, and with the shit-eating grin still plastered across his features. Payback was a bitch, and Cossack had years’ worth of interest built up for Vardash.
“Boss, and what boss would that be, you cretin?” Vardash scoffed in disgusted disbelief. “What idiot would promote you?”
Fully enjoying Vardash’s huffy theatrics, Cossack blinked in mock innocence and subtly turned up the volume to the communicator’s speaker so that both King Zarkon and Haggar would be able to hear him loud and clear. “What was that, Admiral? Would you mind repeating that?”
On the other end of the line, Vardash let out an exasperated snarl and repeated himself in a loud, nasal, and clearly angry tone. “I said, you toad-pond born nitwit, that I know you’re full of it because only a complete and utter fool would even consider promoting a disgrace like you beyond the rank you already managed to blunder your way into for gods know whatever reason.”
“Your faith in my skills never fails to amaze me, Admiral, you know that?” Cossack said with a dramatic sigh, as though the admiral’s words had touched the depths of his soul. “But you know me, despite being such a disgrace to all of Doom with my high kill ratio, awards and commendations for my piloting skills, and even the honorary title from my soldiers, I never know when to quit, do I?”
“That would be the first and last thing you and I will ever agree on, Cossack,” Vardash retorted in unbridled contempt. “So before I demote you and send you out to Azuit on a permanent station, by all means finish your little joke and tell me exactly what your new title from this supposed promotion you’re babbling about is.”
Eyes lighting up with mischief, all Cossack replied with was, “Guess.”
When Vardash made no verbal response but only deepened his glare, Cossack continued. “C’mon; I’ll even give you a hint. It’s higher than yours. Can’t you figure it out by my shiny new duds?” He then shifted his head to an exaggerated pose of regal stuffiness to show off the shine of his retouched helmet and include the ivory skull on his chest in the projection through the comm unit.
At that, Vardash laughed cruelly. “Well you’ve got enough balls to go down in a blaze of glory, I’ll give you that much,” he snorted incredulously. “But the day you see the rank of even admiral, much less anything above, I’ll screw myself with a rusty three-tiered spear.”
Cossack’s eyes went wide with feigned shock. “Oooh, painful!” he exclaimed melodramatically. “You better be careful what you say, Vardy-kins. A disgrace like me might hold you to your words.”
Vardash narrowed his yellow eyes. “I’m sure you would, if you were superior to me anywhere other than your deluded little mind. But you still haven’t told me who it was that promoted you, Cossack. By all means, do tell me what dumb-assed fool was stupid enough to promote you to this fictitious little position and please, tell me what rank you’ve supposedly made?”
Having heard enough from the admiral that had already managed to rouse his disfavor before Cossack even placed the call, Zarkon edged in beside the newly promoted fleet commander so that his face loomed on the communicator screen behind him. “That would be fleet commander, Vardash, and I’m afraid that no, my beloved son was not the one responsible for Cossack’s promotion.”
The oh-shit look that flashed across Admiral Vardash’s face when Zarkon addressed him in his stately tone was one that Cossack would remember fondly for the rest of his days. He leaned close to the speaker and flashed the now quite pale admiral a look of false sympathy. “Maybe you should have addressed him as King Dumb-Assed Fool.”
Vardash was too busy trying to save his hide to even bother coming up with a reply to Cossack, who basked in every second of his loathed admiral’s humiliation as Zarkon took over. “Perhaps if he had, Commander, Captain Vardash would not be having such a bad day.”
The instant demotion caused the scrambling former admiral to squirm visibly. “Sire, my humblest apologies,” Vardash babbled, tripping over his words in an attempt to appease the clearly displeased monarch. “I had no idea Commander Cossack’s call was legitimate. He’s always had a rather inconsistent manner about him and I just assumed—”
Cossack held up a finger in a tsk-tsk motion. “What’s that old saying about assuming, Vard-ass?”
Vardash forced the humble look to stay on his face as he glanced at Cossack, but found it incredibly difficult to do so. His outrage, frustration, and a new and unsettling feeling of fear came to a head as the reality of his demotion, and the fact that someone he had spent years going out of his way to make miserable was now above him in rank, began to sink in. “My apologies to you too, Commander,” he said, sputtering out the title as if the word itself was distasteful to him.
Commander Cossack beamed. “Oh Vardash, do you know how long I’ve wanted to tell you what I thought of you and your command skills? Now that you’re at a level I was once quite familiar with, I’d like to tell you that although you really don’t seem like you have a clue about managing a unit of soldiers, I will say that I’ve noticed in my time serving with you that you do have unparalleled talent at the time-honored skill of ass-kissing. So, Captain, it is with the greatest pleasure that I you give my first order in my new position, that being to please kiss my ass.” Cossack then glanced over at Zarkon and quickly amended his words. “That is, as soon as you’re finished puckering up for King Zarkon, of course.”
“If it were me, I wouldn’t want his lips anywhere near it,” Haggar muttered from behind the pair.
“Nor I, old witch,” Zarkon said with a shudder before returning his full attention to Vardash. “As for you, Vardash, consider yourself lucky you still even have a job anywhere but as a decoration in the Pit of Skulls after the grievous insults you’ve made to me.”
“I’m sorry, Sire, but I had no idea that Commander Cossack was serious, I swear!” Vardash whined pathetically.
“My fleet commander can deal with you as he sees fit for your insults to him, but your stupidity here today is only a part my problem with you and your incompetence. There’s also a little matter of a commendation I recommended that got lost in the paperwork,” Zarkon pressed. From beside the king, Cossack nodded in full agreement, the smug smile still on his face.
Vardash grabbed madly at papers on his desk, more out of nervous habit than out of any actual need to find anything. “Sire, I realize you weren’t concerned with the destruction of the Biatash-Tor, but I was. I was looking out for you, for your best interests. The sort of recklessness that got that ship destroyed is exactly the sort of stupidity that Force Captain—I mean, Commander,” he amended with a grumble, “Cossack has always engaged in. I respect your take on the matter and I can see how you might see it as for the best that it was destroyed if it was inadequate for our needs, but I humbly disagree that Cossack’s recklessness should be encouraged. In all my years of service—”
“In all your years of service you’ve done your best work sitting at a desk filling out paperwork!” Zarkon roared angrily, furiously that the demoted captain dared to continue to argue with him. “So you can finish it filing it for Admiral Mordelroth, Lieutenant! Now get your ugly face out of my sight before I decide that you belong with the robots and slaves on the front lines despite being the son of a couple of high seats that should’ve used birth control! Am I making myself clear?”
“
“Oh, wait a moment, Vardash,” Cossack interrupted. “There is one more thing.”
The demoted lieutenant stiffened visibly and looked up in utter misery and dread. “What?”
A toothy and sadistic grin spread across Cossack’s face. “I’ll have that rusty three-tiered spear messengered over posthaste. The robots that deliver it will make sure that you keep true to your promise to utilize it in the matter you described earlier, and should you not be flexible enough to manage it on your own, don’t worry, they’ll be under orders to help you out and make it happen. Have a wonderful day, Lieutenant. Commander Cossack the Terrible out!” He savored the horrified look on his hated former superior’s face for a moment before he snapped the communicator closed and looked to King Zarkon and his witch expectantly, eagerly awaiting their reaction to his test.
Zarkon let out a hearty laugh while Haggar smirked and chuckled from beneath her hood. “A fine display, Commander,” the witch commended him warmly.
“Yes,” agreed Zarkon. “I see your savage nature isn’t underrated. Good. It looks like the next order of business is to have the sentries get your things to the fleet commander’s quarters and have you properly set up. This robot here,” he gestured to a nearby sentry, “will show you to them while Haggar and I finish some business.”
“All right, King Zarkon, and thank you again,” Cossack stated with a respectful bow before joining the robot’s side.
Zarkon held up a hand as Cossack and the robot started for the door. “Oh, I did have one other question for you, before you go.” Cossack stopped and turned to Zarkon with a nod to proceed, and the king eyed him with a curious look. “Vardash mentioned you being born in a toad pond. Now I’ve heard a lot of nobility gossip over the years, and I know Lady Visycka likes to tell her stories…”
A distasteful look flickered across the commander’s face for a moment. “With all due respect, sire, I’d really rather not discuss that.”
Haggar blinked in surprise. “But I thought it was just an insult.”
“I wish,” Cossack muttered.
“You mean you were?” she pressed, clearly surprised, and looked back and forth between Cossack and Zarkon.
Cossack sighed and nodded. “My parents love to blab at big nobility blowouts about it after a few too many bottles of wine. I know, because lots of the nobility love to bring it up when I’m around,” he explained resignedly, it painfully obvious that it was not something he particularly wanted to do. “When I was born, my mother went into labor on a shuttlecraft that ran out of gas over the swamplands between two of the family’s grape plantations. My uncle had to deliver me, and guess where the nearest water to ease the birth was?” He made a face. “You got it—a toad pond.”
Zarkon laughed heartily. “I love that story. First son of a noble house, born in a toad pond! Must be hard to shake the mud of that scandal off, huh?” He chortled again.
“And here I just thought that whiny little admiral was full of crap, who knew?” Haggar mused with a shrug.
“Oh he is full of crap, or at least he will be until the robots dislodge it,” Cossack replied, brightening at the mention of Vardash’s impending torture. Somehow thinking of him suffering extreme pain and humiliation made even talking about the toad pond not so bad. “Will there be anything else, sire?”
“No. You’re dismissed. Go on to your new quarters and tell the robots anything you need changed or taken care of. We’ll have a slave assigned to you and your quarters sent up as well. Any preferences?”
Cossack quirked his head thoughtfully, not expecting but certainly liking the professional perk of having a personal slave on the royal tab. “Hmm, well I wouldn’t complain about a girl that looks hot in a maid outfit.”
“Easy enough. Consider it done,” Zarkon told him. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander.”
“You too, sire, and thank you again,” Cossack replied with a bow. “And you too, Haggar.”
She nodded back to the new commander in acknowledgement, and then turned to Zarkon once Cossack and the robot departed, leaving them alone in the throne room. Haggar was about to inquire as to Zarkon’s specific thoughts about their new fleet figurehead when a loud and victorious shout of “yahoo!” followed by a declaration of, “wait ‘till I tell Mom this one!” from the hallway interrupted her momentarily.
After the outburst, she and Zarkon exchanged stunned looks until the witch broke the silence. “So, what do you think of him?”
The king straightened and turned his golden scepter over in his hand. “Well for starters, he’s brash and obnoxious. He’s obviously missing a few screws upstairs, and he’s got a damned mean streak to boot,” Zarkon said bluntly, and then broke out into an evil grin. “I like him. I’m glad I picked him out of all those candidates.”
Beside him Haggar nodded, also pleased that the Tozrayn aligned, toad-pond-born candidate that she had chosen had worked out so well, and offered a knowing smile to her ruler. “Yes, you always did have good taste, sire.”
* * *
The second trip down memory lane, curious a ride as it might have been, left Haggar with the slightest hint of a smile on her face. Although Cossack could be a trying buffoon at times—all right, much of the time—all things considered, he had worked out well enough. Granted, he’d had little luck against Voltron, but Voltron was a thorn in all their sides, and Zarkon knew that. None of them had fared much better, and at least unlike Mogor—and in the case of King Zarkon personally, Prince Lotor—Cossack had never given any of them reason to doubt his loyalty. She supposed that Yurak, too, had been loyal, and had Zarkon known then what he knew now of Voltron, he probably would not have been so harsh on him. But since she had never cared for the arrogant Yurak anyhow, she did not mourn his loss. Much like she felt about that snooty healer Thaileus when compared to her old friend the long retired Marguil, she liked Cossack much better.
Besides, the ailing commander that lay in front of her had been born on the Tozrayn alignment, and like all seasoned disciples of the Ancient Ones, Haggar truly believed that to be significant. Especially since, discounting the ones she knew only historically and whomever she might have met by chance or in passing unaware, in all her long years Haggar had encountered only two souls born in such a time, and one was long gone and the other beside her was well on his way there from the looks of things. The witch was the first to admit that she did not understand the logic of the Ancient Ones at times, but she was wise enough to chalk it up to the fact that there some things that were simply not to be questioned, for perhaps there was no answer that would make sense to a mortal, and to merely accept it—which was why she could not accept or allow someone like Cossack to meet his fate in such an inglorious and wasteful manner.
Haggar’s expression darkened as she watched him shudder in his sleep, and she touched her finger to his forehead and found it burning with a hotter fever than before. She noticed the syringe and the bottle of delbinium upon the stand beside his bed—next to a battered time-clock and alarm unit which she guessed had been smashed or thrown a few times, but that apparently still functioned—and picked it up. The bottle was a third emptied, and although she was no expert in the finer points of pharmacological science, she did know that the drug’s main effect was a painkiller and a tranquilizer. Unfortunately it seemed to have little effect on Cossack’s fever if his worsening condition was any indication.
“He’s even more useless than I thought,” Haggar muttered, referring to the healer. “You should be glad your little slave came to me in time, Cossack. Left to Thaileus, you’d have burned yourself out by morning,” she said, and she set the bottle back down on the nightstand pondering the best course of action.
In her vast magical knowledge Haggar knew of some spells specific to healing, although as she had stated to the healer earlier, it was not her area of expertise. She expected that to find a spell fully effective against the fever specific to quarks or radiation, she would have to do some research, and she feared that there may not be enough time for that before Cossack’s condition worsened to a state in which her magic would be useless altogether. The possibility of tracking down a healer versed in magic rather than science was also out of the question, not only because she was not entirely sure if she could find one on such short notice, but also because there was no way she would give Thaileus the satisfaction seeing her concede that she could do no better than he.
It was then, as she lifted her eyes from Cossack and stared
off pensively into the darkened corner of his dimly lit chamber, that the ideal
spell for the situation came to her. A
talisman drawn in blood…
Her thoughts flashed between memories centuries old and the sustaining talismans she had drawn on Zarkon and others who had secured and earned the favor from her over the years. Although she had performed the spell many times since the one where fate had thwarted her from doing so, even after all of those years she had never been able to bring herself to use that now ancient vial that had once been intended for her lost son. For Zarkon’s talismans she always used the same formula, one utilizing the blood of a sacrificed enemy such a political prisoner of war or a slave, as she found it significant that he be strengthened and empowered by blood he had spilt. Sivich’s potion on the other hand had too many reasons—practical and emotional—for her to ever entertain the notion of using it on Zarkon, of all the talismans she had done for others, none of them had been important enough to her for her to even consider it.
Until then. Haggar straightened and turned toward the door, deliberating the notion of using that ages-old vial of Zarkon’s blood on Cossack. Despite the passage of so much time, the witch knew it would still be just as potent as the day it was brewed, if not somewhat more so, having had the chance to age like a fine vintage of wine. The treatment would not exactly make the commander immortal, but it would reinforce his constitution beyond normal means, making him considerably resistant to the ravages of age and disease not unlike she and King Zarkon were. Although the talisman of the ancients was not a healing spell per se, if drawn properly it would make his body strong enough to throw off the effects of the fever and radiation and heal him that way.
Haggar turned back toward the sleeping Cossack for a moment, her old eyes fixed on him in meditative reflection. Was her strange compulsion to help him the will of the Ancient Ones? Had they had her keep that old potion all those long years, stored in the back of a cabinet with other vials of spell components and odds and ends, just so that she could save a wisecracking oaf of a fleet commander centuries later? Odd as it was, in her unquestioning faith to her masters, she knew the answer to be yes. Even if it was in a muddy toad pond in the back woods of a Doom grape plantation, he was still born under the grace of the Tozrayn—just like her son. Of course Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar’ach and high seats Tadack and Visycka, was not and never would be her lost son, Sivich, unrecognized son of King Zarkon of Dar’skel’Ayr, but the connection was reason enough for her.
And with a sigh and that realization in mind, Haggar shook her head, calling herself an old fool and assuring herself that she’d gotten soft and perhaps a little batty in her advanced age, she reaffirmed her grip on her staff and made her way quietly back to her quarters.
It only took Haggar a matter of a few moments to locate that ancient flask. It sat inconspicuously and unlabeled among a sea of other vials and jars, its glass now dark and smoky with age and the cork atop it dry and brittle. As the witch reached for it with her aged hand, she felt the familiar warmth of her feline familiar rubbing against her legs. Looking down at her cat with a slight smile, she retrieved the potion and then bent down to scratch his head affectionately for a moment. “No treats right now, kitty,” she told her pet, and then stood back up and locked the cabinet securely shut again.
In her countless years of experience Haggar knew the incantations and symbols of the talisman by heart, so since she needed nothing but the medium from her laboratory, she reclaimed her staff and set off for Cossack’s quarters, that time with Coba at her heels. It only took her a few minutes to reach the commander’s room once more, and she found it still vacant as she had left it when she had left, and she was glad of that. She did not want Cossack’s slave, or even worse, Thaileus, interrupting her before she was finished. She had no patience for those who did not understand the intricacies of her dark magic and who might pester her with questions or remarks.
Haggar approached Cossack’s bedside once again while Coba leapt up on the nightstand beside her. After sniffing curiously at the bottle of delbinium, he stuck his tail high in the air and then hopped off onto the bed, positioning himself on Cossack’s softer pillow. Somehow Coba always knew when his mistress needed him to focus her magic. While he waited for her to begin her spell, he pawed playfully at a strand of Cossack’s hair.
Haggar meanwhile uncurled her dark and bony fingers and stared, her yellow eyes intense with concentration, at the ancient vial that she had not opened or even touched, except to dust it, in decades upon decades. And so the time has finally come, she mused as she pulled the cork from the flask. It was so dry-rotted and old that it crumbled to dust in her fingers as she pulled it free, and as she shook it off, she caught a waft of the unmistakable aroma of the potion’s dark magic, still as potent as ever after all those years.
With her free hand Haggar then reached down and pulled the light linen bed sheet aside and tossed them to the floor. The commander was barely clothed, save the minimum necessary for modesty, at the orders of the healer as a means to prevent his fever from worsening. His chest heaved in labored breathing and his body was slick with the sweat of the quark-burn fever. The motion of the sheet being torn away immediately snapped Coba to attention. The blue cat dropped the tuft of hair in his claws and sat up straight behind the exact center point of the unconscious Cossack’s head, and then fixed his luminous eyes intently on his mistress.
Ready to begin, the witch closed her eyes for a moment and poured a small amount of the potion into the palm of her hand. It was unnaturally warm to the touch and radiated an aura of dark power that tingled her senses down to the bone. She then gently set the flask down and dipped her finger into the viscous pool in her palm. Carefully she drew an arcane symbol of strength and vitality above the ailing Doomite’s heart, and then proceeded to decorate him with related symbols at other mystically aligned points of his body. By the time the witch was nearly finished anointing the commander, much of the ancient potion had been used up save the final bit. Had anyone looked in on him at that moment, the unconscious Cossack rather resembled a sleeping drunk whose comrades had taken him to the nearest tattoo parlor as a prank—and had Haggar been in a less serious frame of mind, she might well have thought it herself and deemed it oddly appropriate for him.
Once she finished drawing a symbol upon the sole of his left foot, Haggar paused a moment to examine her work and ensure its thoroughness before she reached for the flask one last time and poured the last of the liquid, save the traces that remained in the bottle, into her palm. It held just enough to draw the final and most significant symbol of the talisman. Taking care to draw it as neatly as possible, the old witch pressed her finger to Cossack’s forehead and inscribed the double serpent symbol of the Ancient Ones upon his forehead, murmuring the accompanying prayer-chant invoking their grace and protection as she did so.
An eerie aura filled the room as the witch’s spell completed, and for the briefest moment an unearthly glow surrounded the commander, the witch, her cat, and even the bed. The unconscious Cossack rolled over in his sleep unaware of what was happening as the dark graces of Haggar’s masters filled his mortal form and took root, filling him with renewed vigor that would soon throw his now trivial quark-burn fever to the wind forever.
As the glow diminished, Haggar withdrew her hand and eyed the sleeping commander satisfactorily, knowing in the full faith she had in her masters that he would pull through just fine. “The Ancients watch over their chosen,” she whispered, and smiled at Cossack knowingly. “And fools.”
The End
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