Voidhawk - Redemption

by Jason Halstead

  The warrior pulled the blade free from his belly and tossed it to the ground behind him. “What else you got?” he asked, sneering at the General.

  Pilan scrambled backwards, at a loss for what to do. His opponent showed no sign of injury from a wound that should have been mortal. The warrior was moving towards him again, swinging his great sword up and around. Pilan threw up his shield to block and felt the impossible strength behind the blow. The General blinked and looked up, realizing he had been driven to his knees by the blow. He started to raise up when another strike slammed into the shield, sundering it and driving the General to the ground.

  Pilan held his broken arm to his chest and stared up. The warrior took the three steps necessary to stand over him. The warrior grinned down at the fallen General and raised his sword. “Wait!” Pilan called out, pulling his helm off submissively. “I yield!”

  The warrior started his downward plunge, then hesitated and stopped the tip of the blade only a few inches from Pilan’s face. “You yield?” He asked, not sure what to do with the man.

  He nodded, his face white with fear. “Retreat,” the warrior told him. “Give us the field, and you’re coming with me until there ain’t a stinkin’ one of your men on it.”

  The warrior reached down and grabbed onto the metal lip of the General’s armor at the base of his throat. With a single arm he hauled the man up and set him on shaky legs in front of him. “Turn around,” he growled, “and start walking.”

  Pilan did as he was bade, clearly terrified at the thought of disobeying the inhuman warrior that had defeated him. The warrior sheathed his great sword, but drew out a hand axe he kept and made sure that Pilan knew a quick swing would be the end of the General’s life if he gave his captor any trouble. The soldiers melted away from them like butter on a warm summer day. General Pilan frequently called out orders for them to pull back and to give up the field as they walked, until only the bodies of the fallen lay before them.

  “My armies retreat,” Pilan said as they stood there.

  The warrior watched as they pulled back, some units in an organized fashion but most confused. He snorted and shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said, turning back towards the open field and where the warrior knew they would eventually find King Peter’s forces.

  “I made good on my bargain!” Pilan spouted.

  His captor growled. “I still see your men here.”

  Pilan closed his mouth slowly, seeing the menace in the warrior’s eyes and the way the man held the gleaming axe. “Tell me warrior, what is your name?”

  “Rosh.”

  * * * *

  “Tails of your valor and bravery have already reached me,” King Peter said from his throne.

  Rosh stood on the carpeted floor at the foot of the dais before him, already tired of the proceedings. After General Pilan’s capture and the subsequent victory over the Kingdom of Faramyr’s forces in the field, word had been sent that Rosh was requested back at court.

  “I would hear it from your lips, warrior,” The King requested.

  Rosh shrugged. “What you heard was right,” he said. “I captured the General and dragged him back to camp.”

  “And after?” The King pressed, clearly amused and entertained by Rosh’s simple speech.

  “After what?” Rosh asked. “After they gave up, I set him free.”

  “My officers tell me they wanted to keep him and press for more,” the King said, staring hard at him now.

  Rosh bristled at the tone he was being addressed in. “I told them they could go and capture him then, he done what I told him to. He was my prisoner, not theirs.”

  “Are you not one of My soldiers?” The King pressed.

  Rosh shook his head. “Ain’t no man that owns me. I signed on as a mercenary when I heard you was hiring.”

  “A mercenary?” King Peter repeated thoughtfully. “General Pilan didn’t offer you a better deal?”

  Rosh shrugged, his default gesture for most things. “I learned a while back to stick to the deals I made.”

  “You’re a man of skill, bravery, and wisdom, I see. I could use a man like you, Rosh. Tell me, would you like a home such as my Kingdom?”

  Rosh’s first instinct was to snort, but a small voice in the back of his head advised him against it. It was a voice that brought unbidden images to him of a blond haired woman he had once known all too briefly. “I ain’t got no home,” he said after a moment of thought. “I don’t stay nowhere long; I gots to keep moving or I get this itch in the back of my neck.”

  “Ah, the wanderlust of youth,” King Peter said with a flash of envy. “I understand. But still, you must stay as long as you wish as my honored guest. Where negotiations and force of arms failed for years, you alone managed to win victory. My southern reaches are secured and you, Rosh, are the hero of the day because of it.”

  Rosh realized he was smiling in spite of himself. He didn’t care about some stupid dirthugger’s realm. He could care less about what was secure and what was not. Still, the admiration and praise were working through to him. He glanced around, blushing slightly at the attention. One face alone caught his eye, the face of a man who did not share the looks of the others as they stared and clapped for him. The man was barely more than a boy himself, though he looked to carry himself confidently. His face was filled with a hard glare that made Rosh mark him as someone that could cause him trouble.

  “Come, We retire court for the evening. Rosh, please dine with Us at Our table.”

  Rosh was led away by servants and taken to refresh himself. The whirlwind of activity left him confused and off balance. All of that didn’t stop him from enjoying being attended by some lovely young serving girls who bathed him and offered him fresh clothing to wear for dinner, but even that was over before he realized what was happening.

  When Rosh was able to once again make sense of his surroundings, he was seated at the head table in the dining hall of the court, only a few places removed from the King and Queen. Across the table and a few places down sat the same young man that had glared at him earlier.

  “Tell us, Rosh, of your tales of valor,” Queen Corina bade him. “We have been dealt some grievous news of late and would do well with tales of heroism such as yours.”

  Rosh grinned. The tales he had were hardly fit for a royal table! He thought to share stories of serving as a bandit and a pirate, but realized that would earn him no thanks at that table. Stories of whoring and drinking ranked similarly. All he had left was the past he was trying to put behind him. The past that kept coming back every time he dared to close his eyes. With a sigh of resignation, Rosh began to recount some of the tales of adventure he’d endured while he sailed amongst the stars on the Voidhawk.

  Rosh had the story telling ability of a chicken that had just had its neck wrung. In spite of that, the audience at the table soon grew quiet and listened raptly as he described life on a ship that sailed the void. It was beyond what most of them could ever hope to imagine, and indeed a few doubted such a thing was possible. It was only when Phigellus, the King’s Magician, came to his aid and spoke that such things did indeed exist did he truly gain the acceptance from the people at the table.

  “This sailing of the void seems a wondrous thing,” King Peter opined, sitting back and gazing at Rosh thoughtfully. “How is it you come to be here?”

  Rosh smiled. “This world’s got a void port on it, it’s a long ways from here, but I heard tell when I was there of troubles over this way.”

  “Troubles?”

  “Aye, the kind where a man with a sword can earn some steady coin,” Rosh said. He took a bite out of the duck leg he held in his hand, then smiled around the mouthful of meat. “I never reckoned there’d be food this fancy too.”

  His simple joke was met with laughter. The discussion drifted away from him, much to his relief. Rosh dug back into his food, enjoying a meal the likes of which he had not had in weeks. He ate his fill and then some, putting a dent in the royal la
rder. Gone was the gnawing hunger he constantly felt, though he knew it would only be a matter of time until it returned.

  With dinner ended other festivities began. Entertainers and performers staged acts designed to impress the viewers. Rosh found himself quickly bored with it and sought an avenue for escape. Begging directions to a water closet, he soon managed to get himself lost in the palace and found himself wandering through the halls.

  “Halt!”

  It was only a matter of time, he figured. He stopped and turned around, seeing two guards hurrying towards him. The one on the left spoke, his hand upon his sheathed sword as he did so, “Who are you and what business have you in the royal wing of the castle?”

  “Sorry,” Rosh mumbled. “Got lost, I was looking for my stuff that’s all. Some girls stripped my clothes and weapons off me then scrubbed me up and sent me off to eat with the King.”

  They looked to one another, their faces filled with looks of disbelief. “Come with us,” they said, then turned and escorted him back down the hall.

  Midway there another figure started down the hallway. Rosh groaned as he identified the figure. It was the man who seemed to have taken a dislike to him. One he had learned was Prince Sinjin, the only surviving heir to the throne.

  “Is there a problem?” The Prince asked as he came up before them.

  “No My Lord,” they said, snapping to attention. “This man claims he was a guest of the King and that he got lost, we was escorting him back out.”

  Prince Sinjin stood there and beheld Rosh, a smirk upon his face. “The King has declared this man a hero, you may let him go.”

  They apologized and stepped away from Rosh quickly. Rosh grinned and shrugged, showing he took no offense by it. “I was wanting to leave,” Rosh said. “I just need my sword back, the rest don’t matter much.”

  Sinjin nodded. “Is it special, your sword?” He asked, turning and gesturing for Rosh to walk with him. The guards fell behind and disappeared as quickly as they could.

  Rosh shrugged. “Present from some people I helped out once,” he said. The truth was that it was made of some ancient metal Rosh had never seen the like of. It never needed to be sharpened and he’d yet to find anything it couldn’t cut through.

  The Prince continued to make small talk as he led the warrior through the castle. They stopped once for the Prince to ask questions about Rosh’s items, then they were moving on again. Not soon enough, Rosh recognized the rooms he had been led through by the servants before. There resting on a bench sat his clothes and items. His old clothing had been mended and cleaned, his chain shirt replaced with a gleaming new one.

  “Do you require a place to stay for the night?” Prince Sinjin asked him. “My father bade you stay as long as you like, and I assured him I would see to your accommodations.”

  There was something about the Prince’s smile that Rosh didn’t like. Still, it was either the wilderness, a whorehouse, or an inn if he turned the prince down. Even with the hero worship he was running out of money. Life as a mercenary seldom paid well. Rosh shrugged. “If you’re offering, sure.”

  Prince Sinjin nodded, smiling again in a way that made something itch in the back of Rosh’s head. “Come with me, Rosh, and we’ll see to it that your needs are met.”

  They left again, with Rosh trying to pay better attention to the passages they took through the castle. In no time he was lost again and forced to follow the Prince faithfully. He was led to a massive suite that consisted of multiple rooms. Rosh peered around, overwhelmed by the size of it.

  “Is this satisfactory?” The Prince asked.

  Rosh nodded. “There’s something to this hero business,” he muttered.

  Sinjin smiled. “This was my brother’s room,” he explained. “He was killed while out hunting recently. A terrible blow to my family. My father suggested you have his room as long as you need it.”

  Rosh stared at him, eyes narrowed. It didn’t make sense to him, giving him rooms that his dead son had recently used. Rosh shrugged away the thought; royalty never thought like sane men. “The war’s over,” Rosh said. “I’ll be moving on tomorrow. This place is nice and all, but it ain’t my way to stay nowhere too long.”

  Prince Sinjin bowed his head and backed away. “Your valor will be missed, my friend.”

  Rosh was left alone shortly. He explored the rooms, finding dozens of fine clothes in one area and another room with a small table and a couch of sorts. The main room was where the bed was, and it was a bed big enough for three men Rosh’s size. He grinned at the thought of all the fun he could have in a bed like that, although not with three other men. Rosh cursed as he realized he should have asked the Prince for some companionship. Royalty did things like that, didn’t they? Just another job for one of the comely serving girls, he bet.

  Disgruntled at the loss of the opportunity, Rosh took off the fancy clothes and tossed them on the floor. He positioned his sword and axe near the bed, then he crawled in under the sheets and luxuriated in the incredible softness. Sleep came to him quickly, aided by his full belly and too many days spent on the road.

  * * * *

  Rosh woke up instantly. He saw movement in the darkness of his borrowed room and instinctively rolled out of the way. Something slammed into the bed where he’d been laying, something that sent up a cloud of feathers from the shredded mattress and pillow.

  He kept rolling, falling off the far side of the bed and struggling to free himself from the blankets that trapped him. He rose up in time to see the dark form leap onto the bed and come at him. It was a man, he realized, though he was shorter than average. The man was swinging a sword, and that was what drew most of Rosh’s attention. Rosh dodged under the swing and launched himself onto the bed, driving his shoulder into the midsection of the assassin.

  They wrestled on the bed briefly until Rosh threw the man off the foot of the bed and rolled off the other side himself. He grabbed up his sword, turning to face his assailant, and found the man already there. Rosh grunted as the attackers sword hammered into his hip. He felt it grate against bone before his own blade swatted it aside. Rosh slashed at the assassin again to keep him back and give his hip time to recover.

  Their blades clashed once, then twice more, with Rosh being amazed at how strong the small man was. His eyes were adjusting and he could make out more than just his silhouette. What he began to see alarmed him. The man fighting him might not be a simple man; Rosh would have sworn he saw horns on his head.

  Rosh took a tentative step and felt his hip respond. It was far from fully healed, but he knew he could count on it to support his weight. He pushed forward, driving the smaller man back and then, with a mighty swipe of his sword, he shattered the blade that was used against him.

  His attacked grunted, making sound for the first time. He staggered back, glancing about nervously. Rosh grinned savagely and stepped forward to put extra power into the slash that caved in his assassin’s chest. He fell back, arms reaching for the sky, and dissolved into a smoky nothingness before he hit the floor.

  Rosh stared at the floor, breathing heavily. Seeing nothing he looked around nervously. What had just happened? A quick glance and flexing of his hip assured him he was fine again. All that remained of the attack was shattered pieces of the sword he’d broken.

  Rosh moved quickly, gathering them up and clutching them tightly in his hand while he looked around. Nothing presented itself, allowing him to begin to think whatever had happened might be over. A glance at the bed and Rosh wondered just how much of an ‘accident’ the Prince’s death had been. With a grunt he moved and stepped into his breeches, pulling them up quickly and tying them off. He reached for the rest of his clothes just as he heard a muffled scream. With a curse he dropped the mail, grabbed his sword and his axe and charged through the doors of the chamber, his shoulder smashing them open with ease.

  He turned to the right, knowing instinctively the scream had come from that direction. He ran, slowing his stride only once
when he saw the slumped over body of a guard on the floor. With another curse, Rosh came to the final door in the hallway. Large double doors, built of solid wood and able to withstand assault, lay before him. He listened briefly, hearing some muffled noises from inside that he translated as frantic.

  It took nearly four kicks for the door to shudder and give way before him. He pushed through and saw more of the small men that had attacked him inside the room. With a snarl he raised his sword and started forward, only to feel something fiery and sharp wrap around his arm and pull him back.

  “Not so fast, big boy.”

  Rosh turned into the whip that had wrapped around his arm and saw a sight that took his breath. She was perfect in every way. Well, every way that mattered. She had the body of a Goddess and the face of an angel, albeit a somewhat cruel one given the sharper lines of her cheekbones. Her eyes were pits of the deepest blackness, and matched by the long flowing hair on her head and her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. Her fingernails and toenails were black as well, offsetting the crimson tone to her flawless skin. Aside from the cruel looking dark grey sword hung from one hand and the black whip in her other, the only clothing she wore was a black breastplate that stretched to her loins. The armor seemed hardly protective, given how her breasts seemed ready to spill out of it at any moment.

  “Who’re you?” Rosh grunted, shaking himself from the temporary paralysis she had caused him.

  Volera flexed her wings, grinning and revealing sharp fangs in her mouth. “I’m a Fury, mortal, and the last woman you will ever see!”

  Rosh laughed. “I been getting a lot of that lately,” he said, then reached up with one hand and grabbed the taught whip that wrapped around his arm. He gave it a tug and ripped it free from Volera’s hand, making her gasp in shock. The shock turned to outrage immediately. Rosh watched, amused then concerned as the whip turned into smoke and disappeared in his hand.