The staffs clashed as both Voth swung their battle staffs at each other.  Cardamon struggled as they parried back and forth in the transport ship’s passenger area and then farther back into the hold.  Larsak’s practiced moves started smooth but became more furious the longer Cardamon held him off – there had been a quiet rage boiling within the Voth High Commander that now exploded with a chaotic fire as the power and impact of his swings and parries became less smooth and more harried.

Cardamon winced at each impact as his body felt the impacts, his bones and teeth shaking as he ducked and dodged the mad attacks that kept coming.  the blade on the end had swiped against his leg once, and a dull red stain soon bloomed on his uniform pants.  Another close call had sliced at his right arm, filling the sleeves with sticky red blood.  Yet he fought on, growling and grunting as he had been trained for the first 25 years of his life.  He could sense Larsak’s desperation – his fellow Voth was not surrendering or giving up in the face of the rage from the High Commander.  In truth, Cardamon had kept his practices up in his spare time when he’d fled the homeworld.  He’d even worked when he was off the clock at his shop.  It had been a benefit the few times someone had deigned to try and rob him or hurt him.

Now he was fighting for his life.  They continued to clash back and forth until both staffs were worn raw enough to snap as they slammed against each other.  Wooden shavings and debris went everywhere.  There were no more staffs on the wall.  Cardamon realized it would come down to their hands.  It was a split-second decision, and he didn’t hesitate.  He jumped towards Larsak, startling him as he swing his claws across the Voth’s throat, cutting deep across the skin and eliciting a scream that soon became a gurgling shout of panic as the blood spurted and spilled from his neck.  Cardamon didn’t wait.  He jumped onto the High Commander, slamming his head into the metal floor, a dull thud echoing.  Larsak gurgled, his life slowly fading as he lamely tried to attack his killer.  “Why…you….did…kill….why.”

The rebel Voth sighed, “I remembered the lessons from our teachers.  Never hesitate.  Never give a moment to the enemy.  Kill them if you must.  Destroy them as you should.”  He regarded the high commander as the blood continued to bleed, his eyes fading slowly, “Why did you hesitate?”

A cough, which sent blood into Cardamon’s clothing, “I didn’t…think you would.  We would talk…find a way to bring you home.  You were always a talker.”  His skin began to fade in its color, “I regret…it came…to…this.”

Cardamon didn’t feel anything as Larsek’s life force faded, and his last breath sighed from his mouth.  He remained on top of the body, wondering what to say.  “I used to talk,” he muttered to the body of the Voth, “But you wouldn’t listen.  Nobody from our home would listen.  They only wanted me to help them kill.  To hunt.  To destroy.”  He stood roughly and regarded his old enemy one last time, “I do not regret that it came to this…it could not have ended any other way.”  He limped to the cockpit and sat in the chair, his shoulders free of the pressure.  He plotted a course back to the Markonian Outpost and threw the Voth transport into gear.  He sent out a message to the Mackenzie, unsure of when it would arrive.  He hoped it would be in time.

He wanted very much to see Montana.