Alistair slowly lowered his own sword, coming over to the decapitated corpse with no emotion - there was no relief, no joy or happiness, no feeling of peace or disgust. Looking at the Marquees head with his eyes still large with shock, Alistair simply felt tired. The cut to the man's neck had not been clean but it had done it job, ceasing Pombal’s connection to this plane of existence and leaving the Emperor with one less adversary - at least in theory. His mind throbbed from all the political implications of what had just passed and he felt like he needed a drink. Kicking the head back towards the body with his toe, the emperor slowly turned to face Radisson, his eyes flickering to Saskia only for a second. That was yet another headache he was not ready to tackle this second.
“Go announce that the Marques had been executed by the Emperor as a traitor,” his voice was full of command, leaving no room for negotiating. “The stronghold is to be taken under the Flight’s command and until further notice, we are in martial law. Any who try to defy you, you have my full leave to cut down. If you see that madman's brood, bring them to me. I do not want any misunderstandings.”
“Yes, your imperial majesty,” Radisson bowed but Alistar held his hand up, stopping him.
“No formalities, you know how they erk me,” his gaze flickered to the woman again. Sighing, he shook his head. “Take the princess royal of Lys to a less…blood filled bedroom to rest and recover. I will speak to her once we sort this mess. And for your own safety, make sure there are no sharp objects she can stab you with.”
“Yes sir,” his man bowed before stepping to the side and waiting for Saskia to leave. As soon as the pair was gone, Alistair let out a frustrated yell, his fist landing against the stonewall of the chamber. In the distance, he could hear the roar of his dragon, the distinct battering of huge wings. What had he done to anger Calembribor the Fire Lord so that he wanted to burn whatever sanity that Alistair had left? Was this punishment for his crimes, punishment for his lust that he found himself in an impossible position he had wanted to avoid? All he had ever wanted to do was live his life for his kingdom, to bring prosperity to the people of Asterious and be part of the empire's history. He was content with his position as general within the flight, proud that everything he achieved was with his own blood. sweat and tears. He removed any obstacle in his way and he had the scars to prove his worth, physical and figurative. He killed when threatened and fought for his comrades, leaving none behind. Those who fell in battle were recovered and sent to their families for proper burial by the sacrificial flame. He never wanted anything more…
“What the hell happened here Al?!” Westley's voice brought the man back to the present and Alistair looked up to see the blonde looking with shock and disgust at the body of the Pombal. “You killed the bastard, finally.”
“Not me and I wonder if such a death was a good move,” Alistair moved out of the room, the younger warrior shaking his head, his eyes lacking their usual humor.
“Radisson?”
“God almighty, no,” the pair started back down, Alistair stopping beside a drape to wipe his sword blame clean from the blood and gore, wincing as his wounds finally beat their way through the anger and adrenaline coursing through his body. “The princess royal Saskia Castravet.”
“My lord, have you taken a hit to the head? The princess royal of Lys here?” Westley raised an eyebrow but Alistair was less than amused, throwing him a dark glare.
“I wish I was joking but imagine my shock when that bastard started throwing out comments about how he will break her body and spirit right at the dinner table. I didn't believe him but,” he shrugged with his good shoulder. “Princess Saskia has a mighty swing in her.”
“She did that to your shoulder?” The man's eyes grew large as he looked at the wound glaring red on Alistair's arm amid the dark material of his clothes. The emperor smirked, about to reply before his eyes caught the scene of two bodies that made him swear and spit on the ground. Westley followed his gaze before uttering his own curse. “That madman..”
“At least he won't be able to hurt anyone else,” Alistair knelt by the two children of the Marques, closing the boy's terrified eyes with his fingers even as they stuck to the cooling skin with blood. The lad must have been no older than 16 and he had trusted his uncle till his last breath. “Such a waste and so young.”
“He was a walking dead man already,” Westley's voice was hallow, devoid of any resemblance of his usual character. “If not tonight, it could have been tomorrow. The second Ferris perished to dragon flame, this kid's life was forfeited. There was nothing you could have done.”
“You weren't there!” Alistair growl did nothing to deter his comrade.
“No but I know you and killing kids is beneath you. This was not your doing Al, this was the last defiance of a beast who knew he was cornered and on his final breathe. Come - we will bury them as is required by Calembribor.”
Letting out a shaky breathe, Alistair straightened, taking one more look at the morbid scene. The Marques had been a monster that clawed his way into power and fought for it until his last moments. He was a monster, twisted and cursed but…was Alistair himself any better? Was he any different? He had no compassion for those who opposed him, he did what he had to, consequences be damned. He was ruthless, he was calculating, he was cold. He knew who he was and he had made his peace with it long ago. Why were the old man's words recocheing in his mind and making it hard to concentrate.
“Bury them but,” he paused at the door of the corridor, looking back even though the bodies had already been left behind a corner. “Ensure the princess doesn't see them - I am not sure if she had killed or seen death before but this would make even the most stoic of veterans see red.”
“Of course Al,” Westley opened the door, holding it for the emperor to walk through, his stride once again full of strength and resolve. Walking a half step behind, the blonde quickly recounted his own uneventful journey to Valadis’ aviary where the drakes lived and how he encountered Emeric and Darius who insisted on accompanying him to Sombraforte. The trio and the dragons of the two men already there raced as fast as they could to the Northern keep,, hoping to come before the Marques did anything rash since, according to Darius, his older brother had heard enough whispers in Valadis to loosen the capital's defenses and send two of the Flight to assist their leader. Alistair grunted in annoyance but he knew Marcus Vale like the back of his hand and if the pragmatic strategist thought that two extra dragons would be welcome in this rat's nest, it was for good reason. Seeing the remainder of the Marques’ men corralled and barricaded in the barracks that was acting as a temporary prison and currently guarded by two of the dragons, if Saskia's imprompu escape had not spurred Alistair to action and surprised the schemer, there was a good chance the emperor would have been proclaimed dead before sunrise.
“Aellorex,” Alistair smiled as a dragon landed before him in the courtyard, the two older ones snapping at him from where they say but not moving. The black drake growled back, his tail swishing back and worth in annoyance before his huge scaled head turned to the emperor, blue eyes taking in his appearance as he butted him in affection. When Alistair winced, the blue gaze shifted to his bleeding arm and the bloody, dirty bandages on his hand. Aellorex hissed, pulling his head back and his eyes narrowing, causing Alistair to chuckle. “You big chicken, it's just a scratch. Emeric will patch me up shortly. I have suffered much worse.” The look he received could only be described as blatant disbelief.
“Milord,” almost as if by magic, Emeric was at his side, bowing to him and the dragon, his long red hair bright even in the drizzle of the night. “I am relieved to see you.”
“In one piece more or less,” Westley grumbled but Alistair gave him a hard look, turning to scratch his dragon's scaly head who seemed to relax more now that the healer of their Flight had arrived. Although each Flight was part of the greater organism of the Dragon Knights, the small groups were necessary to ensure dragon cooperation. Extremely territorial creatures who formed bonds that lasted for lifetimes, they hated having a group of more than 8 drakes. Even at eight, a Flight was considered big. Within each group, the team of men was taught and expected to be self reliant with all men knowing first aid but one usually trained to be a surgeon and healer.
“I just need it to be bandaged,” Alistair remarked, turning to show the man the extent of his damage. “A graze albeit a deep one.”
“I am glad that the silver infused thread did its job. Had it been a regular shirt, I would be sewing your arm back to your shoulder,” Emeric replied drily, gently moving the material out of the way with long fingers. Westley snorted in a most undignified way. “This needs to be cleaned and disinfected out of the rain and mud. Perhaps inside?”
“Yes, that may be best,” Alistair conceded. “We have much to do before the sun rises.”
Within twenty minutes, Alistair was occupying the old man's cabinet, a starkly bare office with a large wooden table. All papers that he, Emeric and Westley found had been piled onto the corner of the desk, awaiting to be sorted and read. Alistair himself, shirtless and wincing in annoynce each time Emeric dabbed some fire whiskey disinfectant to his palms, sat in the huge leather chair, his boots resting on the table's surface. After a brief discussion with Darien, they left him to sort out the guards, promising to send Radisson there before long although no one thought the man would have any issues - five dragons of various sizes was enough to make even the bravest of men reconsider his position. Radisson had instead been assigned the task of clearing out the rest of the rooms, looking for any guests of note that were here for reasons other than convenience - given his upbringing, he was the best to tackle that job. With a sigh, Alistair ordered Westley to bring the princess royal (gently) as he picked up the first letter in the pile, the context of which made him shake his head in disbelief. The Marques’ reaches ran deeper and thicker than he had originally expected.
The door opened to reveal Saskia and slowly, Alistarir put the paper down, his blue eyes digging into her own, commanding to come forward. He took in her appearance, trying to asses just how shaken up she was from the full ordeal. Her actions back in the room, her desire to be close to him - that was all the shock and stress. Looking at her now, Alistair wondered what in the devil she had been thinking leaving the safety of her home country especially when he had been brutally honest about what awaited her in Asterious. She had seemed so level headed, he never had guessed that she would be one to throw caution to the wind and ride after him alone. Westley bowed lightly before standing by the door, arms crossed and a slight smirk playing on his lips.
“Princess Saskia, we meet again rather soon,” Alistair grimaced as Emeric hummed softly and started to sew his cut in quick, precise strokes. “Explain to me, your royal highness, what in lord almighty’s name were you doing in Marques de Pombal's bedchamber and why exactly do you insist on proving, in every imaginable way, why the marriage you seemed set on would not work between us.”
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