Words From The Scouts

"Pull!" Alexander yelled.

A target was released into the air and he shot at it with perfect accuracy, bringing it down in bits and shards. Swiftly, he switched his musket with another loaded one and prepared again to engage: gun supported underneath with his left hand, butt to his shoulder, right index finger on the trigger, eyes focused; ready to follow the target as soon as it was released. From his line of sight, he saw someone approaching but he was too concentrated to turn or be concerned.

He blinked and slowly released his pelt up breath. "Pull!" He yelled again.

Another target went in the air and with his pressing on the trigger, the target disappeared into pieces and nothingness, scattering everywhere.

He switched his musket and returned to his original stance point. "Pull!"

Again, another target was released and destroyed. He stopped and watched the remains of his target reach the ground, then set the musket butt down with a gentle thud. "Hold." He told the servants who were preparing to release another target, and switched muskets with him and turned to the intruder. Oliver St. James. "You are late."

"Your Majesty." St. James greeted, bowing fully, bending at the waist. "Long live the king."

Alexander waited until he stood straight up. He stared him down from his head. "With your tardiness, I should. And I will."

"I apologize for my lateness, My Lord. I was at…"

"I do not care about your whereabouts." He passed the musket to Edmund and began to walk to the temporary shelter erected to create shade. "You kept your king waiting and delayed my day for your own reasons."

St. James hurried after him, but kept a reasonable distance to not walk by his side. "I am truly sorry, My Lord. There would not be a repetition."

Alexander waved the apologies aside, but nodded, taking note of the promise, knowing he would hold the man accountable to his words. He was the king of accountability.

Under the shade, two other men stood, waiting.

With a snap of his fingers, he commanded for a cup of water. The waiting servant poured from a jug and handed it to him. He sat slowly and regally, sipping from his cup. After a hefty swallow, he waved to the newcomer and the other men. "Do sit."

"My Lord?" St. James asked.

Alexander's lashes fluttered. The man was not only slow in movement, apparently, he was slow in thoughts too. "You can sit, this is not the courtroom." In the courtroom, he alone was allowed to sit, he had made sure of that. They looked from one to the other, and finally sat, looking immeasurably uncomfortable. He was pleased.

Taking another sip from his cup, he studied the men over the rim, his eyes moving from one to the other. Slowly, he searched their countenance to determine the stance of whatever news they had brought. All dull. There would be no single good news, he realized.

"Seeing as I have been momentarily disturbed from my leisure, what great news do you have to trouble me today?" He asked sarcastically. The three men looked from one to the other, no one said a word. He kissed his teeth. "Either speak or leave my sight. I have no time to dally as a victim of your indecision." He passed his cup to Edmund.

At half past one, he was already exasperated. The affairs of the kingdom came knocking at his door, demanding his attention, stealing him from his troubled leisure. He was smiling at them but it was untrue. His mood had not been agreeable, nor had it been for a while, and to a great amount, sleep had been lost. The tension that had for days been building had finally been released for a moment, he would not let them replace it.

He clenched his hand, fisting it. The results of all the spies he had sent out were dreadfully negative and it seemed he was losing hold of the command he had over his kingdom, and his subjects. Carefully, he rubbed the nape of his neck, hoping to release some tension. The sweat was beginning to dry and causing an itch. An itch as irritating as the result he had over the week received.

"Edmund, escort these men out of the Castle grounds. They are of no use to me." He commanded, relaxing into the chair.

"No, Sire." Colin Brimsbol rushed out. "We have news."

"Speak! Now!" His voice adopted the unagreeable notion of his mood.

Oliver St. James sat up. "Your Majesty," He bowed halfway. "the bandits at The Conqueror's Path have been dealt greatly with, but not before they harmed a sizable number of the fleet."

He scoffed. "How many?"

"Tw- twen- twenty-three." The man stammered. "This would mightily affect our next mission. The scouring team are set to return soon, but the injured must be allowed to rest and heal."

Alexander sighed, suddenly needing a drink, but deciding otherwise. It was too early in the day. "Let them rest then and pay them handsomely for wounds sustained. In the meantime, work with the royal guards and ask for thirty to fifty men. That should even out the void." He said, rolling up the sleeve of his half-buttoned shirt, staring down at his boots covered in mud and grass. 

"But, Your Majesty," Alexander raised his eyes to the man, bordering between anger and annoyance. "they are not trained soldiers nor are they knowledgeable in the act of stealth."

"Then teach them." He emitted through clenched teeth, refraining from cussing at the man.

"But, Your Majesty…"

He groaned lowly and exhaled, his mood gaining another height of fury. Having had enough, he said. "If I am to do your job for you, St. James, then I would have defeated the reason for you holding that position. Or don't you think so?" He stared the man down who immediately became quiet. He was incompetent and still searched for the liberty to complain. "Leave, and return with acceptable results. And this time, keep your men from harm's way or I will put you in one."

"Yes Sir." St. James bowed and ran out.

He turned to another. "What news of the pirates, Mowbray? What do your spies say?"

Mowbray bowed. "The pirates move southward, but their movements have become difficult to maintain. They move with irregularity as they know we are in search of them."

"And Brand?"

"His Highness is hot in their tail, keeping up on their trail, but he can't seem to catch up with them."

Alexander's face hardened, his eyes meeting the man's eyes squarely. "They are smarter than you, I am interpreting, enough to know to evade you." How pathetic!

Mowbray blinked, looking away. "We have noticed some movement of theirs on land too."

He blinked slowly, scratching his neck again, cussing inwardly. "Where?" The single word was forced from his mouth rather than the cuss word.

"Last I could gather, two nights ago, they were at The Fox. A local tavern outside of Carlisle."

The Fox. He knew of the place. He had been there many times on his way to Lanhandron, passing by Carlisle. And too frequently he had noticed the coach of Lord Denney. His Uncle frequented the tavern too. He blinked again, this time with realization. Was his Uncle in league with a bunch of greedy savages, all to get the throne he did not own? Had he again stooped so low to acquire what was not his?

Alexander pushed himself into the chair, relaxing his back, choosing not to agree with the thought. His shirt hung loosely on his shoulders but he was not bothered by it. Denney would not be so desperate, would he, to align with the pirates? Would he be disastrous to the kingdom and the throne he hoped to claim? He would not be so foolish. The thought was dismissed.

He snapped his fingers, exhaling sharply. "They were probably in meetings with some of their contacts. Do not relent on your watch on them, I must know of their movements and all they do while on my grounds, who they meet and what they acquire."

"Everything, My Lord?" Mowbray asked. Alexander's eyes landed on him, staying strongly on the annoying man. Choosing not to dignify his stupidity with a reply, his glare was answer enough. "Yes, Your Majesty. Everything." The man said and hurried away, bowing swiftly.

Colin Brimsbol, the latecomer, remained adjacent to him, looking at him and Alexander sat, bringing his hand to rest on his chin, doing the very same, looking right back. After a while, Brimsbol asked. "Shall I proceed, Your Majesty?"