Chapter 13: Surrender

*****

The envoy was tired of running.

Swabians did not run yet here he was fleeing the camp of the Muthada in a desperate bid to put distance between himself and their new clan chief. Berimund resisted the urge to grind his teeth. Whoever this Jack Easterbrook character was, he'd put a significant dent in Lord Avila's plans. Now that one of their major sources of slave revenue had dried up, it was time to seek greener pastures. Or at very least, come up with a contingency plan.

It was for that reason that he made all possible haste out of the camp during the attack by the Javans, hiding under the bodies of two dead men until long after the new clan chief had departed the scene. The smell was horrific, and the vacant expression on the dead Andalucian faces seemed to burn its way into his brain.

He suffered that treatment no longer than he needed to. After the Muthada had departed with Easterbrook, Berimund returned to the camp to scope out the scene. Of course the old clan chief Adulis would be dead; it was the only way Easterbrook could have taken over as the new leader. However, even the members of his inner circle were dead too, chief among them his cousin Bathal who had been Berimund's primary liaison. Without any of the old leadership, his mission was in serious jeopardy, and he needed guidance on his next move.

It was for that reason that he had made his way back to the slaver city of Methusa, the site of the largest slave market in all of Andalucia. It was also the scene of where the majority of the slaves brought into the country landed, before being sold out to the various clans—a vital link in the plan of his overlord. There he could expect to find Adalbert, Lord Avila's younger cousin, and the mastermind behind the two-way slave trade that they'd orchestrated to fill the Swabian coffers for war.

Upon reaching the city, Berimund had begun to relax. His first meeting with Easterbrook had gone far from well, and he wouldn't put it past the man to seek retribution should Berimund fall into his hands. Now the reports from the central highlands were coming in that Easterbrook had not one but two clans in his possession, a dangerous combination for not only himself but his enemies. Berimund wouldn't breathe easily until he was far enough away not to worry about it.

Or he had a stronger host.

He made his way through the city in the midmorning hours, looking for one house in particular, the residence of Adalbert. Grander than the houses in its immediate surroundings, it still wasn't saying much when compared to the relative poverty and shabbiness of the entire city. Such a residence would barely be fit for the steward of a poor lord in Swabia, yet Andalucia was the land of backwardness. Such quarters would have to do to fit the circumstances.

Finding the door, Berimund rapped on it four times in quick succession and then three more in long, drawn out knocks. It was a code that the listener on the other side would readily recognize, a form of secret greeting that could only mean another Swabian was on the other side. Predictably enough, a small slot opened in the door, and a familiar pair of eyes greeted him.

"Berimund," said the sentry. "What are you doing back here so soon?"

"The situation has changed. Give me entry so I can update our lord's cousin," said Berimund quickly, watching to see if anyone nearby was paying them too much attention.

The eyes on the other side of the door blinked at him several times before the peep hole was slammed shut. After a few more tinkers of the door, it opened up hesitantly without Berimund being able to see who was behind it. He quickly shuffled in like he'd done a hundred times before and locked it behind him. Only then could he see the sentry fully who then proceeded to direct him to the office of Adalbert just down the hall.

Berimund rushed to the office, immediately finding the younger cousin of Lord Avila sitting behind his own desk. He was not much more than a year older than Berimund and it showed. His hair didn't have any signs of silver, and his face was unwrinkled even if it did carry a few scars. He was dressed similarly to Berimund, wearing a dark gray tunic, so much that dark gray seemed to be the national color of Swabia. Adalbert was reclined in his chair, a cigar resting against a tray on his desk, smoking.

"Berimund, what are you doing back?" questioned Adalbert with a raised eyebrow. "I hadn't expected to see you any time soon."

"The situation has changed, sir," said Berimund with a deep bow. "The Muthada have a new clan chief. Adulis is dead."

Adalbert pursed his lips. "What of it? Make the same deal with the new clan chief."

"That won't work," said Berimund while shaking his head. "I've met the new man. He's a foreigner to these lands. Not even from this side of the world. We got off to a bad start."

"Define 'bad start' Berimund."

"It seems someone has been feeding him misinformation about our people and our country. Our meeting was quite tense and nearly came to a fight."

"You almost started a fight in the tent of the clan chief?" asked Adalbert. "My cousin would be most displeased to hear that."

Berimund's eyes went wide. Displeasure on the part of Lord Avila was a chief cause of death back in Swabia. Many didn't disappoint the lord twice, since you usually lost your head after the first time.

"My apologies, sir. Nothing came from it but the sentiment was left lacking. I don't believe this man to be someone we could work with."

"That would be most unfortunate for you then, Berimund. It was your job to secure the Muthada for our part of the agreement. Their money for the purchase of slaves is crucial to our plan," said Adalbert.

Berimund gulped heavily. "It gets worse, sir."

"How could it possibly get any worse than this report?"

"This new clan chief, this foreigner Jack Easterbrook, has the leadership of another clan. I've gotten reliable reports that he's now in charge of the Numratha as well. As you know, Yusef of the Numratha had a blood alliance with Adulis."

"And yet, he still was not part of our plan. The Numratha weren't purchasing our slaves as part of the deal so who their clan chief is makes no matter to us. Why is this bad for us?"

Berimund pursed his lips. "This Easterbrook is causing a disturbance over a good portion of the country. I have information that he's been pursued by many clans now that he has the leadership of two. As you know, the Andalucians are fickle about having one man leading multiple clans."

"Do you think these disturbances could upset the rest of our markets? Could they disturb the money coming in from the rest of the clans?"

"I believe so. Two other clans that we have deals with, the Cethusa and the Turvada, are becoming involved in the pursuit. I've heard that the high clan king has issued a declaration against this man and his clans so that the entire might of Andalucia will unite to destroy him. Supposedly his fate is to be enslaved."

"All the better for us then," said Adalbert. "He'll be a temporary disruption until all the clans remove him and then things will go back to normal."

"It gives me concern, sir," said Berimund. "There was something off about this man. Something about him. He's not an ordinary man. I couldn't put my finger on it. He travels with Galicians though."

"Blonde assholes," snarled Adalbert.

"Truly, but to me this is a mark of something bigger going on. I don't think this is limited to just Andalucia. Despite the odds being against him, he has managed to unite two clans, something that is forbidden by Andalucian law. It would be unwise to treat him lightly."

"So you believe this man to be guided by the fates, hmm?" said Adalbert. "If that's the case, what do you suggest?"

"This man is too dangerous to be left alive. With your permission, and the permission of our lord, I'd like to travel to the court of the high clan king and make a motion for him to kill this man as soon as possible, by my own hand if necessary," said Berimund. "I believe him to be too dangerous to be left alive."

Adalbert rubbed his chin while he contemplated that motion. "It sounds like they are already doing that. Are they not liable to kill him when they catch up to him?"

"I don't think they'll kill him. They'll enslave him, in which case he'd still be alive and still dangerous. This man needs a knife between the ribs. Vertulis has been good for our part of the arrangement. If he knows that Lord Avila wishes this man dead, it will help give us leverage."

Adalbert tapped a finger against his desk. His face studied Berimund's while he thought about his decision. "Very well, Berimund. If you think this man is enough of a threat to what we're doing here, you may go seek your audience with the king. Normally, I'd run this up the chain of command with my cousin but seeing as you have no clan to be an envoy with, I'm sure he'd approve."

"Thank you, sir," said Berimund with a deep bow. "I will get moving right away."

"One thing before you leave though, Berimund. Get this done quickly. The loss of one clan to this arrangement is unfortunate. To lose all the clans is a calamity. We might all lose our heads if that's the case. You've been granted something that usually doesn't happen in our country—a second chance. Use it wisely."

"Yes, sir. I will not stop until I've personally seen to it that Jack Easterbrook has drawn his last breath."

*****

There was endless darkness long before there was any hope for light. The feeling of being crushed consumed him, the cold hardness of the heavy stone treating his body like a plaything. Time meant nothing in the void, and consciousness fled only to return in brief waves of lucidity. It was his own form of purgatory.

But he was alive. That was one thing they couldn't take from him. While he still drew breath, there was hope for retribution. For terror.

Bancroft had no idea how long he persisted under the rubble of the Admiralty. Nor did he have any idea on the number of dead and wounded. He barely clung to life, a persistent knocker on death's door. Thankfully for him, no one answered.

At one point, he remembered being pulled from the rubble. Of a multitude of hands pressed against his now charcoal-gray, stained uniform. He had a brief notion of being carried until he passed out again, the flash of pain too violent for his senses to comprehend.

The next thing he knew, he was in the hospital. Sounds of organized chaos around him. A small, feminine face looking down upon his, blue eyes unblinking as she shined a light to ward away the darkness. He wondered for a brief moment what she would see looking back into his. Would she see the shadows? Would she see the tentative link that kept his heart beating?

"Give him more morphine. He's still with us," said the woman as she stepped away from the bed.

Yes. It's not so easy to kill Percival Bancroft, he thought to himself. In the next moment, a rough hand grabbed his wrist, injecting the soothing liquid into his veins. A brief euphoria hit and then he was out again.

"Admiral Bancroft? Admiral Bancroft, can you hear me, sir?"

The admiral pushed away the darkness briefly as his eyes flicked open with heavy precaution. He squinted as soon as the first ray of light entering his vision, finding it blinding, painful to his long sedated eyes. Bancroft squirmed while he was able to, trying to get away from that awful source of pain, yet the bed wasn't nearly as yielding as he'd hoped. There was nowhere to go.

"Admiral Bancroft?"

"I'm here. I'm alive," he murmured as he hazarded a look once more. He didn't recognize the face that greeted him, a man's face in his early forties he suspected. A typical Javan face for that matter with his dark curls and eyes. At least he hadn't woken in an Occitanian prison.

"You gave us all quite the scare, Admiral," said the relieved orderly. "There were a few times there we thought we'd lost you."

"Where am I?" he asked weakly.

"You're in Belfort Military Hospital, sir. You've been here for over a week. Mostly out but in some moments, you were able to speak to us."

Bancroft blinked several more times. "I'm not dead." It was more a statement than a question.

The orderly smiled. "Thankfully so. The people are very grateful that their admiral is still with them. Even the emperor has detailed his best doctors to attend to you."

"The emperor. Is he safe? What happened?" Bancroft attempted to sit up in bed, an uncoordinated move that sent pain up his spine.

The orderly motioned for him to remain prone. "All in due time, sir. There is much to catch you up on but now is not the time. We need you to rest. More importantly, we need you to heal."

"Just tell me, have the Occitanians invaded? I need to know that to be able to rest," begged Bancroft, grabbing the orderly's sleeve before he could go.

The man shook his head gently. "Just a raid, sir. Thanks be to God, there are no Occitanian forces on our soil."

Bancroft reclined into the bed and nodded his head glumly. Everything else could wait at that point. As long as there weren't enemy forces nearby, he'd have time to catch up.

"I'm going to get you some water. We want to try to get you to drink something, okay, Admiral?"

Bancroft nodded weakly. "Am I going to get out of this bed someday? I'm not paralyzed, am I?"

The orderly shook his head. "Just a broken arm, some broken ribs, and a mighty concussion. All in all, you're lucky to be alive. The entire Admiralty collapsed on itself. We're guessing you shielded the rest of your body with your broken arm, but the fall and the weight of the stonework above you is what caused the concussion and the damage to your ribs."

"What about Clark? Is Clark still alive?" asked Bancroft. "He's my deputy, and he would have been in the same room as me when it came down."

"Rear Admiral Jason Clark? Yes, sir, he's still alive. In a similar shape as you are, but he's been awake for days now," said the orderly. "I'm sure he'll be relieved to see that you pulled through as well."

"Good," answered Bancroft before he relaxed into the bed. "At least Clark made it out in one piece too."

"You were some of the lucky ones, sir. There's a whole host of the dead, and that's just from the Admiralty alone. That wasn't the only building hit either. They got several houses, a school, and our main polonium refinery. I'm afraid prices on that last item have already skyrocketed, but it was a costly raid for all of us. Anyway, I'm sure you'll be wanting some rest. I'll arrange for you to have some privacy for now. Let me just bring you that water, and then you can continue with your rest."

"All right," said Bancroft weakly as the orderly soon disappeared from the room. He looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time. It was a small room but at least it was all his. The walls were painted a dull, mustard yellow, and the main table with all of the supplies was made entirely of metal. It was a sterile environment that smelled like death. At least it wasn't his own that he was smelling.

Bancroft never saw the orderly come back in with the water. Sleep overtook him soon after, his eyelids heavy with stress. All too soon, he was back in the land of dreams.

*****

The days that followed his awakening weren't nearly as bad as that first week where he spent most of it in darkness. By the third day, Bancroft was sitting upright, nursing his broken arm and using a generous amount of pillows under his back to take the pressure off his ribs. Yet, he was conscious and able to get a grip on the nature of the attack.

It appeared the raid on the Javan capital was quid pro quo for their earlier raid on Montauban, the Occitanian center of government. Luckily for them, the Javans had only lost a handful of buildings and people in the retribution. Their own raid on the Occitanians at least had them lose a handful of warships. He could count it as a victory, no matter how small in comparison.

That particular afternoon, Bancroft was already back to work getting a series of dispatches from the makeshift Admiralty that had been relocated to an underutilized wing of the imperial palace. He hoped such arrangements would only be temporary, not entirely liking the fact that he was now closer to being under the emperor's thumb, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

At least Clark was up and running again. Bancroft had a very real moment of fear at the thought of his loyal deputy not surviving the attack. Yet Clark's easy grin couldn't be tempered by a few tons of stonework falling around him. The man was able to hobble his way into Bancroft's room, taking up his prior duties like nothing had happened. You couldn't easily replace a man like Clark. Loyalty that deep couldn't be bought.

As Bancroft set another dispatch to the side, he saw Clark appear near the door, except that easy grin was missing from his face. Quite the opposite, he appeared ashen-faced, a sweat already noticeable on his brow.

"What is it, Clark?" asked Bancroft. "What's the problem?"

"Sir, you have a visitor. The Crown Prince is here to see you," said Clark in a near whisper.

Bancroft gulped heavily. What in the world would the crown prince want to see him for? Crown Prince George was nearly identical to his father, Charles. Cut from the same cloth, the early-thirties crown prince was just as corpulent and just as slovenly. However, there was one distinction between the two that Bancroft had detected over the years—George wasn't nearly as stupid as his father. While Charles relied upon the authority of his throne to force his will, George didn't have the same power. For that reason, when he engaged in intrigue, he was forced to use his mind to get the results he wanted. The end result was that George was a much more formidable adversary than his father.

The other matter that gave Bancroft pause was why would George want to talk with him? They almost never ran in the same circles, and the interest of the crown prince was always heavily rooted in the army. There were no councils on which they shared a seat together, and for the longest time, Bancroft only saw George at royal functions. Why he would be calling on him was still a mystery that he couldn't decipher.

"Send him in," Bancroft said finally. Clark nodded and disappeared behind the door while Bancroft pushed several of his notes aside. He wanted to give George his full attention, without the distraction of the dispatches on the nearby table.

Usually for royal presentations and parades, the crown prince's arrival was marked by the sounds of trumpets or streams of ribbons being tossed into the air. In the military hospital, it was much less pronounced, and George waddled his way into the suite without any fanfare. He was dressed in a deep blue doublet, marked with a sash that ran diagonally from one shoulder to the waist on the opposite side of the body. Bancroft didn't recognize the host of medals adorned to the man's chest, a sure sign that they were army medals, not navy.

The thing that worried Bancroft most about seeing George was the look in the man's eyes. A quiet confidence, a feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. It was disconcerting to see such a look right from the start, and it made Bancroft's nerves flutter.

"Admiral Bancroft, you gave us all quite a scare," said George as he rested his hand on the railing of the bed. "We thought we lost you for a moment there."

"Thankfully for our people, God didn't see fit to bring me home to his kingdom just yet, Your Imperial Highness," said Bancroft with a false sense of piety.

Thankfully, George bowed his head slightly. "A blessing for the Javan people truly. Are you well? The doctors have kept us up to speed with your progress but nothing would make us more confident than to hear the words directly from you."

Bancroft nodded. "Every day has been better than the last. The first day was pure hell—not knowing what was going on or if I was dead or alive. But I'm progressing. At least, that's what they tell me. I don't think this broken arm is going to heal quickly though." Bancroft gestured to the sling that kept his arm tucked against his body.

George's eyes locked on it. "Fortune has favored you then to only have the broken arm. Many of our people died in that attack. My father and I are glad that it wasn't you amongst the dead."

"As am I glad to still be among the living. Tell me, how is His Imperial Majesty? I trust he is well?"

"As well as can be, and he's very much looking forward to the day that his number one naval leader can get fully back to his post," said George with a serious look.

"I've made arrangements to move me to the palace within the next day so I can begin working in an office again," said Bancroft. "If the temporary headquarters of the Admiralty will be there, then that's where I'm needed."

"Good," said George with a subtle nod. "Father will be delighted to hear that."

"Have we been able to launch a response on the Occitanians for their attack?" asked Bancroft before gesturing to his dispatches. "Nothing that's been given to me seems to indicate a plan for reprisals."

George shook his head. "Nothing of the sort has been planned. At the moment, all resources are being poured into the land forces for a possible invasion. Father does not wish to strike back using the navy."

Bancroft's mouth dropped open. "But surely that is the right thing to do, Your Highness? What other purpose are our steel bulwarks if not to defend our shores?"

George raised his chin. "Father believes our best defense is with the infantry. And I fully agree."

Bancroft held his gaze on the fat prince for a moment without responding. It wasn't an answer that surprised him. After all, the apple didn't fall far from the tree when it came to the crown prince, and he'd seen first hand what the emperor thought of prioritizing the navy. Yet part of him hoped that the small amount of sense that George had, which his father lacked, might persuade him to be useful to his purposes. Unfortunately, the crown prince's will was at odds with his own.

Bancroft's assumed piety took hold once again. He bowed his head gracefully. "The emperor knows best. Truly a father to all of us in spirit if not in blood. We'll do all we can with the limited resources at our disposal." Bancroft chose the last words as a subtle dig at the sovereign. Limited resources was like calling a skinny pig a feast.

"I'm told that it's not all as glum as it sounds though, Admiral," said George with a slight sneer. "I hear your men won a victory out by Quiller's Cove. The sinking of an Occitanian battleship. It seems you can make do with limited resources."

Bancroft smiled. "We can always expect the forces of the Imperial Navy to do their utmost. That was an impressive victory because we won it despite being outnumbered and outgunned. The commander-in-chief of the task force, Rear Admiral Reynolds, is a talented officer."

"Yes, he is. And what of your other man? The one in the Fourth Vector? Jack Easterbrook? What is his status?"

"He has gained us an alliance for use against the Occitanians," said Bancroft with a stiff upper lip. "We can now count the land of Sorella as our foremost allies."

George started to chuckle. "As you say. Just don't ask anyone to find them on a map as I'm sure we'd all fail."

Bancroft's cheek flinched. "Commander Easterbrook's mission is proceeding according to plan. As we speak, he's on his way to another land where he's confident in securing another alliance. Soon enough, we will have enough reinforcements to help us overcome our traditional enemies."

"Not a moment too soon will it be, especially after the State Department received this just yesterday," said George as he procured a dispatch from his pocket. He handed it to Bancroft, and the admiral quickly scanned its contents.

"From the Ruthenians," gawked Bancroft. "Why, they are seeking to register a complaint about our fishermen poaching in their territorial waters. There are no Javans anywhere close to Ruthenian territory."

"No, there are not," answered George. "But this was expected one way or another. The Ruthenians are hoping to capitalize on our situation while our backs are turned dealing with the Occies. This is the first move. There will be other diplomatic complaints brought in soon in the coming weeks, I'm sure. All of them will escalate until they declare war. They wanted to wait until the Occitanians had our full attention before they plunged the dagger in our backs."

"They picked the most opportune time to do so. We have our hands full already," whispered Bancroft. "I don't think we can fight both of them at the same time."

"No, we will be crushed if we do. Which means we must put a speedy end to this war. That's why the army gets priority right now, Admiral. And that is why we mustn't have any distractions from that priority." George gave him a knowing look, punctuated by a sneer that made Bancroft noticeably uncomfortable.

"No distractions," agreed Bancroft, hoping to turn the conversation away from the course it was heading. He was largely unsuccessful when George produced another dispatch from behind his back.

"Good, then we won't have any more mistakes like this one, will we?" asked George before depositing it in Bancroft's lap. The admiral paled instantly as soon as he saw which one it was, recognizing it as the order where he prioritized a shipment of steel to the ship manufacturers over the transport of the emperor's troops.

"This was a most unfortunate mistake that came out of the Admiralty," said George with a subtle tsk-tsk. "Because of this very order, a whole division was delayed a week from meeting at its assembly point while an entire trainload of steel was sent to the west coast manufacturers. As you know, Admiral, we don't need ships right now. We need soldiers. I'm curious how this mistake must have passed through your department without being corrected."

Bancroft hazarded a glance at the man, holding his look without flinching. He'd have to settle on the right lie, made even more difficult by keeping the gaze of the man he was lying to. Bancroft knew if his lie was discovered, he could lose his head over it. "It must have been one of the lower officers. Such a mistake like this could only have originated there knowing the emperor's priorities."

George sneered before he reached out to crumple the order. "As you say. You'll just have to make sure your officers don't get any further ideas about usurping my father's authority. Or they will be put in their place." He then leaned in closer to Bancroft. "Will you make sure that message is given to your entire department?"

It was clear that George knew the true author of the order, and he was now just toying with Bancroft. There was no doubt in his tone that the message was meant for him. The only question was if George knew, who else did? Could the emperor already know too?

"Of course, Your Highness," said Bancroft in a low voice. "I will make sure they are educated in proper protocol."

"Excellent," said George before leaning back away from him. "I knew I could count on you, Admiral."

"Who else has seen the mistaken order? Has anyone else gotten wind of it?"

George started to chuckle. "As luck should have it, I'm the only one that has seen this malfeasance. If you can promise me that this will be the last time, I see no reason to tell father about this. You and I both know the kind of stresses he's under right now, and he doesn't need to hear about treason within his own navy. Don't you agree?"

"Very much so," said Bancroft. "I think that's a wise course."

"I knew you'd agree," sneered George. "This is why you're the top man in the whole department, Bancroft. You've got a head on your shoulders and something tells me," he said while leaning in and losing the sneer, "you'd like to keep it there."

There were only so many veiled threats he could take in one day, especially from someone like the crown prince. Bancroft nearly snapped. "Is that a threat?"

"No, Admiral. It's merely a statement of fact," said George as he began to step away from the bed. "A simple fact. After all, you've worked so hard to stay in the world of the living that why make it all for nothing? You're a smart man, Admiral. Some would say you're too smart. However, I think it's long past time that you and I came to our own arrangement."

"And that arrangement is?" seethed Bancroft.

"That you now owe me. And one day, I will come to collect. Remember your place, Admiral. You do not run this government, and your voice is one of hundreds that decides the course of this country. Don't mistake your place as head of one department as the head of the entire Javan people. Greater men than you made the same mistake and paid for it with their lives. Don't be one of them."

"I'm fortunate then to have you here to tutor me on the nature of mistakes," said Bancroft acidly. "I'm grateful you decided to see me today."

"And don't forget tomorrow as well," said George as he leaned up against the doorframe. "And the day after that. And every day really until you get your Admiralty back. Because now you'll be spending your entire day in the imperial palace. Where we can keep a very close eye on your department in case we find the source of this wrongdoing. I think it will be a most delightful arrangement. For us," said George with one final tilt of the head.

"I'm looking forward to all the extra time spent in your company," said Bancroft behind gritted teeth.

"As am I, Admiral. As am I. Get well soon, and we'll see you at the palace in a day or so."

Just like that, the crown prince was gone. Bancroft resisted the urge to throw something as soon as he was out of earshot. The glass of water next to his bed looked like a particularly tempting target as did the cap of his uniform. He stopped fighting the urge to react and let loose, tossing the items against the wall in front of him. The glass shattered with a loud noise, immediately drawing a nurse in to try to calm him down. It was of no use.

The audacity of that man to come into his own hospital room and make veiled threats was outstanding. Crown prince or not, Bancroft was one of the only men who could protect Java from invasions, and here he was being treated like a two-bit thief whose hand had just been snatched from the cookie jar. It was completely infuriating.

For so long, Bancroft had looked at the emperor and his weak mind as his primary adversary. It was a battle he was comfortable to fight, knowing his deficiencies and the best places to strike from the shadows. Yet, now he was confronted by the arrival of a new, more deadly adversary. One who had already caught him in his crosshairs and wasn't afraid to let him know. The crown prince was more stealthy than he gave him credit for—more so than you would assume by looking at his corpulent face.

Yet George had now made it known that he would oppose him. And in that moment, he truly became an enemy. That was fine for him and as soon as he calmed down, he realized it was now better to have an enemy out in the open than one hiding behind the curtain. His moves from henceforth would take more caution and would need more planning. Getting caught a second time would not let him be nearly so lucky.

The only question left for him was how to turn the tables on the man who was so ready to play fox with him. How could Bancroft become the fox once more? A small smile started to fill the admiral's face. All it would take was a little more planning.

He would make the crown prince beg for his life for daring to threaten him. He just needed a little bit of time.

*****

They never saw them coming.

Jack supposed that was the point of attacking at night, but there were usually several distinct telltales of an impending attack. Usually a concentration of force at a predetermined striking point was the obvious giveaway. In other times, it could be a pullback of forces to give the impression of weakness before the attack. He'd even heard that rising noise levels could signal an attack, the result of thousands of warriors mentally psyching themselves up for battle.

The attack that evening had none of those signs. It had only been three days since they'd left the fortress city of Septhada after their meeting with High Clan King Vertulis. A meeting that hadn't gone so well. The result of that meeting was the convergence of even more clans, forcing their ragged band of Javans, Muthada, and Numratha warriors back to the coast.

It was all Jack could do to keep the enemy clans from surrounding him. His forces were beset on three sides as they moved toward the coast, hoping to set up a defensive perimeter that could maintain their tenuous foothold on the island while he thought of a way to rescue Kat. Yet as each new day went by and their enemies multiplied, the plan to secure her release was losing steam. He hated to think that way, but the realist inside him had to contend with the facts. There were simply too many Andalucians who were trying to kill them.

Especially in this fight. Blasts of gunfire rang out along their northern defenses as the middle of the line was pressed southwards toward the coast. Those first few bouts of gunfire were scattered and infrequent, a sure sign that whomever had attacked the line had done so with careful disguise. As Jack and Greg led a mobile relief column to the scene of the action, the gunfire picked up with steady frequency.

As soon as they were at the front, chaos reigned all around them. Black-robbed Sciavo were the main attacking force, the first time the slave hunters of Andalucia pressed in an attack on them. For Jack, it was an obvious sign—Vertulis was now fully committed to pushing them out of the country.

The Sciavo had overwhelmed the first defensive trench, a mixed line of Numratha warriors and Javan marines that were all now long since dead, their corpses hanging over the mounds of dirt without animation. In front of them, the Sciavo rushed to fill the trench, their bows firing rapidly in the night at short distances. It was what made the attack so deadly. There was no time to hide once the arrows flew nor any way to see it in the darkness. Men died with no warning, falling where they once stood.

It was a mad way to attack during nightfall, but then again the Sciavo were the warrior elite of Andalucia. If anyone could manage the fickle weapon in such conditions, it was them. And that was only until they got within range of their long, wicked-looking swords. The Sciavo moved too quickly for their bows alone, resorting to the swords when they had closed with the enemy. The blade was dual-sided, designed in such a way to hurt more coming out than going in. Judging by the screams of all the men nearby, it was achieving that purpose.

What was even worse was the second line of Sciavo that had mopped up the survivors of the first wave. This more coordinated band of attackers grabbed the men that were still wounded and pulled them back across enemy lines, many of those wounded still screaming as they were pulled to certain death by their ankles. Jack watched helplessly as several marines, as well as a majority of Numratha, were dragged off by the vicious attackers, no doubt to suffer in their final moments.

"Push them back! Give it everything you've got," yelled Greg as the reinforcements set their position just beyond a low-rising hill and began to fire off sudden bursts into the dark-robed figures. The fiery blasts from the muzzles had a way of lighting up the area, showing them more of the deadly battlefield in front of them. The sheer number of Sciavo was daunting—the Andalucians always preferring to attack in waves and hoping to finish their enemies with their wicked swords.

While the Javans formed another defensive line, the remains of the Numratha at the front had pulled off to one side, retreating to a safer position within which to reform themselves. After creating what appeared to be a mass of men, they once more launched themselves into the fray, their bows twanging in the night as they fell upon the Sciavo's left flank.

The effect was terrifying for the remaining Sciavo in the front ranks. The sudden onrush of Numratha warriors cut them off from their escape route and forced them to concentrate their attention on their ranks, opening their backs to the Javan rifles. It was a terrible mistake that many of them wouldn't live to rectify. Accurate fire poured into their unguarded backs as they wavered for the first time that evening, their attack clearly in jeopardy.

"Jack, let's give them the bayonet," said Greg as he grabbed the small piece of steel attached to the underside of the NT-12. "We can push them back further."

Jack nodded and gestured to the rest of the men. "You heard the major! Fix bayonets!"

Around them, the twenty other Javan marines stopped firing long enough to fix that steel piece to the barrel of their rifle, only resuming their steady fire once it was ready to go. Jack gave the nod to Greg and the major blew a short whistle to announce the start of their attack.

"Charge, men!"

The marines were on their feet in one smooth motion, and they soon picked up momentum as they began to descend down the hill only to come crashing into the backs of the Sciavo, most of them too preoccupied with trying to push the Numratha out of their flank.

It was an absolute bloodbath once they'd closed the distance. The sound of steel sliding into flesh and screams of agony filled the air as the gunfire died off completely. The Javans moved forward like night wraiths, sticking their enemies just enough to get them to their knees before moving onto their next targets.

Jack had long lost count of how many Sciavo had been speared in front of him, only noticing that his entire bayonet was covered with the remains of tissue and blood as he pushed the last of the Sciavo back across the original line.

The attack that had begun with so much promise was now destroyed as the dark-robed warriors sought to keep their only foothold in the camp. Yet, they wouldn't surrender. No matter how far they were pushed back, not one of them raised their hands nor sank to their knees willingly. Even as the odds turned against them, they kept attacking and attacking until their numbers dwindled to nothing.

"They don't know when to give up, do they?" said Greg as he sliced his way through another man.

All too soon, the attack was over only because there remained not a single Sciavo left able to fight. The entire attacking battalion had been killed or wounded, many of them lying motionless on the ground around them. While a small portion of them gave off moans of agony, the majority of the wounded were still either Javan or Numratha, many of them struggling to pull away from the trench for greater safety.

In total, another eight Javans were dead and around sixty Numratha. As Greg organized a new defensive line, Jack pulled back those that were still wounded, arranging for their transport back to the main camp. It was an arduous affair, not only getting them on makeshift stretchers but also deciding whose life was worth saving. Many of those wounded wouldn't live out the night, their injuries so grievous that they would die from blood loss in only a matter of time. Those that they could save were mostly those that had been struck by arrows. The wicked swords of the Sciavo left too severe wounds to possibly be capable of staying alive.

After the wounded had been pulled away from the front, Jack joined Greg and the rest of the men back at the reestablished perimeter line. He found a tense situation as soon as he was back, many of the Javans on edge and the Numratha looking like they were about to jump back into battle.

"What's the problem?" he asked Greg after looking at the men.

"The men that were wounded in the first wave of the attack and were pulled back to enemy lines can still be heard," he said while pointing out into the darkness. "They're being tortured."

Jack turned his attention in the direction he indicated, holding his breath while he waited for the sounds. It took about thirty seconds before he heard the first low moan, the echo coming in waves across the bowled land in front of them. Soon enough, it raised to a scream, audible across the entire length of the front.

Several of the men shifted uncomfortably around the trench, many of them muttering to themselves and looking out into the darkness for something to shoot at. It was unclear just whether it was a Javan or a Numratha being tortured yet the sounds of it carried a shiver up Jack's spine.

"Clan Chief, can we attack them?" asked Samir, his deputy with the Numratha. Samir had been his voice to the rest of the clan, being one of the first men to come over to him after he killed their former clan chief, Yusef. "Surely we can't listen to this the entire night?"

"That's exactly what they want us to do," said Jack while shaking his head. "They want us to leave our defensive positions and carry out an attack. It's not a good idea. There's just too many of them."

Samir's expression darkened. "Those are members of our own clan that are being tortured out there."

"And you have my sympathy," said Jack. "But for the safety of all of those that are left, we must stay here. We're too outnumbered, and attacking in the darkness could too easily let us be separated and slaughtered in detail."

Samir opened his mouth to argue more, but Greg put his hand on the Andalucian's shoulder. "He's right, man. It's not a great position, but we need to conserve our strength. If we can get back to the coast, we'll be safer."

Samir took a deep breath and nodded before storming away. It wasn't hard to understand why he was upset, and Jack felt a very real feeling of helplessness.

"Do you think I lost his respect just now?" asked Jack after the two men were alone.

Greg shook his head. "Nah. He knows you're right. Hell, I'm sure he even knows it's a bad idea. But there's not a man who doesn't go crazy listening to what are basically his friends and family in such terrible straights. I can understand his frustration. For the better portion of my career, I would have done the same thing he'd suggested. It's just that keeping the core of us intact is more important."

Jack nodded. "That was a wicked attack. From the reports, those Sciavo snuck up to the lines completely undetected."

"Sneaky bastards, they are. I guess we rightfully pissed off Vertulis enough for him to want to attack us."

"Our plight here gets worse. We had some hope when we got to Septhada, but now that seems to be melting away."

"We'll find a way," said Greg with a degree of confidence. "We always do, right? No matter the odds, we always find a way to pull through."

Jack chuckled. "I wish I had your confidence right now. It seems the longer we stay here, the worse it gets."

Greg kicked a rock across the rocky, desert floor. "Look at it this way—it can't possibly get much worse than this!"

*****

The next morning, Greg's prediction proved to be very wrong.

Jack only saw it upon his morning inspection of the front lines, having Abigail with him for company. The brunette commander walked to his left side, joining him at the early hour as the sun was just rising. They'd shared the same sleeping bag and woke together, a not uncommon feature to their relationship in the desert country. When Jack had questioned it the last time, Abigail had simply shrugged, noting that death could find them at any time in Andalucia, so why hide their obvious affections from each other? The answer suited him, and she'd been just as inseparable ever since.

At this particular time, they'd come up on the center line that had taken the brunt of the attack last night. Many of the bodies of the dead were still scattered about, almost all of them those of the Sciavo that had fallen. All of the Javan and allied Numratha bodies had long since been pulled back to the middle and buried, a sign of respect for their sacrifice. However, the fallen Sciavo were piled into a large mound, while their weapons occupied a much smaller pile not much further away.

"The lines survived an attack by that many men last night?" questioned Abigail as she gestured to the bodies of the dead men. "There's a few hundred there at least."

"We survived only barely. I don't think that anyone expected that attack so late," said Jack. "It's a good thing we organized that reserve force behind the lines. We were able to quickly lead them to front, and they made all the difference. Without them, they would have destroyed the line."

"That's fortunate for us, but what are we to do when they attack again?" she asked while pointing out to the front lines of the enemy. "It seems like they're multiplying again."

Jack looked out across the plain. After being pursued for the last week by the remnants of three clans, all of whom had already shed blood against him, there were now three more camps to join the existing three. They were arranged in a semicircle, completely hemming them in on three sides and ensuring they could only go in one direction—south.

"That's at least two more clans, and the Sciavo so that makes six," said Jack. "I'm sure they won't be the last ones to arrive either. This is getting more dangerous by the day."

"We need to get back to the Destiny, Jack. We need to get out of this country. If they're going to hound us like this, we don't have the forces to stand up for ourselves. I know that doesn't help Kat's situation, but we can't help her if we're dead."

Jack nodded. "The thought has been on my mind quite often lately. Finding a different strategy or at very least pulling back to the coast to regroup. I don't think we're going to do this with brute force. We need to be more strategic about this, although how that will play out, I'm not sure."

She looped her arm around his. "I'm sure we'll figure it out. We're not beaten yet."

Jack looked at her and smiled. "You're still with me?"

"Of course I am," she said with a slight giggle. "Even if I didn't feel the way for you that I did."

"Oh, and what is that?"

She elbowed him in the ribs and kept walking without explaining further. "Like I need your head to get any bigger. But you have my trust. I know you'll do the right thing. And you have these two clans behind your back who will follow you wherever. And to them, you're this mythical person. This Tur'hafa or whatever it's called.

Jack started to chuckle. "I think it's called Tur'hava. Although I can't tell if it's a good title or not."

"Perhaps one of our allies will be able to tell you," she suggested. "It might not hurt to know just what we're up against."

"I'm due to meet with Abel in a little while," said Jack, mentioning his deputy with the Muthada. "I'll ask him to explain more about it then. Something tells me it can't be good."

*****

"So you want to know about the Tur'hava? I'm afraid you won't like that answer," said Abel a short while later, as they were gathered around Jack's main headquarters. He had requisitioned one of the main tents from the fallen clan chief of the Numratha and used it as the nerve center of his command. It helped to have all his important people in one place as well as performing the simple task of keeping them shielded from the devastating Andalucian sun.

"I still need to know what it is. Both Yusef called me by that title before he died as well as the High Clan King Vertulis," explained Jack. "It doesn't seem to be a derogatory name although it could be an insult. To me, it just seems like something of importance, and that's why I need to know what it is."

"It is something of importance. It's a word that goes back centuries, maybe even millennia," said Abel while rubbing his chin. "I'm not much more familiar with the history of it, but we're told it goes back to Andalucian prophecy."

Jack groaned, remembering Kat and her own pursuit of prophecy. "Not prophecy. I can't seem to escape prophecy lately."

Abel smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Clan Chief. But there are some things we can't escape. Fate is one of them. Andalucians are sensitive when it comes to the divine words of prophecy. It's a spiritual calling that rings out deeply in all of us."

Jack let out a sigh. "Okay, I get it. Keep going though. What does it mean?"

"Going back to the dawn of this country, to the very first clans, there has been warfare. There has been bloodshed. It is the way of the desert. Resources are slim, and only those that are the strongest can survive the hostile environment. The strongest warriors fought each other for access to these resources—water, food, slaves. The smartest warriors figured out that numbers were better off for battles against their rivals, and for that reason, the clan was born."

"You see, in the early stages of our history, we only had the clans. There was no king, and no one with authority over the whole island. Until there was one man who came out from the desert. One man who united the clans one by one."

"Who was that man? What happened to him?"

"He was the legendary first king of Andalucia and his name was Ada. An extremely gifted warrior and a cunning strategist, Ada took on the individual clans and wielded them together until there wasn't a single soul in all of Andalucia who didn't look upon him as clan chief."

"That sounds like the very thing most Andalucians don't want now. They don't want someone uniting the clans, right?" asked Jack.

Abel nodded. "That is correct. Ada was a good king and a wise man at that. He knew that if he could unite the clans and be king, that others could do so as well. Shortly after he was made king, there was a rebellion in Andalucia as another man tried to do the same thing, usurping Ada's power. When he was put down, another rebellion began. Ada knew what he had accomplished was a turning point in Andalucian society. If not stopped, Andalucians would war forever for the crown of the country, far past the point of weakness. He couldn't allow it."

"For that reason, Ada decreed that no one could unite the clans under penalty of death. His crown would pass to his oldest son, Usa, and when Usa expired, the strongest clan chief would become king and in the process, surrender his link to his former clan. The idea was to keep the peace at all costs, making the kingship more of an elected position and trying to stem the warfare for centuries to come."

"Did it work?" asked Jack.

"The prestige of Ada was very great and many in the country could see the damage that was being done by endless war. Several clans had been wiped out in the process. As a way of rejecting infinite war, they accepted his laws and outlawed anyone who tried to unite the clans in the future."

"It sounds like this Ada was a great king," said Jack. "To command that much authority to prevent war."

"He was, Clan Chief. It is for that very reason that so many of the clans are named after him and his son. The Muthada for instance. Sons of Ada in the old tongue. Many of them seek to honor the legendary bloodline of the family."

"So where does this link in with the Tur'hava?"

"After Ada and Usa died, the country was at peace. Sure, the occasional clans warred with each other, but actions involving the entire country were extremely rare. That is, until the Prophetess of Ratha came along some centuries later."

"And who was she?"

"She's the one that came up with the Andalucian Book of Legends. A series of prophecies written on old scrolls, the Prophetess was the first to predict the return of the legendary king's spirit in a new man, one not of Andalucian blood, who would unite the clans once more, stake his claim to the kingship, and change Andalucian society forevermore. The name Tur'hava was given to him, a conjunction of two old Andalucian words—Tur meaning clan and hava meaning uniter. The mythical clan-uniter, the rebirth of our ancient king."

"So you believe that I'm the living rebirth of your first king sent here to unite your clans and change your society forever?" asked Jack with an incredulous tone.

Abel shrugged and then grinned. "There are many here who believe that. You fit the mold of the prophecy so far. If Clan Chief Yusef believed it and if High Clan King Vertulis believes it now, it is not so far-fetched."

"But I thought uniting the clans was a bad thing, Abel. Why would you look forward to this person when your whole society seems to be mobilized against that happening?"

Abel held up a finger. "Only for those that aren't the Tur'hava. The Tur'hava was meant to unite the clans just as his legendary predecessor had. And with that power, he will change Andalucian society forever. This is not a task for any random clan chief to do on his own for he is not the Tur'hava. Only the rebirth of that first king can have such a power over the Andalucian people."

Jack started to rub his eyes. "I feel more lost than ever. I'm just a foreigner in your lands trying to rescue my guide so I can leave here. I didn't come here to seek power or the kingship."

Abel grinned. "Fate works in mysterious ways, Clan Chief. And so far, every man who has bet against you here has ended up dead. Tur'hava or not, the fates surround and protect you. There is much still to be written about your story, and I think only time will tell where it will take us."

Jack remained quiet while he processed those words. It was all throwing him for the same loop that he had when he first listened to Kat talk about Galician prophecy. Was everything in this part of the world governed by the words of prophets? And why did it seem like he was always caught in the middle of it? What could he do to change Andalucian society?

"Why me, Abel?" asked Jack finally. "And what could I possibly do to change Andalucian society forever? I've only been here a few weeks. I barely know anything about your country and your customs. What can I do to change that?"

Abel let out a small sigh. "There are many that would say Andalucia is a backward country. Our way of life—our warfare, our slavery, our simpleness is not the envy of the rest of the world. It is clear that we've struggled with the path we're currently on. In a way, the Tur'hava is the promise of a future for us. It is hope that we can change our society for the better, and there are many out there that will fight for that. Wouldn't you fight to better your homeland?"

Jack nodded. "You can say that's the entire reason I'm out here in the first place."

"It is the same for all of us who carry the heartbeat of their country in their very chest," said Abel. "But I did mean what I said, Clan Chief. The fates will protect you, I know of it. If you are who they claim you to be, you have a large destiny in front of you."

And if I'm not? Does that mean I'll never get off this island? What do I do if I'm not their long prophesied king back from the dead?

The questions drifted through his head for the rest of the day, questions that he never got proper answers for. The only thing he could do was wait and see.

And try to stay alive.