Fourth Vector Ch. 31

It was no secret that the second option would be a hard sell to Aedan.

"Absolutely not," said Aedan resolutely, crossing his arms for good measure. "I forbid you to fire on my city."

Greg gave a hollow look to Abigail, who must have sensed his frustration.

"It's about the only chance we have," she said. "If we can clear a path around the harbor, we can keep the Swabian force pinned down. You know we can't stay in this harbor forever and we don't have enough strength to push them out!"

"I'd rather lose Daban than destroy it," yelled Aedan. "This is my city—my capital city! How can I turn your guns loose on my own people? We'd kill hundreds, no, thousands!"

"The Swabians will kill that number alone if we leave the city to them," argued Greg. "We must do something or we need to be prepared to evacuate Daban and leave Picardy!"

"I can't do this right now," said Aedan, throwing his arms up and walking toward the water. Ciara soon rushed after him while Greg gave Abigail a disappointed look.

"We may need to make a decision on our own. Our time is limited and we won't be able to hold the harbor forever."

"I know," said Abigail who then looked over at Kat. Kat had watched the previous interaction without speaking up. "But we can only pull the Javan part of the army. Can we speak for the Carinthians as well? Or the Picards?"

Greg shook his head. "There's not much of a Picard component left to the army after today. By this time tomorrow, we might not be left either. We need to move decisively if we are to save what's left of the army."

All three of them gave a helpless look at Aedan who stood still looking into the waters, his face full of anxiety.

Decisive action from him was going to be hard to come by.

*****

The sound of footsteps received the prisoner's attention, making him snap his neck in the direction of the noise. It was a change in pace from the other subtle noises at Blackgate prison. The most frequent one was the sound of the wind outside. Since Blackgate was located on a cliff far from the rest of civilization, the only companion was the nuanced sound of wind as it battered the building from the sea.

The other constant companion was the creaking of iron. That noise never ceased to send a small shiver down Bancroft's spine, a constant reminder of his current whereabouts.

After all, the game was over. He'd gambled big and lost even bigger. His career was in tatters, as was his reputation amongst the rest of Java's leadership. Despite having the admiration of the people, he was going to spend the rest of his life inside this iron tomb.

He'd already started to lose track of the days that he'd been in Blackgate.

Had it only been a single week? Or more? What was time in a timeless shell?

What also was food to him now? Food was just a means to prolong the agony of life and because of that matter, he'd stopped eating. It would be a victory for him if he died before the emperor was done toying with him, a small face-saving measure that would allow him to recapture a tiny shred of his dignity.

What was left of his dignity was embodied by the shattered rags that covered his thinning body. He wondered how haggard he truly looked after such little time spent in the prison. Would it get worse before the end? Unquestionably.

Yet there was no one to tell him how bad it was. There were no mirrors in Blackgate, out of fear that the shards could be used to end one's life prematurely. There were also no shared cells, depriving the prisoners of one of the most underrated aspects of living—human contact.

That was why the sounds of footsteps outside the dinner hour were so novel to Bancroft—it meant someone was coming to see him.

And the visitor couldn't have been more welcome.

"My god," said Clark as he appeared at the iron bars and received his first look at Bancroft in two weeks. "You look like someone else entirely."

Clark looked almost exactly the same as Bancroft remembered him. The same trusting eyes now viewed him with a lens of disgust that was hard to comprehend. After all, Clark still believed his lie, didn't he? That he had nothing to do with George's murder?

"Clark, so good to see you again." Bancroft hobbled off the cot and set his feet on the cold ground beneath him. Pushing up was hard to do from the lack of food. He was dizzy instantly once he was fully standing, and his stomach rumbled in another gentle reminder of its loneliness.

Clark's eyes continued to appraise him. "I debated whether or not to come see you. I sat on the fence for the longest time. I figured all the time we've worked together meant that I owed you this one last favor."

One last favor? Had Clark turned on him too? The look of disgust in his eyes seemed to go deeper than just his physical condition. That look seemed to reflect the status of his soul.

Perhaps the game really was up? If Clark had really abandoned him, there would be no recourse or readdress.

"I'm glad that you came," said Bancroft, turning on the flattery. "You always were the best deputy a man could ask for. Intelligent, strategic, and of course, devoted." He put the most emphasis on devoted, hoping to remind Clark of all those years loyally served, even when Clark had learned some terrible truths.

"I used to be devoted," said Clark with a stiff upper lip. "I think that devotion was misplaced."

Bancroft feigned confusion. "Why would it have been misplaced? You and I did great things together. We guided this war into the winning position we're in today. Montauban will fall at any time and Ruthenia will follow shortly after. We did great things together," he repeated.

Clark shook his head slowly. "You did terrible things. That's why you're in here, sir. You killed Henrik to make a point and then you did the same thing to the emperor's son."

Bancroft's eyebrow drew in tightly. "I did not kill the crown prince. You and I talked about this already, don't you remember?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore," said Clark. "I know what you're capable of, sir. What you did to Henrik was despicable."

Bancroft found it odd that Clark was still addressing him as sir. Surely there had to be some measure of respect or devotion left within him? Even a small bit of it could be enough for him to sink his tentacles in and manipulate Clark once more.

"What happened to Henrik was necessary," said Bancroft in a calm tone. "You know it as well as I do. The navy wasn't prioritized and the war was being mismanaged completely. What we did was simply reset the conditions of the war into one that we could win."

"I learned to trust you again after Henrik," said Clark with tears in his eyes. "But then you swore to me that you had no hand in the prince's death. You swore to me, sir."

"And I still swear it now," added Bancroft as his hands went around the iron bars. "I did not kill Prince George. Look inside you, Clark. You know that I'm not lying to you."

His words were having an effect on Clark. The man was having a hard time looking him in the eyes.

"How do I know that? You've lied to everyone else."

"But never you, Clark. You're the best deputy that a man can ask for. You alone know everything that comes across my desk. I can't lie to you even if I wanted to do so. I wouldn't do it, Clark. You have to believe me. I didn't kill the crown prince."

Clark sniffled. "Then why are you here? What would put you in this prison if you weren't guilty?"

"Don't you see?" asked Bancroft. "This is the culmination of the emperor's backlash against me. He sees me as a threat so he's trying to remove me from power! This was a political move to counter my influence!"

"Influence that you didn't need," said Clark sullenly. "You're an admiral, not a politician. If you weren't playing politics, this wouldn't have happened."

"I've learned my lesson," lied Bancroft. "Politics is a game that isn't for me, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this cell, Clark. I can't do it. Look at me. I can see it in your own eyes the level I've been brought to. What's going to happen to me after another month? Two months? A year? I'll waste away to nothingness."

Clark sniffled again but said nothing more.

Bancroft put up his most impassioned plea yet. "You can't let them kill me, Clark. Because that's what's going to happen if you leave me in here. I swear to anyone that will listen that I'm an innocent man and I just want to retire. To hell with politics or the Admiralty. I just want to retire and get away from it all. I've tried my best to live a life that was devoted to my country. Why should I be punished just because of one man's jealousies?"

Clark was crying even more now. "You want to retire?"

Bancroft nodded his head. "More than anything."

"The people don't believe what the emperor is telling them," said Clark. "He's trying to portray you as a murderer and the reason behind our initial defeats. They won't believe him. There's been rioting in the streets. The people still shout your name like they used to."

"They have every right to be upset," said Bancroft. "An innocent man has been imprisoned. And an innocent man is going to die if something doesn't happen."

"Something like this?" Clark pulled out a small brass key from inside his jacket. Bancroft's eyes went wide immediately, recognizing it from seeing it before.

It was the key to his cell.

"Where did you get that, Clark?"

"You're not the only one that can be crafty, sir," his deputy answered. "I took it from the front when they weren't paying attention. They didn't seem to suspect that I was coming here to do anything other than to say goodbye to a dead man. I hid it in my jacket and made it over here."

Bancroft's eyes were locked on the key. It might as well have been etched with the word "freedom." There was no more beautiful sight to see it waved about just within his grasp.

But would Clark give it to him? After all that had transpired, would Clark help him escape?

"You have to help me, Clark," said Bancroft as he focused his gaze on his deputy once more. "I can't die in here. I can't. We can't give the emperor that satisfaction."

"The emperor's satisfaction is no cause for your concern anymore," said Clark harshly. "This is the price of retirement, remember? Politics and war have no use for you anymore."

"You're right, Clark. You're entirely right. You've always been right in a way." Bancroft looked back at the key. "All I want to do is to retire to a simple house and live out the rest of my days in peace. I swear to you as my longest friend, Clark."

"You can't go back to your estates," said Clark. "You can't go back to anything resembling your former life. The emperor will hunt us both if I give you this key. We'll be no better than animals fit for slaughter. If I give you this key, we'll have to go into hiding."

"Thessaly," replied Bancroft. "We can go to Thessaly on the eastern side of the continent. No one will find us there. Land is cheap and it's an excellent place to truly disappear. You can come with me every step of the way, Clark. We'll be brothers, you and I. We'll tell anyone we encounter that we are two old brothers who just want to be left alone in a simple house and farm the land until the end of our days."

Tears streamed down Clark's face. "My fate is in your hands, sir. I have to believe that I can trust you. I have to believe that everything being said about you is a lie."

"It is, Clark," lied Bancroft. "But together, you and I can set things right. We can escape from this madness and let them prosecute their own war. All I need is your help, Clark. It's fitting in a way. You've been my right-hand man my entire career. Now, in your right hand, you hold the fate of my life. Will you join with me once again? Will you stop this perversion of justice?"

It was the speech of a lifetime. Bancroft threw every amount of emotion, manipulation, and calls to greatness in front of Clark, hoping that enough points would stick to save his own skin. Any other man might have accepted his fate and owned up to his misdeeds.

Bancroft was unlike any other man alive. He would do all that was necessary to ensure that he escaped this iron tomb.

He just hoped that he could mislead Clark one more time. That was all he needed to escape certain death.

Clark stared back at him for a long time without responding. His expression finally hardened, causing Bancroft to feel the slightest hints of doubt. Perhaps his act wasn't as good as he believed. Perhaps Clark really wasn't as gullible and had drawn the final line in the sand?

Just as Bancroft believed he was about to lose his chance, Clark handed the key to him through the iron bars.

"Keep that safe," said Clark as the key left his fingers. He looked back behind him to make sure he wasn't being watched. "You want to retire? I'll give you that chance and that one only. Stay awake tonight. Pretend to sleep but don't. Wait until eleven-thirty when the shift changes over. I'll buy you five minutes but nothing more. Go down this hallway and make a left turn. Go out the second window and walk along the ledge. Be careful though. It's a straight fall down the cliff if you misjudge."

"Where will I find you when I'm out?" asked Bancroft in a near whisper.

"There's a cabin in the woods two miles south of here," said Clark. "Follow the coast and come in two hundred yards once you hit the treeline halfway in. Walk due south and you won't miss it. Hurry quickly though. They'll be searching for you the second they notice you're free."

"I don't intend to let them find me," said Bancroft with a firm voice.

No, they'll rue the day they thought they could cast aside Percival Bancroft.

*****

The escape couldn't have been easier.

At the appointed time, Bancroft approached the iron bars and listened for the distraction that Clark promised. It came right on time, with loud sounds of gunfire just a short distance away. They were faint enough to pose no threat to the prison but loud enough to disguise the creaking of iron bars. Bancroft slipped the key into the hole and pulled them open.

Freedom welcomed him at his first step outside the cell.

From there, Clark's instructions were easy to follow. The most harrowing part wasn't evading detection, but rather the trip along the edge of the prison. Even in the darkness of night, Bancroft knew one wrong move would send him over the cliff to his death. Thankfully, his footwork was as deft as his manipulation.

He made it halfway along the coast before he heard the sounds of alarms coming from the prison behind him. That only made him run faster. He breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching the woods but he knew that any search parties would be able to track him just as easily there.

Bancroft continued to move in the darkness until he found the cabin. Clark was waiting for him near the front door. He looked happy to see him, as if his trust in faith had been rewarded.

"Are you ready for retirement, sir?" he asked with his heart in his chest.

He was going to be disappointed.

"I'm ready," said Bancroft with a thin smile. "My good friend, you have no idea how happy I am that you're in my life. Come, we must make for the marine barracks outside of Belfort."

The smile slipped from Clark's face quickly. "The marine barracks? I thought we were going to Thessaly? What do we need the marines for?"

Bancroft grinned cruelly. "We have a small detour to make first."

*****

The army of the Tyrolean Movement was doing what it did best—tracking Javans.

For the last two days, Trevor and his men had been chasing after an elusive quarry. Javan soldiers had been spotted moving through the central valley by the network of spies that fed their information to Trevor. Not a real network in a professional sense, but they were ordinary Tyroleans who noticed their treks through their land and made sure that information found its way into Trevor's hands.

So far though, Trevor hadn't been able to catch up with the Javans, which was unusual in its own right. Not to say that the Javans weren't fast, but the Tyroleans were usually faster, moving over ground that was familiar to them. It all gave Trevor an odd feeling, one that he couldn't quite shake.

What was he going to find when they finally caught up with the Javans?"

"Trevor, you got a minute?"

Trevor's thoughts were interrupted only to find his former second-in-command, Gavin Gower, quickly closing the distance between them. With the addition of Nina and Zach to the army, Gavin's duties had changed to being in command of those new rebels which were filtering into their ranks daily. With every skirmish and victory over the Javans, their ranks continued to grow, and Gavin was responsible for turning these backwoods rebels into something resembling a soldier.

"Sure, what's on your mind, Gavin?"

Gavin slowed his walk until he was next to Trevor. He slumped his shoulder to put his rifle sling a little closer to his neck. "It's about all the newcomers lately."

Trevor nodded slowly. He figured Gavin would have something to say about all the men swarming to their banner.

"Are you seeing a problem already?" he asked.

Gavin nodded. "Many problems actually."

"Well, start with the first and let's work our way through them."

Gavin took a deep breath. "For starters, we're getting men from all over the map. I'm actually losing track of some of these towns that I've never heard the name of before and I'm certain I'll never hear again. I think I even heard a couple of Thessalian towns in the mix as well."

"The Thessalians don't hate the Javans as much as we do but I'll still take all the fighters they want to send to us," said Trevor.

"That's the thing though, Trevor. We keep getting men but there's so many differences between them. Half of them don't have proper clothing that will hold up for a week let alone a season. I've seen some serious ranges of weaponry out there. Some have the more modern NT-11s from their service with the Javans but others have NT-10s or even vintage NT-5s! I'm surprised the NT-5s even fire anymore! My grandfather used to keep an antique one mounted above his fireplace! It makes keeping track of ammunition even more hectic."

"Beggars can't exactly be choosers though," said Trevor. "We'll take what we can get but we'll swap out these ancient weapons for whatever we take off the Javans. Lately, we've been able to get a good portion of the force equipped with NT-12s. We'll just have to keep that up."

"That's only one portion of the problem though," replied Gavin. "I know the supply situation is not dire but lots of these men that are coming in aren't exactly soldier material."

Trevor shot a sideways look at Gavin. "They hate Javans and they want to kill every one that we come across. What's not soldier material about that?"

"They don't respect authority," said an exasperated Gavin. "They're militia at most but they're not soldiers. They come here thinking this is just an outfit out for revenge and killing but it's not. If we're going to be an army, we need to have discipline, and most of them don't have it."

"Can they be trained?" asked Trevor. "Or are some of them irredeemable?"

Gavin shrugged. "I'd say most of them have a shot if we work hard enough. But my point is that it's going to take a long time to turn these men into soldiers. I'm not saying the task is above me, but I'm still trying to figure out the best way to do that. I wasn't trained for this."

"None of us were," said Trevor as he shot a small smile at his old friend. "None of us were prepared for the life we now live. Just a few months ago, I was nothing but a shopkeeper and you owned a sawmill. Now we're trying to run an army. It was never going to be easy."

Gavin nodded. "I know you understand that, and I hesitated to even bring this up to you. But I thought it should be mentioned that I think having you address some of these men would be helpful. All of them respect you. Many of them knew your name before they even entered our camp. Listening to you tell them what's expected would go a long way."