Graveyard of Empires

by Lincoln Cole

  The younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”

  “Don’t shoot, Ed!”

  “Let him go!”

  The older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”

  The look that crossed his young partner’s face in that moment was precious: primal fear. It was an expression the Reverend had seen many times in his life, and he understood the thoughts going through the man’s mind: he couldn’t imagine how he might die in this cell, but he believed he could. That belief stemmed from something deeper than what his eyes could see. A terror so profound it beggared reality.

  An immutable silence hung in the air. Both guards twitched and shifted, one in pain and the other in terror. The Reverend was immovable, a statue in his sanctuary, eyes boring into the man’s soul.

  “Don’t shoot,” the guard on his knees murmured. “You’ll miss, and we’ll be dead.”

  “I have a clear shot. I can’t miss.”

  This time, the response was weaker. “We’ll still be dead.”

  A hesitation. The guard lowered his gun in confused fear, pointing it at the floor. The Reverend curled his lips and released, freeing the kneeling guard.

  The man rubbed his shoulder and climbed shakily to his feet. He backed away from the Reverend and stood beside the other, red-faced and panting.

  “I heard you,” the Reverend said. The words were hard to come by; he’d rarely spoken these last five years.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend,” the guard replied meekly. “My mistake.”

  “Bring me to Frieda,” he whispered.

  “You don’t—” the younger guard began. A sharp look from his companion silenced him.

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Steve, we should cuff…”

  Steve ignored him, turning and stepping outside the cell. The Reverend looked longingly at the lash in his hand before dropping it onto his hard bed. His cultivated pain had faded to a dull ache. He would need to begin anew when he returned, restart the cleansing.

  There was always more to cleanse.

  They traveled through the black-site prison deep below the earth’s surface, past neglected cells and through rough cut stone. A few of the rusty cages held prisoners, but most stood empty and silent. These prisoners were relics of a forgotten time, most of whom couldn’t even remember the misdeed that had brought them here.

  The Reverend remembered his misdeeds. Every day he thought of the pain and terror he had inflicted, and every day he prayed it would wash away.

  They were deep within the earth, but not enough to benefit from the world’s core heat. It was kept unnaturally cold as well to keep the prisoners docile. That meant there were only a few lights and frigid temperatures. Last winter he thought he might lose a finger to frostbite. He’d cherished the idea, but it wasn’t to be. He had looked forward to cutting it off.

  There were only a handful of guards in this section of the prison, maybe one every twenty meters. The actual security system relied on a single exit shaft as the only means of escape. Sure, he could fight his way free, but locking the elevator meant he would never reach the surface.

  And pumping out the oxygen meant the situation would be contained.

  The Council didn’t want to bring civilians in on the secretive depths of their hellhole prison. The fewer guards they needed to hire, the fewer people knew of their existence, and any guards who were brought in were fed half-truths and lies about their true purpose. How many such men and women, he’d always wondered, knew who he was or why he was here?

  Probably none. That was for the best. If they knew, they never would have been able to do their jobs.

  As they walked, the Reverend felt the ritual wash away and he became himself once more. Just a man getting on in years: broken, pathetic, and alone as he paid for his mistakes.

  Finally, they arrived at the entrance of the prison: an enclosed set of rooms cut into the stone walls backing up to a shaft. A solitary elevator bridged the prison to the world above, guarded by six men, but that wasn’t where they took him.

  They guided him to one of the side rooms, opening the door but waiting outside. Inside were a plain brown table and one-way mirror, similar to a police station, but nothing else.

  A woman sat at the table facing away from the door. She had brown hair and a white business suit with matching heels. Very pristine; Frieda was always so well-dressed.

  “Here we are,” the guard said. The Reverend didn’t acknowledge the man, but he did walk into the chamber. He strode past the table and sat in the chair facing Frieda.

  He studied her: she had deep blue eyes and a mole on her left cheek. She looked older, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to visit him.

  Probably not since the day she helped lock him in that cell.

  “Close the door,” Frieda said to the guards while still facing the Reverend.

  “But ma’am, we are supposed to—”

  “Close the door,” she reiterated. Her tone was exactly the same, but an undercurrent was there. Hers was a powerful presence, the type normal people obeyed instinctually. She was always in charge, no matter the situation.

  “We will be right out here,” Steve replied finally, pulling the heavy metal door closed.

  Silence enveloped the room, a humming emptiness.

  He stared at her, and she stared at him. Seconds slipped past.

  He wondered how she saw him. What must he look like today? His hair and beard must be shaggy and unkempt with strands of gray mixed into the black. He imagined his face, but with eyes that were sunken, skin that was pale and leathery. Doubtless, he looked thinner, almost emaciated.

  He was also covered in blood, the smell of which would be overpowering. It disgusted him; he hated how his daily ritual left him, battering his body to maintain control, yet he answered its call without question.

  “Do you remember what you told me the first time we met?” the Reverend asked finally, facing Frieda again.

  “We need your help,” Frieda said, ignoring his question. “You’ve been here for a long time, and things have been getting worse.”

  “You quoted Nietzsche, that first meeting. I thought it was pessimistic and rhetorical,” he continued.

  “Crime is getting worse. The world is getting darker and…”

  “I thought you were talking about something that might happen to someone else but never to me. I had no idea just how spot on you were: that you were prophesizing my future,” he spoke. “Do you remember your exact words?”

  “We need your help,” Frieda finished. Then she added softer: “I need your help.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he said: “Do you remember?”

  She sighed. “I do.”

  “Repeat it for me.”

  She frowned. “When we first met, I said to you: ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’”

  He nodded. “You were right. Now I am a monster.”

  “You aren’t a monster,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said. “I am your monster.”

  “Reverend…”

  Rage exploded through his body, and he felt every muscle tense. “That is not my name!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. It made a loud crashing sound, shredding the silence, and the wood nearly folded beneath the impact.

  Frieda slid her chair back in an instant, falling into a fighting stance. One hand gripped the cross hanging around her neck, and the other slid into her vest pocket. She wore an expression he could barely recognize, something he’d never seen on her face before.

  Fear.

  She was afraid of him. The realization stung, and more than a little bit.

  The Reverend didn’t move from his seat, but he could still feel heat coursing through his veins. He forced his pulse to slow, his emotions to subside. He loved the feeling of rage but was terrified of what would happen if he ga
ve into it; if he embraced it.

  He glanced at the hand in her pocket and realized what weapon she had chosen to defend herself. A pang shot through his chest.

  “Would it work?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but a minute trace of shame crossed her face. He stood slowly and walked around the table, reaching a hand toward her. To her credit, she barely flinched as he touched her. He gently pulled her fist out of the pocket and opened it. In her grip was a small vial filled with water.

  “Will it work?” he asked.

  “Arthur…” she breathed.

  The name brought a flood of memories, furrowing his brow. A little girl playing in a field, picking blueberries and laughing. A wife with auburn hair who watched him with love and longing as he played with their daughter. He quashed them; he feared the pain the memories would bring.

  That was a pain he did not cherish.

  “I need to know,” he whispered.

  He slid the vial from her hand and popped the top off. She watched in resignation as he held up his right arm and poured a few droplets onto his exposed skin. It tingled where it touched, little more than a tickle, and he felt his skin turn hot.

  But it didn’t burn.

  He let out the shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Thank God,” Frieda whispered.

  “I’m not sure She deserves it,” Arthur replied.

  “We need your help,” Frieda said again. When he looked at her face once more, he saw moisture in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from relief that the blessed water didn’t work, or sadness that it almost had.

  “How can I possibly help?” he asked, gesturing at his body helplessly with his arms. “You see what I am. What I’ve become.”

  “I know what you were.”

  “What I am no longer,” he corrected. “I was ignorant and foolish. I can never be that man again.”

  “Three girls are missing,” she said.

  “Three girls are always missing,” he said, “and countless more.”

  “But not like these,” she said. “These are ours.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Rescues?”

  She nodded. “Two showed potential. All three were being fostered by the Greathouse family.”

  He remembered Charles Greathouse, an old and idealistic man who just wanted to help. “Of course, you went to Charles,” Arthur said. “He took care of your little witches until they were ready to become soldiers.”

  “He volunteered.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Arthur said. Frieda didn’t correct him. “Who took the girls?”

  “We don’t know. But there’s more. It killed three of ours.”

  “Hunters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael and Rachael Felton.”

  “And the third?”

  “Abigail.”

  He cursed. “You know she wasn’t ready. Not for this.”

  “You’ve been here for five years,” Frieda said. “She grew up.”

  “She’s still a child.”

  “She wasn’t anymore.”

  “She’s my child.”

  Frieda hesitated, frowning. He knew as well as she did what had happened to put him in this prison and what part Abigail had played in it. If Abigail hadn’t stopped him…

  “We didn’t expect …” Frieda said finally, sliding away from the minefield in the conversation.

  “You never do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frieda said. “I know you were close.”

  The Reverend—Arthur—had trained Abigail. Raised her from a child after rescuing her from a cult many years earlier. It was after his own child had been murdered, and he had needed a reason to go on with his life. His faith was wavering, and she had become his salvation. They were more than close. They were family.

  And now she was dead.

  “What took them? Was it the Ninth Circle?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Our informants haven’t heard anything.”

  “A demon?”

  “Probably several.”

  “Where did it take them?” he asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “What is it going to do with them?”

  This time, she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  “So you want me to clean up your mess?”

  “It killed three of our best,” Frieda said. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What does the Council want you to do?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “I’m afraid that it’ll be too late by the time the Council decides to act.”

  “You have others you could send.”

  “Not that can handle something like this,” she said.

  “You mean none that you could send without the Council finding out and reprimanding you?”

  “You were always the best, Arthur.”

  “Now I am in prison.”

  “You are here voluntarily,” she said. “I’ve taken care of everything. There is a car waiting topside and a jet idling. So, will you help?”

  He was silent for a moment, thinking. “I’m not that man anymore.”

  “I trust you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I do.”

  “What happens if I say ‘no’?”

  “I don’t know,” Frieda said, shaking her head. “You are my last hope.”

  “What happens,” he began, a lump in his throat, “when I don’t come back? What happens when I become the new threat and you have no one else to send?”

  Frieda wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.

  “When that day comes,” she said softly, staring at the table, “I’ll have an answer to a question I’ve wondered about for a long time.”

  “What question is that?”

  She looked up at him. “What is my faith worth?”

  ***

  The Reverend—Arthur, he reminded himself; his name was Arthur—sat on the red-velvet chair inside the private jet, high in the clouds and traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour. He felt out of place, sickened by the luxury and ostentation of this trip. He’d spent the last five years living in his roughhewn cell, and it had become his home.

  He missed it, the cell with its lumpy mattress and low ceiling. It had become his sanctuary, a place to hide away from the world. Things had gotten to be too much for him to handle, and the utter simplicity of the cage took away his choices. It took away his free will and his ability to make mistakes.

  Out here in the real world, mistakes were all he had left.

  He looked out the window at the clouds and saw his face reflected there, but this time, it was more like the face he remembered. He’d shaved off the beard and cut his hair, and now he was wearing comfortable and light clothing. It would be cold in the mountains where he was heading, but he didn’t fear the cold.

  The onboard phone started to ring through a little speaker built into his chair. He stared at it curiously for a second and then pressed the green button to accept the call.

  “Arthur?” Frieda asked as she was connected.

  Her voice boomed through the jet’s speakers, causing him to wince. He found the volume controls and turned it down to a more acceptable level. He hadn’t realized just how peaceful his cell had been without loud noises.

  “I’m here,” he replied.

  “You should be landing in just under an hour. We will have an escort ready to—”

  “No escort,” he said. “Just a car. I will travel alone.”

  “You should have someone with you in case—”

  “No escort,” he reiterated, cutting her off once more.

  She was silent for a moment. “Very well,” she agreed finally. “Did you find the supplies I left for you?”

  He glanced at a cardboard box on the chair beside him with a frown on his face. “I did.”

  “I know it isn’t much,�
�� she said, “but I can’t make this trip common knowledge. I’m already pushing my luck with the jet.”

  It was definitely not much: a small caliber revolver, a few vials of holy water, a satellite phone, and a pair of short knives…none of the more powerful implements he’d used while he’d still been a Hunter serving the Council.

  Then again, the one absolute thing he’d learned over the years was that those items had been a crutch. The only true weapon he’d had in his battles against evil had been his faith.

  Something he’d lost long ago.

  “You won’t tell the Council?” he asked.

  “No,” Frieda replied. “They would never approve.”

  “How many of them wanted me dead when I went into the cell?”

  “Arthur…”

  “How many still do?” he asked.

  She sighed. “They are fools for not trusting you.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you’re the fool.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “When you arrive at the airport we’ll have a car waiting. The GPS is already set, and it’s the last known coordinates of Rachael Felton’s phone. It’s up in the mountains out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “It isn’t clear,” Frieda said. “Rachael called us the day before she died and said she and her husband were chasing something powerful, and they said it was time sensitive as though it had an agenda. They picked up Abigail for backup and said they would report back to the Council once everything was taken care of. But they never did.”

  “So you sent a team?”

  “The Council sent a team to check on them,” Frieda corrected. “And when they found the bodies…”

  “You came to me,” he finished.

  “The Council is still debating its next steps. They think Rachael acted rashly by not calling for more backup, and they’re trying to blame this on her. By the time they make a decision it will be too late.”

  “All right, Frieda,” Arthur said. “I’m doing this for Abi. But you need to make sure my cell is ready for me when I get home.”

  ***