Graveyard of Empires

by Lincoln Cole

  “There’s no crush. She didn’t kill me, and I want to know why. I don’t like being toyed with.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Richard said, chuckling. “I wonder if I was that ignorant ten years ago. I’m thinking yes. Definitely. Hell, I’m probably just as bad now.”

  “How long has the Academy been here?” Jayson interrupted, changing the subject.

  “Six hundred years,” Richard replied. “Give or take. And that’s if you believe all of the stories. I’m a little bit skeptical. Thinking two hundred sounds more reasonable.”

  “Still a long time.”

  “True enough,” Richard agreed. “But until a few years ago it was still a Republic training center. Now it’s Union and belongs to Darius Gray. Bet your crazy chick didn’t tell you that?”

  “Is that going to change things?” Jayson asked. “Like how they operate?”

  “New management,” Richard said. “But otherwise, I doubt it will change much. Maybe the color of our uniforms.”

  “I doubt you’ll wear uniforms,” Jayson said. “But I’m not sticking around. I came here to check that message out. I want to know who sent it and why. I’m not trying to get in.”

  Richard laughed. It was a rich sound, full-throated, and contagious.

  “If you think they’re going to let us leave,” Richard said, “then you’re either wishful or a fool.”

  Jayson blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever told you about this Academy must have left a few things out. When you make the trip to the Academy, it is a trip for their consideration. Whether or not they accept you is irrelevant.”

  “But when I got on the train—”

  “They told you that it makes two trips a week, one into and the other out of the Academy. They never said you would get be on both.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jayson said, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I’m just going as a guest.”

  “We’re all here as guests,” Richard said. “But let me tell you a secret. There are no guests at the Academy. Once you board this train, you’re only leaving one of two ways. The first is as a graduate of the Academy.”

  “And the second?”

  Richard grinned. “In a bag.”

  Jayson let out a sigh and leaned back.

  “Though, to be honest, that’s probably not true either,” Richard said thoughtfully. “I’m sure that if you die they just leave you for the animals.”

  “You’re making this up,” Jayson said.

  “I wish,” Richard said.

  “Then why didn’t you tell that me back at the station,” Jayson said. “You knew, and you still didn’t say anything.”

  “I figured you knew, too,” Richard said with a shrug of his shoulders. “And to be perfectly honest, would it have changed anything?”

  Jayson hesitated.

  “Didn’t think so,” Richard said. He leaned forward and patted Jayson on the shoulder. “Look, kid, if it’s any consolation, I think you’ll do well here. You might even survive a few weeks.”

  Jayson pointedly chose to stare out the window. He considered trying to jump off the train and escape. But he had no idea how to get back to the spaceport, and even if he did there were no ships there. Sure, he could follow the tracks, but that would be an incredibly long trek, and if they caught him…

  And, to be honest, he was fairly certain Richard was lying to him. He’d come out here as a guest, not an applicant. Surely they wouldn’t begrudge him the opportunity to see the Academy and investigate the message the woman had given him?

  Right?

  3

  They finally came to a stop in front of the Academy. It was a sprawling building, only a few floors high, and rather bland. No observable patterns. No outlandish colors. Just uniform gray bricks and wooden beams. A pockmark on the mountainside.

  The seven passengers filed out, dragging bags behind them. The only one Jayson had met was Richard. At the station, he’d introduced himself to one other person: Tricia Jester, a thirty-something black woman with almond-colored eyes and slim figure. She walked with a dancer’s grace and kept a holdout pistol tucked in her left boot. She was somber and quiet.

  None of the passengers were over forty. Expressions varied from excited to apprehensive. And they all, except Jayson, looked prepared for an extended stay. Jayson hadn’t even brought luggage.

  The train only waited long enough for its passengers to unload. As soon as they were clear it kicked into motion again, gliding in reverse back down the mountain.

  They waited, formed into a line watching the doors. After a few minutes, an old man with a cropped gray beard and leathery skin stepped out into the sunlit clearing. He was shorter than Jayson, only a few inches, and squarely-built. He walked with a limp and leaned against his white cane. His clothes were ivory and loose fitting.

  He moved at a glacial pace, stopping in front of them He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose as though in preparation for delivering a great speech.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice wheezy. He tapped his cane thrice against the ground before finally opening his eyes. They opened to slits and he smiled lazily at them. It was a friendly smile; a fatherly smile. “Thank you all for coming.”

  The gathered passengers exchanged glances. Jayson wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this old welcoming party was definitely not it.

  He tapped his cane against the ground again, three times.

  “My name is Desmond Eppard. If I could ask a favor, please leave your belongings on the ground behind you. They will be brought to your rooms during the duration of your stay. Supper has been prepared; something to welcome you after your sojourn.”

  “Thank you,” a few guests murmured. The old man smiled wider, his grey eyes twinkling.

  “You are most welcome,” he said, tapping his cane again and spinning on his heel. It was a graceful motion, unexpected.

  He began hobbling the other direction, using the cane for balance. The seven guests exchanged another glance. They dropped their bags and moved to follow Desmond.

  Jayson was the last to follow, more than a little cautious. The hairs on his arms and neck were tingling. The woods were thick with shadows. Forbidding. Now that they were outside the train, they also felt deeper.

  Standing outside in the clearing alone, he began to feel isolated. He was sure he was being watched, but a quick scan around the area revealed nothing.

  Just because he couldn’t see anyone didn’t mean he was alone.

  The thought scared the hell out of him.

  Jayson rushed to follow the others inside. They passed the threshold into a lavishly decorated antechamber. Symmetrical staircases climbed to the second level. Thick wooden doors ornamented with silver trim opened into an enormous hall in front of them.

  It could hold four to five hundred people if they packed in tightly, but right now it was vacant. Eerily so. The walls were egg-shell white and devoid of decoration.

  Inside the hall were interlocked gray benches, very plain and small in the room. Right now those tables were barren, except one near the center.

  Jayson could smell food as they approached. His mouth began watering and he could feel his pulse speeding up. A packet of peanuts—complimentary on the train—was the only thing he’d had to eat today, and the spread smelled heavenly.

  Desmond sat down first, resting his cane on the bench and easing down. Jayson picked a spot on the opposite side and slid into it.

  An old fan spun lazily overhead. Otherwise the mess hall was quiet.

  “Please,” the old man said with his lazy half-smile. The sound echoed. He gestured toward the dishes and trays spread before them. “Enjoy.”

  Hesitantly, the guests began picking at the various dishes: smoked venison strips swimming in brown gravy, slices of roasted turkey with leafy greens, a thick yellow cream (lemon flavored) poured over cold spinach and kale, a bowl of quartered potatoes bathed in butter and smo
thered with chives, and spiced sausage wrapped in yeasty bread.

  The atmosphere was subdued. At least at first. For drinks there was a pitcher of spiced red wine, a flagon of honey wine, and a sweet green juice that tasted of mangos and passion fruit. There was also a pitcher of water.

  Jayson decided to stick with water. Most went right for the wine.

  It only took a few awkward minutes before the trepidation evaporated from the atmosphere. The food was delicious, everything cooked to perfection. Jayson helped himself to a thick soup with floating chunks of white fish that dissolved in his mouth.

  Silence was replaced with murmuring, the murmuring with conversation. More dishes were uncovered: grilled onions and stuffed green peppers, thick slices of a soft blue cheese, chunks of hard bread fresh from the oven.

  Jayson ate slowly. The ostentatious meal should have put him at ease—if they were planning to kill or enslave him, why feed him first?—but it actually had the opposite effect. What Richard said was weighing heavy on him, and he was starting to feel on edge.

  There were two things that were wrong: first, no one else came into the room. He would have expected a server or attendant at the very least. It was almost night, around supper time, and yet they were completely alone.

  But the more disconcerting fact was that the old man never touched the food. He smiled at his guests, murmured politely when a question was asked, and watched them eat.

  Twenty minutes slipped past. They were gradually becoming more boisterous. Many were red faced from the wine. A few were even drunk.

  Except for Tricia Jester. She was sipping the green juice, eyes locked on her plate. She’s as worried about this as I am, Jayson decided.

  “What’s the game here?” he asked, folding his hands. He stared at the others around him and spoke quietly, in a businesslike tone. It cut through the carousing atmosphere like a knife.

  The conversations died slowly. Everyone exchanged confused glances, eyes settling finally on Jayson.

  He ignored them, focusing instead on the old man. Desmond was sitting at the end of the table, idly stroking the handle of his cane.

  “What game?” he asked wheezily.

  “You haven’t even told us your name.”

  “I did,” the man countered. “My name is Desmond—”

  “I know a lie when I hear it,” Jayson said. He heard a few sharp intakes of breath, but he paid them no mind. “I grew up with liars. I want to know your real name. And while you’re at it tell us the truth. What are we doing here?”

  “You were all invited…”

  “…to tour the Academy. But that isn’t how this works, is it? We’re not interviewing you, you’re interviewing us. So, if you would allow me to return to my first question, I ask again, what is your name?”

  Silence, then, “You have to earn my name,” the man said, his voice hard. The twinkle was still in his eye, but there was something else there now. Not anger. Not exactly. But something close to it. Jayson peered into those eyes and saw the soul beneath.

  He didn’t like what he saw.

  “And how do we do that?” Jayson asked. He kept his voice calm, but his heart kicked up a notch.

  The man eyed Jayson for a few seconds, his lazy smile disintegrating. It was replaced with a feral grin that showed entirely too many teeth. He let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and whispered, “You survive.”

  4

  Desmond was up in a flash, swinging the cane with two hands like a club. It smacked into the jaw of the closest reveler. A short balding man with a ferret’s face. One of the drunkest members in the group. The man collapsed backwards with a yelp, sliding off the bench and thudding onto the floor.

  The long table squealed as it was jerked in various directions across the cement floor. The other six applicants all tried to extricate themselves simultaneously, tripping each other up.

  Jayson slid his legs free and dropped into a defensive crouch. He wished like hell for a weapon. He wished even more that he hadn’t come.

  The old man spun his cane. It whistled into motion toward a drunk twenty-something kid with bulging muscles. The first blow landed on the right shoulder and was followed with a sharp thwack on the left hip. Both blows echoed through the cavernous hall.

  The kid screamed in pure agony, collapsing.

  A drunk man laughed, failing to extricate himself from the table. His foot was stuck under one of the bars. The laugh didn’t last long, though, before the cane whistled in.

  By now the rest were clear. Two people still stood between Jayson and the old man, and he considered making a run for it. He could go for the door before the man could dispatch the others.

  He quickly dismissed the idea, however. Where was there to go?

  Richard Dyson was still up, Jayson saw. He was backpedaling slowly, but he hadn’t turned to run yet. He was apparently having similar thoughts.

  Tricia Jester was standing as well, a look of cool concentration on her face. She held one of the serving trays—a metal one, not plastic—as a shield and was circling, keeping a few meters between herself and Desmond.

  The only other person still standing was a blonde woman with a sleeveless shirt. She was tall and willowy. She had the face of a badger and teeth bared in an ugly snarl. She’d gathered a butter knife from the table and was brandishing it before her. She passed it from hand to hand. Jayson could tell right away that she was an amateur.

  She was the closest to Desmond. He planted the tip of the cane into the ground and leaned on it, staring at her. “Well go on then,” he said wheezily, grinning. “I don’t have all night.”

  She feinted low and then attacked high, going for his neck. She overextended, and even if she’d been stabbing a bag of potatoes her attack would have been little more than an inconvenience.

  Desmond swiped his left arm up to deflect her clumsy attack and swung the cane in a low arc. It collided with her left knee with a sharp crack.

  Her mouth opened, releasing an agonized gasp. She fell to the ground, clutching her torn cartilage. The knife fell harmlessly beside her and the old man casually kicked it away.

  He rolled the cane over the back of his hand and caught it. “I would not recommend running,” he said, pointing the makeshift weapon at Richard. Fifteen meters separated the two men. “Not yet, at least.”

  “What is this?” Jayson asked. There were a few short utensils—all dull, he realized—that wouldn’t do him a lot of good against the cane. He didn’t pick one up; that would be tantamount to issuing a threat.

  “As you said,” the man replied, the smile briefly returning, “It is an application process.”

  “And what if I’m not interested in applying.”

  “Then I’ll cut your throat and leave you to bleed on the floor,” he said. “But that is not the preferred solution.”

  The woman on the ground was still screaming, clutching her broken knee. Without taking his eyes from Jayson’s, Desmond brought his cane down on her forehead in a precise whack.

  The room fell silent.

  “So you’re just going to kill us?”

  “No, of course not,” the man replied. “It is rare that we kill an entire group of recruits. This is simply a lesson. Those four—” he said, nodding at the ground beside him “—had best take it to heart. This is a dangerous place.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now you try to kill me,” the man said, taking a step forward. He tapped his cane against the ground and smiled, his eyes twinkling.

  “Three against one,” Richard cut in. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “You can attack me one at a time if honor demands it,” Desmond replied.

  Richard shook his head. “No, no. I meant not fair for us. Can we call in backup?”

  The old man didn’t respond, just looked at the unconscious bodies around him.

  “How about stretching?” Richard asked. “Can we at least stretch first?”

  The man scowled at Richard. “Does the lio
n stretch before stalking its prey? Does a bird stretch before taking flight?”

  Richard scratched his chin. “So, is that a no?”

  “Fight me,” the man said.

  “And if we don’t?” Jayson asked.

  “Then this will be quite easy,” the man replied.

  Jayson let out a sigh and shook his arms out. Tricia was circling with nimble steps, moving so that they were flanking the old man in a triangle. She had a knife in hand and was using the serving tray as a shield.

  Jayson moved to the table and grabbed a pair of ceramic plates. He thought to dump food off of them but changed his mind. The plates would be difficult to throw and easy to deflect, and flying food might actually be the best distraction he could hope for.

  A few seconds passed and then Tricia attacked. She was quicker than Jayson expected, moving with fluidity and ease.

  Her tray came up as a visual distraction. She anticipated the old man knowing she was approaching and used it to break his line of sight. She jabbed low with her knife, aiming for his thigh.

  The old man waited until the last possible second before countering. He ignored the shield, spinning his cane in a quick deflection. He knocked Tricia’s hand away and launched an attack at her head.

  She ducked away from the attack, leaning at an awkward angle. She quickly stepped onto the bench and skidded her butt across the table to create more distance. The attack missed by inches.

  Jayson attacked. The old man still had his back to him. Jayson stepped in, kicking at the back of his knee. He moved as quietly as possible and grimaced in satisfaction as his kick landed. It wasn’t a clean hit, but even a glancing injury was better than nothing.

  Then he jumped back and ducked, anticipating more than seeing the old man’s counter. A heavy backhanded swipe whistled past, flying right above Jayson’s head.

  And that was just what he was waiting for. Jayson stepped in and threw his plates.

  From such close range he couldn’t possibly miss. He flipped them in the old man’s direction, lobbing them as easy targets. In response the old man brought his cane in to deflect. But Jayson had chosen ceramic plates: instead of batting them away the plates shattered, spraying the entire area with broken ceramic chunks and pieces of food.