Under a blackened sky and the shimmering light of the silver moon, a bearded commander in decorated armor stood on the city’s wall.
He saw the enemy raise their ladders. Their hateful forms scurried on the wood; archers fired from stony towers and struck some of these, but others took their place. Spearmen and swordsmen clashed with the horde over shouts and sounds of iron. He stood at a distance, his own sword in hand. The commander appreciated the heroism of his men—but there were multitudes of them, and so few who fought for the Basileus.
He was about to join the battle when a voice whispered in his ear. “Autokrator,” it mournfully intoned, “the fleet has not come.”
The Autokrator now felt himself cast down in spirit. But he knew he needed to be firm—for himself, his men, and for the Basileus.
Turning to face the messenger, he saw a disheartened young man in black robes, his face partially obscured by a hood.
“What then,” he responded, “has come of the auxiliary force from Adriania? Are they close to engaging the soulless Corrupt?”
The messenger’s somber look did not falter.
“Their march has been halted. I am unsure of the cause, sire.”
Defeat? Treachery? Were those not the only two possibilities? the Autokrator wondered. But he thought it best to keep this word to himself.
“Does my father know?” the Autokrator asked.
“No, my Autokrator,” the messenger replied.
“Go then, messenger, to the Basileus,” the Autokrator ordered. “And tell my father that I expect to see him in the Light.”
The messenger gave a nod, and hurried to the stairs.
Looking again towards his men, the Autokrator gave a loud shout and joined his wearied contingent, who were becoming increasingly felled by the man.
…
The messenger ran through the cobbled streets of Phos Phokarion. Around him, the people either attempted to flee or huddled in the darkness. The usual sounds of prayer, laughter, and chatter in these vast areas were now replaced by cries of despair, injury, and death. In this chaos, these inhabitants acted more as though they were tortured shades than living men in their frenzy, sometimes even blindly ramming into him.
Passing through the Great Forum, he was unnerved to see it devoid of orators or merchants. Only a meager company of soldiers populated it now. Old marble monuments detailed with reliefs of victorious legions and the venerable domed basilica alike stood as silent witnesses to an age of peace now interrupted. The Imperial Palace was in ruins, its painted columns scattered beside the debris like fallen trees. Red tile roofed dwellings plastered in white—whether large or humble—were no longer lit by hearth’s warmth, but by the flames of the Corrupt. Like fabled meteors, flying boulders flew above him, and unmade more of the city that had for a thousand years awed all nations.
All this nearly broke the messenger, who had only known the fleeting goods of the past and mere rumors of the Corrupt. Now he knew them in reality. Now their vicious invasion—which began in the borderlands—reached the very capital of the Empire. Yet he pursued his aim—stopping beneath a worn-out gray edifice, he pushed aside a door that squeaked eerily, as if complaining of its age. Within the narrow confine that greeted him, lit only by scant torchlight, he found the proper row of steps and descended to the hallowed catacombs.
Many sainted men of the elder days had been buried here; and in passing, the messenger saw their skulls, surrounded by candles, in hollowed out spaces of the rock. Throughout the dimly-lit labyrinthine passages, a number of women and old men gathered with children, praying and comforting each other. Those that noticed the messenger eyed him briefly and silently.
He soon came upon an opening in this maze, where he found the imperial retinue. He saw the white-bearded Basileus Phos, the Basilea Antonia—both clothed in purple—and Prince Phos, who was still a boy, and their solemn guards. Wife and child surrounded the tired man, evidently attempting to console him. The messenger felt apologetic for interrupting them; but his eyes met the Basileus, who motioned for the two armored swordsmen to allow him entry.
“Messenger, what do you bring to me in this dire hour?” the aged man asked.
“Basileus,” the messenger said, bowing to the floor, “your son, Agapétos the Autokrator, is leading his honorable warriors in combat with the forces of the heinous Corrupt.”
Adding after a tremulous pause, he continued, “He expects to see you soon in the Light.”
“You may rise,” the Basileus said.
Raising his face, the messenger saw a sorrow—but one that did not overpower, but was soon overpowered—by an expression of hope.
As if reading the messenger’s awed reaction, the Basileus declared, “I do not despair of losing my son in this life, neither of my sons-in-law and daughters, who are absent fortifying imperial cities. Logos has consoled me—and consoled me more, with insight into the future. And you are to hear it.”
“I—I am?” Apostolos stammered out.
“Yes, my loyal servant. Hear this word,” he pronounced.
“Phos Phakarion—the glorious city of my fathers and our people—will fall, and indeed our Empire will fall. My wife and I shall remain here, and soon shall we join Agapétos in the Light.
Those that flee the oppression of Tyranous and the Corrupt to the lands of the Hesperian kings will suffer in large part the same malefactions as those who decide to remain; but Logos has not forgotten our nation.
For my son beside me is to restore all that the unmakers will unmake—and will attempt to unmake. More than this: he shall reunite our domain with the West, and banish the Corrupt to the lands beyond the Gates of Phos the Conqueror from whence they came. But before this shall come to pass, he will escape this city. As will you. For you, though you know it not now, possess a virtue of subtlety. That is why you shall lead the party of survivors. You shall find refuge on a shore unknown, where you shall guide him and our people. New foes and friends you shall meet: discern wisely, for all is not yet written.”
The Basileus paused, and gestured with his arm that his prophecy had ended.
Apostolos was struck, even to the point of humiliation, by such portents.
Who was he, he thought, to be raised to such a high honor?
But as he stood in front of the venerable man, he sensed the fear of his vocation dissipate. He did not even need to ask the Basileus for reassurance. Nor did he need to ask him how he might fulfill his part. He saluted the Basileus, and motioned for the weeping Prince, who embraced his parents for the final time, to follow him.
…
Joined by a portion of the survivors, Apostolos and the Prince emerged out of the catacombs. And, running through the road, they came upon the Great Forum. The company of soldiers was still there.
“Under orders of the Basileus, you are to follow me!” Apostolos shouted to them.
They obeyed. And then Apostolos went about with his party, and similarly called the lost men, women, and youths he could find on the cobbled streets to follow him. They too obeyed. Priests were found throughout the turbulent ways, and while some obeyed in the Basileus’ name, others saw it fit to obey what Logos desired for them—martyrdom. As with those in the catacombs who decided to remain, Apostolos did not argue against this, for they were called to witness. Thus the party that began with two grew into a party of several hundred.
As boulders continued to be hurled into buildings near them, scattering dust and debris, the band hurried to the Southern Harbor, or the Harbor of Phos the Valiant. It was the point from which Apostolos had arrived into Phos Phakarion, and he knew it to be the optimal choice for the escape. For while the Cothon of Ioannes was indeed easier to defend, its narrow point of exit would make it far more difficult for his party to successfully flee the ships of the Corrupt. He led his people down the stony steps, as each footfall seemed more weighty than the last.
Was it because he was the bearer of a glorious fate? Was it because of the exhaustion of his bones? Was it because of his love of this City—his City—and what this love weighed upon his heart?
All these possibilities presented themselves to him. And in all of them he recognized truth. Looking over his shoulder to the struggling souls behind him, he recognized a similar weight written upon all their faces. The one face in which he saw the most resemblance to his own disposition was that of the Prince, whose tearful eyes had given way to a fierce determination.
Continuing to the dock, Apostolos and his party were met with sailors with their captains and a band of guards. Behind them stood a number of ships, a motley gathering of warships and merchant vessels. Calling to them, they confirmed that were in waiting—and so Apostolos ordered them to prepare the small fleet for sailing.
No sooner than this was done, there was a scuttling upon the steps…all present heard it, and knew what it meant. Arrows flung from bows fired by pale undead digits struck some of the party down. Yet their bodies were not abandoned—they were pulled inside, for all had heard what the Corrupt did to the bodies of men.
Several guards were armed with bows, and returned arrow for arrow. A number of the lightly-clad skeletal forms were struck; they fell to the ground in apparent agony, and foul were their cries. All the people hurried onboard the vessels, and they set out to sea.
Unopposed upon the waves, they passed beyond the twin lighthouses that marked the high walls of the harbor. Though relieved, in the distance of the benighted sky all present saw a terrible sight: Tyranous, the dreadful dragon, as he swept down from the air and engulfed Phos Phakarion in flames with his accursed breath.