Rye's Writings (that aren't The Dungeon King)

[BlueWildRye he/him]

Okay, hear me out, I know I already made one of these, but that was just for one book. I think I made a bit of a mistake there because I've written a lot more than The Dungeon King. So here is another writing thread for the rest of my stuff. Sorry!

This is the prologue from the book I'm writing right now, called The Colonus. It's set in the Byzantine Empire at the start of the Middle Ages.

*warning for violence and mild language

Spoiler

Prologue

Spring, 529 A.D.

Alexandria, Egypt

 The Eastern Roman Empire

 

Pontius lay on the dirt floor, his only comfort being a ripped cloth rag he used as cushioning. Most people used theirs as a blanket, but he had a reason for his deviation. The entire room was filled with slaves just like him, most asleep despite their uncomfortable conditions. The smell was awful, but, of course, Pontius was used to it. Seven years of hard labor, beatings, and poor living conditions, he thought. It was almost hard to believe that he had been a slave for that long.

He carefully sat up, looking towards the one doorway of the slave barracks. There were two guards. One was slumped on the floor, snoring audibly, and the other, while still holding a lit torch, was lounging and yawning. Pontius laid back down, swiping his rag off the ground and transitioning it to a blanket, revealing a barely noticeable, especially in the darkness, patch of fresh dirt. He glanced back at the guards, then began digging with his fingernails. Luckily, it didn’t make much noise, and the one conscious guard didn’t notice as Pontius came up with a small dagger.

He blocked the dagger with his body to make sure it didn’t glitter in the light. He still wasn’t sure how he’d taken it without getting caught. Fortune had favored him on the day when he’d grabbed it off the ground where a soldier had unknowingly dropped it. At any rate, the guards had made a mistake tonight.

Tonight, Pontius was going to escape.

A strong wind blew through the slave barracks, blowing open the flimsy wooden doors and causing some of the slaves to shiver and whimper. The guard who was awake cursed as his torch was blown out, sending the already dim room into complete darkness. Pontius watched his silhouette walk out the doorway to try and relight his torch.

He rose to his feet and carefully stepped over sleeping bodies, cautious not to wake anybody else. Within a minute or two, he had made it to the edge of the sleeping slaves, nearest to the door where the guards were. He flopped down on the ground and feigned sleeping, tucking the knife underneath himself as the second guard returned, torch alight once more. He cocked his head at Pontius, but didn’t seem to think too hard about it. He was tired, and would certainly miss any small oddities. That was another mistake on the guard’s part.

Pontius waited impatiently, heart beating in his ears as loud as a drum, although he knew the guard wouldn’t hear it. Finally, the second guard nodded off, holding the torch in a somewhat precarious situation. Pontius stood up a few minutes later, standing over the two guards. He clutched his stolen knife in one hand, knuckles white in the firelight.

He slit their throats. The bastards deserved it anyways, he thought as he discarded the bloody knife and rifled through their possessions. After pocketing a few coins, he grabbed one’s sword, a short but deadly gladius, then took the torch and stepped out the doorway. He paused for a moment to look at the starry night sky, spotting Ursa Major and Cancer.

Pontius shook his head, then threw the torch up onto the straw roof of the slave barracks. The straw there immediately caught fire, the flames spreading across the roof quickly. He stepped back, nodding. This would provide enough of a distraction for him to escape, he was almost sure of it.

He ran off into the fields that he was forced to work each day as people began to shout from afar, and scream from within. Just as he made it to the edge of the field, looking over his shoulder to see the blazing building behind him, he jumped as another light began moving towards him from a distance. As it got close, it revealed about a dozen soldiers carrying spears and torches, obviously going towards the fire. Pontius ducked down behind a tree. He himself carried no lights, so as long as the guards didn’t go to the other side of the tree…

“Hey! What’s that over there?” a guard yelled. The rest of the soldiers save for him and two others continued moving, but the other three started walking towards Pontius’ hiding place. Pontius thought for a moment, then climbed up to the lowest branch of the tree and waited for the guards to come closer.

“I don’t think anything is here, Basil,” one of the guards said. Pontius stifled a snort at the Greek name. It sounded stupid.

“I could have sworn I saw something, Septimus,” the first soldier replied.

“It was probably a critter of some kind,” the other guard, Septimus, dismissed. Basil nodded, but stared up into the tree, trying to discern if anyone was there. He shook his head, and began jogging away towards the other soldiers.

Pontius hesitated, then jumped out from the tree branch, landing on the ground right behind the guard, gladius drawn. The bough was low enough to the ground that he didn’t break any bones. Basil spun around, crying out as Pontius rushed him, stabbing him under his arm and into his heart.

He screamed and fell, and the other two guards turned on Pontius. He smiled grimly again, then blocked one’s attack. The other one shouted for reinforcement, but cut off as his legs were sheared out from underneath, and he shouted in pain, falling to the ground. Pontius stabbed him through the neck, then raised his bloodied sword towards the remaining soldier, Septimus.

Spear met sword, and Pontius was locked into a parry. He used his free hand to punch the guard in the face. He wheezed, then cried out, then silenced as his head dropped to the ground, body following a few moments later.

Now, where is the river, Pontius thought, squinting his eyes as he tried to discern through the darkness. He heard voices from behind him, and so he ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction of them. “FIRE IN THE SLAVE BARRACKS! ESCAPED SLAVE!” someone yelled. Pontius glanced over his shoulder and saw at least three dozen soldiers rapidly approaching, weapons raised. They still didn’t know his exact location, luckily.

He continued running, then cursed as the ground gave out from under him and he rolled down a sandy hillside. He shot up, not caring to brush himself off, then noticed that his sandaled feet were wet. He squinted again, and realized that he was right on the river bank. He looked at the night sky again, then began running northwards.

After a few minutes, and after having hid from the soldiers a few times, he stumbled across a reed boat that he had crafted for himself the other day. He pushed it into the water, jumped in, grabbed the oar he had left, and began rowing down the Nile. He would be back, of course, to kill his former masters, but for now, escaping was his primary goal.

And in that, he had succeeded.

 

[BlueWildRye he/him]

Chapter 1 for The Colonus!

Spoiler

Chapter I

Mid-Summer, 530 A.D.

Bathonea, near Constantinople The Eastern Roman Empire

 

Galen Bardanes grunted as he harvested another sheath of wheat with his sickle. The hot sun beat down on the back of his neck and his plain, short sleeved tunic. Bathonea was, like most places around the Mediterranean, always warm and sunny.

He tossed the grain into his wooden cart, then, seeing as it was full, he hauled it to one of his brick silos, where he dumped it through a hatch in the side.

Galen was a colonus, not quite a slave, but not quite a freeman. He himself worked for Demetrius Angelus, a noble on the wealthier side who owned several estates on the outskirts of the town of Bathonea. Angelus had been trying to catch the eye of Emperor Justinian for the past three years since his coronation, but Galen had a feeling that producing the most grain on the west side of Rhegium Bay wouldn’t help much in achieving that goal. Galen, having finished dumping his grain into the silo, pushed his wheelbarrow back into the fields to continue working, legs feeling like lead weights and hands feeling like rocks.

Eventually, every load was a boulder, and the distances he had to walk weren’t acres but miles. Sometimes he’d make it to the edge of another field, where he’d wave at another colonus before they both wiped the sweat from their brows and continued working. The labor was intense, but Galen needed to do it to survive, after what had happened to his father. He scowled as he thought of that, and tried to push it out of his mind. Thinking poorly of the emperor could lead to treason, which meant certain death.

If anything, Galen felt he should be grateful. Some coloni weren’t allowed to leave their master’s lands. Or worse, he could have ended up as a slave with no freedom at all. At least he had his own house and field, and he got to keep a percentage of the food he grew.

 

When the sun was high in the sky and beads of sweat covered Galen’s body, he decided to stop for lunch, walking for some time down the gravelly paths separating Angelus’ fields to an open area where several other coloni were laughing and chatting together. Oddly, there was one that he didn’t recognize, a man with a build thinner than any other colonus he had seen. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he glanced at Galen before resuming his conversation.

Galen’s friend Paul handed him a loaf of flatbread, which he gratefully accepted, saying a quick prayer before eating. The middle-aged man had callused and worn hands, with a square jaw and faintly blond, almost white in color, hair. 

“Who’s that?” Galen asked, pointing to the newcomer.

“John? He’s new here,” explained Paul, “Won’t say much about himself, and seems a little awkward with the rest of us, but I’m sure he’ll warm up eventually.” Galen nodded, and didn’t speak any more on the subject.

They spoke with the others for a few minutes, before stepping back and looking out towards the horizon, where golden hills rose in the distance.

“You know,” Paul began, “I’ve been hearing a lot of rumors lately.”

“Rumors, you say,” Galen replied flatly. “Is the Empress being unfaithful again?”

“No! Well, yes, but that’s not it,” Paul explained. “See, from what I’ve heard, His Majesty Justinian will be riding through town in a parade of some sort within a few weeks.” Galen tried not to let his expression dampen too much at the mention of the emperor’s name. “Anyways, I was thinking, how amazing would it be if we saw the emperor! I’ve never.”

“I have,” Galen said with some discomfort. I’ve even spoken to him. He didn’t say that last part. “But it’s really not that special of an occurrence. He did one a couple years back, just after his coronation, too. Weren’t you there?”

“No,” Paul grumbled, “I was working double time because I slept in that day. Lord knows how upset I was when I got to the street right after he had left.”

“Huh.”

“Anyways, that’s all I really have to say on the matter,” Paul said. “I’ll make sure this time that I don’t miss it. I’ll tell my wife to remind me.”

“Well, is that all you have to say?” Galen asked hesitantly. Paul usually had at least two stories to say; one simply wasn’t enough for him. As Galen guessed, Paul perked up at that.

“No, not at all! I have something very interesting to share. See, this strange man from Egypt arrived by ship the other day.”

“That doesn’t seem so special…” Galen said.

“Well, the thing is, they say he’s an escaped slave. Did you hear what happened in Alexandria a year ago? An entire estate, razed to the ground, from what I’ve heard.”

“Obvious exaggerations,” Galen dismissed, “Although I do wonder how he was on that ship without being caught. Probably a castaway.”

Paul shrugged, seeming not to have anything else to share, so Galen, having finished eating his meal, began walking back to his field.

 

As the sun set, Galen decided to head into town instead of going to his house immediately. Some coloni couldn’t leave their master’s property at all, and of course Galen couldn’t travel too far for too long, but they were allowed to enter Bathonea if they returned by dawn.

Bathonea was called a “small city” by some, but really it was just a large town, an appendage of Constantinople. Brick houses lined cobblestone streets, urchins sat in dark alleyways, begging for food, and plenty of artisans and merchants had shops set up, although many were closed for the night. 

Most of the other coloni came here to drink and seek entertainment, but Galen preferred the peaceful nature of the docks at night. During the day it was filled with ships, traders coming from across the Mediterranean to show their wares. Indeed, there were still several of them floating in the waters, although not as many as during the height of the day.

Galen slid out of his sandals and sat on the wooden dock, letting his feet dip into the cold waters of Rhegium Bay. He breathed in the salty air of the sea, and let the fog envelope him. Far away, beyond the fire of the lighthouse which guided the ships to port and barely visible in the mist, the walls of Constantinople rose.

He sat there for a few minutes, bowing his head and reciting a prayer.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Galen tried to spin around, but fell straight into the freezing waters of the bay. He gasped and swam to the surface, teeth clattering as he waded in the water. He clambered onto the dock, shivering. What was that? He looked around, and saw a silhouette standing a few meters away, nearly invisible in the fog.

“Who are you?” he asked, putting his arms around himself in an attempt to warm up. The figure stepped closer. Galen shuffled backwards, careful not to fall into the water again.

He expected to see Paul or Paul’s wife, Zena. Maybe even Demetrius Angelus himself, although he didn’t know why his master would come looking for him personally. Instead, he was surprised to see a man in fine robes standing with his arms behind his back. It was difficult to make out his features exactly in the darkness, but he looked vaguely familiar.

“Who are you?” Galen repeated.

“I am John Palamas,” the man said. “And you are, if I am correct, Galen Bardanes, the colonus?”

“How do you know my name?” Galen asked hesitantly. His hand went to his side, but there was nothing there. There hadn’t been anything there for four years.

“I’ve done some research,” John Palamas replied. “Follow me, if you will. My employer would like to meet you.”

Research? Galen thought, on a random serf? It didn’t make sense. He was tempted to leave and go back to his house, but something was intriguing about this man. What did he want from him?

“Well, are you coming?” Palamas asked. Galen hesitated, then nodded, and followed the strange man into the fog.

 

He was led to a somewhat small building near the docks, with brick walls and tiny, boarded up windows. Standing in front of the wooden door was a single guard wearing an iron helmet, gleaming in the light of the small oil lamp he carried on one hand. In the other, he bore a wooden buckler with the paint seemingly scratched off. His spear was leaning against the wall beside him.

“Is this him?” the guard asked.

“I believe so,” Palamas replied, “But we’ll see.”

The guard pushed open the door and beckoned the two inside. Galen cautiously stepped into the building, realizing what he was doing. No one would care if a lowly colonus was suddenly murdered. He turned to look behind him, where John Palamas stood, not making any move to attack. Galen exhaled slowly, then looked around the room.

The ceiling was low, and the interior of the building was mostly dark save for a long wooden table in the middle, dimly lit by a few wax candles. There were a couple of empty glasses on it. Sitting at the end of the table was a man wearing a deep purple, mantle-like cloak with a hood that obscured his face. That must have cost a fortune, thought Galen. Violet dye was considered a luxury by most, only worn by the emperor and the wealthy.

“Ah,” the hooded man said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Galen.” He threw off his hood, revealing a tanned, handsome face with a dark, short beard and keen green eyes. “You may call me… Pontius.”

 

[BlueWildRye he/him]

Because I haven't finished Chapter 2 of The Colonus, here are the first three chapters of another book of mine, A Tale of Tragedy Inn!

Spoiler

Chapter 1

 

I grabbed onto the mast as the ship rocked. Behind me, the quartermaster, Gregory Arnfeller, shouted, “Get below deck, Dan!”

I took a step forward, but slipped on the deck, which was wet from the heavy rain. I landed on my stomach, the impact making me wince. Arnfeller was a few feet in front of me, standing in front of the door leading below deck. The middle-aged quartermaster waved me over. In the distance, lightning struck.

“Quick, there’s not much time left!” he yelled. I began to crawl towards him, rain pounding against my back. I ignored the splinters puncturing my loose shirt, the loss of one of my boots. Finally, I made it to Arnfeller, who helped me to my feet. He nodded, and we rushed below deck.

Down there sat the rest of the crew, and at their head was Captain William Heimer. His cold eyes turned to us. “A shame you weren’t lost to the storm, Daniel.” His words made me cringe, but I maintained my posture. Finally, the cook, Morris Barnon, stood and asked, “Would you like some soup?”

I nodded, and took a seat near him, Arnfeller following. Barnon handed me a bowl of cold broth with bits of fish bobbing about within, and I brought it up to my mouth to eat. Another violent shake of the ship brought the soup splashing onto my face, and I coughed. Barnon and many of the other sailors laughed, and Heimer glared at me. Arnfeller cleared his throat.

“If I may ask,” he said, rubbing a hand through his greying hair, “Who will man the ship in this storm?” Captain Heimer glanced at the helmsman, John East. East was a very old man, older than Arnfeller, and the tip of his long white beard was dipped in his soup, although he didn’t seem to notice. East looked up, studying Heimer.

“If my captain wishes,” he said in his hoarse voice, “I will steer the ship.” The cabin boy, Lawrence, started. He was only a few years younger than myself, at the age of 15.

“Mr. East is old and frail!” Lawrence protested, “He will surely fall ill from exposure to the rains!” Heimer put a hand up to silence the boy, saying, “So it will be. But we must find a place to land, and soon.” It was then that it came to me that I did not know where we were.

The Callahan had left port nine days prior, heading for London to export some cargo. I had never been on the high seas before and had eagerly joined the crew. However, the captain had taken a dislike to me immediately, perhaps because of my inherent uselessness.

I assumed that we were somewhere near the coast, whether it was that of mainland Europe or the British Isles. But I really did not know.

East stood up and set his bowl of soup down on his chair. He walked over towards the stairs, and Lawrence jumped up, saying, “No, Mr. East! You’ll die out there!” The old man turned, and smiled, then disappeared up on deck.

 

Chapter 2

 

It was a dreadfully long time of the ship rocking back and forth, water leaking through the ceiling and dripping onto our heads. I didn’t know whether East was alright or not, but the ship felt like it was moving, so I assumed that he was doing his job.

I finished the rest of my soup, and stood up to go to my cabin, when suddenly I heard a shout from above deck. A few of the sailors, including Barnon, Lawrence, and Arnfeller, leaped to their feet and ran to the stairs. Heimer simply shook his head, and stayed where he was. I decided to join my friends and see what was going on.

Just as I ran up onto the deck, a great wave crashed onto the ship and knocked me back. I fell and rolled over to the other side of the ship, grabbing the railing to steady myself. I looked around. There, at the wheel, East had fallen, and he was bleeding in the head. The other sailors rushed over to help the old helmsman, and I began moving to him as well, trying not to slip again.

Arnfeller lifted his senior companion up, and said, “Lawrence was right. We should have let him stay below deck.” Barnon nodded.

“Unfortunately,” the cook stated, “Our captain is an utter-” he was cut off as the ship rocked again, waves splashing on deck. I looked behind the crew, and noticed a large shape in the distance. Land!

“Land ho!” I shouted, pointing to where I could now make out rocky cliffs, “Land ho!” Arnfeller put a hand over his eyes and surveyed the area. He nodded, and took the wheel. The rest of the sailors led East down below deck.

It was then that another wave, even more massive than the others, crashed onto the deck, knocking Arnfeller and I down. The ship began to tip to the side, and I yelped as I slid to the railing once more. The ship was capsizing!

Arnfeller got up and shouted some words that were lost in the storm. Heimer climbed up onto the deck, followed by the rest of the crew. The captain yelled, “Abandon ship!” A few sailors lifted rowboats and tossed them into the water, then scaled the ship’s hull to get into them.

Heimer began to move towards the deck, but a wave slammed into him, and he fell into the water. A few sailors jumped down to save him. Arnfeller leaped into a boat, and I climbed up, looking over the railing, which was growing closer and closer to the water. Arnfeller and Barnon, sitting in one of the boats, waved for me to jump. I made a leap of faith… and landed in the boat. It rocked slightly, and Arnfeller grabbed the oars, beginning to row to shore.

A couple of the sailors who had jumped into the water to save Heimer clambered into our rowboat. “Is the captain okay?” I asked. They shook their heads. “Drowned,” they replied. I shivered, although the cold, heavy rain may have influenced it as well.

Our rowboat crashed against the shores of whatever landmass we had landed on, and we jumped off onto the sands. Nearby were the tall rock cliffs I had seen earlier. The other three rowboats landed a moment later. Most of the sailors had survived, even East, although he was unconscious, and breathing heavily.

The only casualty had been our captain, Heimer. Lost to the sea. I examined our surroundings, and saw the shape of a building up near the cliffs. “Over there!” I shouted. Barnon replied, “It looks like an inn! Perhaps we can stay there!” 

We began trekking up the hill. Barnon was right, it was an inn. The building was sturdy, and a wooden sign hanging by the door, creaking back and forth in the wind, read:

The Tragedy Inn

The name was an odd one, and Barnon muttered, “Well, that’s ominous.” Arnfeller pushed open the door, and we shuffled inside.

 

Chapter 3

 

The Tragedy Inn was surprisingly very comfortable. There was a brick fireplace in the back of the room, although the fire was sputtering and slowly dying. There were a few wooden tables about, and a bar was on one end of the room. I jumped as I realized that someone was standing at the bar!

She was a woman around Arnfeller’s age, with long grey hair, streaked with brown. Her eyes were silver, and they stared right into my soul. She spoke up. 

“My name is Morrigan Circe. Welcome to the Tragedy Inn. Would you like anything?”

Barnon sat down at one of the chairs. “Got anything to warm us up?” he asked. Morrigan nodded. 

“Simon, Ana, fetch these guests some food.” Two children, a boy and a girl, poked their heads out from the bar. They whispered something that I couldn’t hear, then went into a room behind the bar. I sat down at the tables, as did the other sailors. We laid the unconscious East down by the fireplace.

In a few minutes, we were viciously chowing down on warm fried fish and soft, fluffy loaves of bread. Lawrence stayed at East’s side, glancing at him worriedly. The innkeeper, Circe, walked over and examined the old man.

“Does he need any assistance?” she asked. Lawrence nodded quickly.

“Get him some tea, or something, please!” he exclaimed.

“Very well then,” she said, and sent the young children to fetch some tea as well. She walked back to the bar, but as she did, her eyes fell on each of us, one by one. I cringed, but she didn’t seem to pay attention to me for too long. When she looked at Arnfeller, however, a strange light came across her eyes, and she seemed to grow taller and darker.

It passed immediately, and Circe stepped behind the bar once more and began flipping through a book. I glanced at Arnfeller.

“What do you think that was about?” I asked. The grizzled quartermaster looked around.

“I don’t know, Dan, but something seems off about that woman. I feel like… I recognize her…”

“Her last name’s Circe!” Barnon chimed in, “Like the witch from mythology! And don’t forget the fact that the inn is called Tragedy!”

“Lower your voice,” Arnfeller replied. The cook shrugged. Another sailor, Graham Lombardel, spoke up in his place, changing the subject.

“What do you reckon we do?” he asked. “Heimer’s dead, our ship’s at the bottom of the sea, and this innkeeper is acting very strange. Why is there even an inn here?”
“I have no idea,” the quartermaster answered. “This isle is on no map of mine. I’ve even sailed this route before, when I was younger… my memory fails me.”

I nodded carefully. Perhaps after he was comfortable in a soft bed would his memory return.

 

[BlueWildRye he/him]

Alright, here's The Colonus chapter 2.

Quote

Chapter II

 

The cloaked man, Pontius, gestured for Galen to take a seat at the table. Galen eyed him suspiciously, but reluctantly obliged, sitting down in one of the chairs. He had mostly dried off from when he’d fallen into the water, but his clothing was still damp. Behind, the guard closed the door again.

“Did you dump him into the bay, John?” the cloaked man, Pontius, asked with a snort.

“He fell in out of surprise,” Palamas replied, “It was amusing to watch.”

He walked over to a nearby door and disappeared into another room, leaving Galen alone with Pontius.

“What do you want from me?” Galen asked bluntly.

“Straight to the point, I see,” replied the cloaked man. “I like that. There are too many idiots from the nobility who try to weave their way through conversations with lengthy, meaningless words.” Says the man with an expensive purple cloak, Galen thought, but said nothing.

“I have heard of your story, Galen,” Pontius continued. “You are a colonus, a serf, am I correct?”

“Yes…” Galen answered slowly.

“But you are unlike any other colonus,” the cloaked man said. “Your father—”

“How do you know about my father?” demanded Galen. Pontius nodded towards where John Palamas had gone. I’ve done some research, he’d said.

“Anyways,” Pontius said, “He was falsely accused of murder near the royal palace, and was executed.” Galen stiffened. “The man who gave the order was a consul related to the emperor at the time, his nephew, in fact. His name was… Justinian.”

“How?!” Galen shouted, standing up. “HOW do you know all this?! WHY do you know all this?!” Pontius stood up as well and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Keep your voice low. We wouldn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation,” he said firmly. “I promise that we are not here to harm you in any way. You are a man with a noteworthy story, not worth the labors of slavery.”

“I’m not a slave,” Galen replied.

“So you joined the colonate of your own free will?” asked Pontius with a chuckle. “No. Your family was charged so much money you were made destitute. You were forced into the colonate simply to keep a roof over your head and a meal to eat.”

Galen growled softly, then sat back down. John Palamas finally returned from the other room, carrying a bottle of wine. He poured himself and Pontius a cup, then looked to Galen hesitantly.

“It’s not poisoned,” Pontius said, taking a drink of his. Galen glanced at his cup, then nodded and allowed Palamas to fill it. He reluctantly sipped it. He hadn’t had anything this exquisite in ages.

“You’re an odd man,” Galen said. “I’m not sure what to make of you.”

Pontius laughed. “I’m just like you, Galen. But instead of letting myself be worked near to death every day, I broke my chains and rose. Are you going to allow them to do the same to you?”

The pieces snapped together inside Galen’s head. “You’re the man from Alexandria,” he realized.

“Clever,” Pontius replied, “Yes. I am. Day and night, I was beaten and forced to labor until I finally brought justice to my masters and escaped. Have you figured out that my dear accomplice John  was with you even at the height of the day?”

“What?” Galen asked. He turned towards Palamas, who stood nearby sipping his own wine. He smiled. In the candlelight, his features were a lot more visible. A light brown, neatly trimmed beard, fair skin, thin build. Change out of his lavish robes and into the plain tunic and trousers of a peasant, rub some dirt onto his face, and he would look exactly like the colonus Galen hadn’t recognized earlier that day. He narrowed his eyes at the man. How had he even done that?

“I realize that I haven’t explained the purpose of our meeting yet,” Pontius said. “Galen, you do know that Justinian is going to be riding through Bathonea in a couple weeks, yes?”

He didn’t use the proper title for the emperor, Galen noticed. “Yes,” he said, “My friend told me all about it.” He glared at John Palamas again. “But really, I don’t see the importance in it.”

“Well, this one is going to be different. My reports tell me that something unexpected will happen during his little parade. From the likes of it, an… assassin.”

Galen did a double take, eyes widening. An assassination attempt on the emperor? “Why are you telling me this? Why not go to His Majesty instead?”

“Tell me honestly, Galen,” Pontius replied, “Would Justinian ever listen to a mere peasant like you or I?”

“I…” Galen began, “I suppose not. Still, it begs the question of why you’re explaining all this to me. Don’t tell me you want me to stop this assassination attempt…” He paused as Pontius smiled faintly. “You’re joking,” he said flatly.

“Oh, no, this is no joke,” Pontius stated. “Galen Bardanes, I am asking you to help me prevent the assassination of Emperor Justinian.”

Galen stood up from his chair again, stepping back. “WHAT? You want me, of all people? I’m just a farmer—lower than that, a serf. And, of course, my loyalty to the emperor isn’t noteworthy; as you have already mentioned, my history with him is not a happy one.”

“And yet, those are the reasons I sought you out.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Galen noted.

“It will, in time,” Pontius said, smiling once more. “Will you take the job?”

“I’m going to need more information first,” Galen responded. “Am I getting paid?”

“Enough gold to fill the belly of an elephant,” the cloaked man affirmed, “And the personal praise of the emperor himself. I will tell you more once you agree to work with me.” Enough gold to fill the belly of an elephant… Galen thought. He didn’t care what the emperor thought of him, but the riches… With that much money, he could leave the colonate and buy his own house. Not just that, he’d be one of the wealthiest citizens of Bathonea!

“Well?” Pontius said.

“I’ll take the job,” Galen decided. They shook hands.

“Just remember this, friend,” Pontius noted. “If you fail, and the emperor dies… All of the Eastern Roman Empire will be thrown into chaos.” Galen inhaled sharply. “But, I promise you will not be alone. I, of course, will assist you. Galen, we will meet again tomorrow morning. I will explain the details then. For now, you may leave. Sleep well.”

Galen nodded, walking towards the door. Of course, I won’t be able to meet with him tomorrow morning, he thought, I need to work. John Palamas opened the door for him, smiling faintly and politely as always. Galen turned around one last time, glancing at Pontius, then stepped out into the foggy streets of Bathonea once more.

Edit: Whoops I accidentally put it into a quote box instead of a spoiler, but that's ok

Edited July 7 by BlueWildRye

[BlueWildRye he/him]

The Colonus Chapter 3:

Spoiler

Chapter III

 

Galen did not sleep well that night. He laid in his bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about what had happened. He, a mere colonus, was supposed to stop an assassin from plunging the Eastern Roman Empire into darkness? It was impractical at best. He barely even had any combat experience. What’s your game, Pontius? Why me? Finally, he managed to fall asleep.

In the morning, he woke up as usual and washed his face in a stone basin, then slid on his sandals and opened the door. He was greeted by a man in white robes, a servant of Demetrius Angelus.

“Good morning, colonus,” the servant said, “You are exempt from work today, as authorized by your master, Demetrius Angelus. This request has been paid for by one Isidorus Caloe. Do you have any relation to him?”

Galen blinked in some surprise. “No… I’ve never heard of him.” Which is probably because this “Isidorus Caloe” is an alias of Pontius or John Palamas. 

“Very well then,” the servant replied, “It is not my place to question people, not even my… inferiors. Goodbye.” He walked away, towards the large villa that sat on a hill some distance away. Galen watched him go, sighing. That Pontius really does have everything planned out, he thought, I suppose the only thing I can do today is go to their meeting.

Galen walked through his field of grain and past the clearing where the coloni usually met up. There was nobody there of course; at this time most of the coloni would be laboring in their fields. Finally, he entered the streets of Bathonea once more.

As it was around mid morning instead of late evening, the town was far more crowded. Dozens of townsfolk gathered around the market stands that had been closed the night before, but now had all kinds of merchants showing their enticing wares. A thin black cat with bright gold eyes chased an ugly rat down an alleyway, children played in the streets, and dogs begged for meat from the butcher.

Galen shuffled through the crowds, feeling only mildly overwhelmed from the amount of people. Typically he was used to working alone on his farm for most of the day, then talking with a few of his close friends and fellow coloni. Here, he was surrounded by more human beings than Demetrius Angelus’ entire colonate. He tried not to let that bother him as he made his way past the market.

He passed a church, where a priest called people to worship. Galen was tempted to go inside. He hadn’t prayed in a church in a long time. But he had to keep moving, so he reluctantly kept walking towards the docks, which were just as packed as the market. He grunted as a short man wearing prisoner rags slammed into him and nearly knocked him over. The man quickly jumped back to his feet and began running westward as fast as possible with crazed, widened eyes. Galen shrugged and continued striding to the house on the docks where he had met with Pontius the night before.

The guard wasn’t there, and when Galen tried the door, it was locked. Odd, he thought. He tried to look through one of the windows, but of course, it was boarded up. He pulled on the door one more time, then sighed and began walking away. So much for the meeting, I guess.

A hand clasped Galen on the shoulder, and he jumped back, spinning around. “Palamas,” he murmured. The thin man smiled in return.

“I am sorry for the confusion, Galen,” John Palamas said. “We could only meet in this building last night. All future meetings will be held near the cistern. If you would follow me there…”

“The… cistern?” asked Galen.

“Yes.” Palamas gave no further explanation, so Galen hesitantly followed him from the docks and through the streets until they reached the enormous cistern near the middle of the town. It was a beautiful sight, although not nearly as grand as the one in Constantinople. Each brick had been individually stamped with the word “Constans” in small print.

John Palamas walked around to the side of the massive building, carefully scanned the area, then, seeing as there were no other people nearby, twisted open a hatch in the wall. It revealed a long, dark tunnel of which Galen could not see the end of. The faint trickling of water could be heard inside.

“Well?” Palamas asked. He pulled a lamp out from his robes as well as a small flask of oil, pouring it into the lamp and then lighting it.

“You first,” Galen said. Palamas nodded and ducked through the entrance. The small flame that he held in his hand cast an orange light on his face. Galen stepped through after him. The inside of the cistern tunnel was cool compared to the Mediterranean heat outside, and it seemed to extend into the darkness forever.  To the side of them was a small stream of flowing water, which reflected blue ripples onto the brick walls. Palamas replaced the hatch, covering the daylight behind them.

“How are we going to get out?” Galen asked.

“There are more ways than that,” replied Palamas calmly.

They walked down the tunnel for a time until they saw another light in the distance. As Galen and Palamas got close it illuminated a small wooden table and three chairs. Pontius sat there, wearing his deep violet hood as always. He was sharpening a sword, a long and deadly spatha, idly, feet on the table, and smiled broadly when he saw them. On the wall nearby was a blazing torch, the source of the light.

“It is good to see you again, Galen,” he exclaimed, voice echoing in the long tunnel. “I trust that you slept well last night?”

“Not too well, Isidorus Caloe,” Galen replied, sitting down in one of the chairs along with John Palamas, “How am I supposed to stop the emperor from getting murdered?”

“You did accept my offer, Galen,” Pontius noted, “You agreed to this. Anyway, I will get to your question in a moment. As for Caloe, well, we needed to do something to make sure that your labors as a colonus wouldn’t get in the way. John and I are quite fond of our aliases.”

“I’m going to have to keep working eventually,” Galen said, “Angelus wouldn’t let my field wither and die.”

“That will also be dealt with,” Pontius replied, “Soon. Anyway, I will go over everything in greater detail now, if you like.”

“Alright. So, the emperor is in danger of assassination,” Galen said.

“Yes. In two week’s time, Justinian will ride through the streets of Bathonea. During this parade, an assassin will attempt to sneak up close and stab him, or hide somewhere and shoot him. The assassin, or at least the person behind the assassination, is a very shadowy individual. He is known only as… “Caracalla”.”

“It seems kind of ironic that he was named after a Roman emperor, and his target is one,” Galen remarked. Pontius snorted.

“Just look at your own namesake, Galen,” he replied, “As far as I know, you’re no physician. At any rate, he’s been involved in various crimes in Bathonea for some time, but is still relatively unknown to the common people. If you’re wondering how I know about him and the plot in the first place, my informants have given me substantial evidence.”

“And of course, we have to stop this Caracalla from killing the emperor,” Galen said. “Well? How do we stop him?”

“John and I will train you in everything you need to know. You should become a skilled spy and fighter before the day of the parade.”

“I’m pretty good with a sword,” Galen mentioned, then immediately regretted it. Pontius raised an eyebrow.

“Really? How?”

Galen sighed, then reluctantly spoke. “I was training for the army before I became a serf.”

Pontius smiled. “Another point in your favor then, Galen. You already have some combat experience. However, I’m sure you’re a little rusty after so long without holding a sword. That, I think, should be the first thing we train you in, before we move on to archery and disguises.” The cloaked man jumped up from his chair, sheathing his sword, which he had finished sharpening. “Up now, Galen! We will begin your training today. There’s a place in the monastery where we can practice.”

“How do we get out of here?” asked Galen. Palamas nodded towards a wooden rowboat bobbing in the water, tethered to one of the chairs. Galen hadn’t even noticed it.

John stood up and doused the torch, then climbed into the boat with Pontius. Galen followed.

“We’re leaving the table?”

“It’ll still be there when we return for future meetings,” John Palamas replied, “So you needn’t worry.”

Pontius untied the rope, then grabbed the oars and began rowing them down the dark canal. Finally, they came out from under the cistern to a small stream that would eventually connect to the Bathynias river. They hopped out, and Palamas heaved the boat out of the water.

“I’ll take this back,” he said. Pontius nodded.

 “Galen and I will be at the monastery,” he replied, “If you need us.”

John left, hauling the boat behind him.

“Now,” Pontius said, “To the monastery.”

 

[BlueWildRye he/him]

I have finished The Colonus Chapters 4 and 5, but I'm going to put something different here, a short story I wrote almost a year ago. It's called Awaken Me, and is a somewhat different style from my other books. Warning for self-harm.

Spoiler

Sam exhaled as he dropped another log of firewood into his unlit campfire. The night sky was completely black, no moon, no stars. He shivered from the decreasing temperature and wrapped his coat around him. In the distance, a distorted howl sounded, and Sam reached for his hatchet, but thought better of it.

The world is a horrible place, Sam thought as he took out a lighter from his pocket and began making sparks. Nothing is right, nothing is normal. All things normal and right ended a month ago. The teenage boy took a seat by the campfire and felt its warmth as the flames reached for the black sky. Of course, he had to stay in his tent during the day, when the heat became unbearable, the sky a reddish-grey haze. Sam came out at night. Unfortunately, so did everything else.

He stood up and opened a chest that contained the food he had smuggled out of the city the other night. It was still good. Sam munched on a cracker and stared into the fire, his head filled with thoughts of the world before it had ended. His family’s light blue painted house on Delgadillo Lane, with a pretty green front lawn, and a white fence. His kind, sweet mother, who had always supported him. His stern, tall father, who had been an operator at the nuclear power plant. His younger sister, innocent and playful. All of which, all of whom, were gone. Gone to the apocalypse.

Sam fed another twig to the fire, sighing. He would see them again, as the red sun rose. His mind would never let him be at peace. When Sam slept, he saw the world as it had been before it had ended, teasing him, taunting him. Waving his past life before his eyes. He would never have it back. Only in his dreams.

He couldn’t let himself be enveloped by his visions. If he did, he feared that he would lose himself. He would lose his sanity, the one thing he had left. And he could never lose that. His dreams weren’t real. His family was dead. The world was destroyed. Sam was the only survivor. At least, the only survivor who still retained his humanity. He shuddered as he remembered the groaning bodies lying in alleyways, the shambling mutants of the cities. The wild was no exception. Ravenous, bloodthirsty beasts roamed the wild. Sam was lucky to have survived this long.

The sky began to lighten, and Sam quickly put out his fire. He closed and locked his food chest, gently setting it in a ditch, which he filled with dirt. Can’t afford to attract a bear. Sam briefly looked towards the horizon as it became light enough to see. The ruined city was there, half-destroyed skyscrapers looming in the distance. The nuclear power plant where his father had once worked spewed radiation and smoke into the air like an ominous volcano.

Sam made sure that his tent was properly camouflaged, covered in leaves to give the impression of being a pile of them, then stepped inside and zipped the opening shut, then latched it. He turned on the battery-powered fan next to his sleeping bag. Strangely, the batteries had never run out of power. Sam crawled into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he was still able to sleep, but he could. In a few minutes, he had fallen asleep.

 

Sam stepped out of his room, sighing as he recognized the familiar inside of his house. As always, he was back. He walked down the hall and sat at the dining table, watching as his mother, her brown hair in a bun, smiled and handed him a plate. Pancakes with maple syrup. “What day is it,” Sam said, his voice unemotional as he grabbed his fork and poked at his breakfast. 

“Why, son, it’s July 16th. You should say goodbye to your father!” his mother replied. Sam nodded. Oddly, his dreams were continuous. It was always the day after the last in his visions. It didn’t matter. This was all fake. He knew it. The sky wasn’t blue, it was reddish-grey. The sun didn’t shine, and the plants didn’t grow. Only in his dreams. His fake dreams.

“You’re dead. You’re all dead. The world has been destroyed,” Sam muttered as he tasted his food. Too sweet. Food shouldn’t have flavors.

His mother simply shook her head, saying, “Teenagers,” as if that explained everything.

Sam’s father walked out, straightening his tie. Mr. Daniels was a very formal man, at least, he had been. 

“How do I look?” he asked. 

“Amazing, honey,” Sam’s mother replied.

Sam looked back down to his plate. “The disaster is your fault, Dad, at least partially.” The words slipped out of his mouth with ease. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. 

“Son, for the last time, there is no “disaster”, we’re all living, and you should go outside and get some fresh air,” Mr. Daniels replied, “You haven’t seen your friends in a while. Jerome and Eric, right?” 

Sam’s friends. His father was right, he hadn’t hung out with them in his visions. It was already torture enough to have to see his family, his house, teasing him, taunting him. He had no desire to see his friends too.

He didn’t say goodbye as his father kissed his mother on the cheek, stepped out the front door, and left for work. His mother frowned, and stated, “Well, Sam, if you won’t see your friends, you should at least spend time with your sister. Raleigh will be in first grade soon, and you won’t see her for most of the day! You yourself will soon be an eighth grader!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam replied. He scooted his chair back and stood up, not caring to take his plate to the sink or to push his chair back in. 

“That’s not a request. That’s an order,” Mrs. Daniels commanded. 

“Fine,” Sam replied. He opened the door to the backyard and walked out onto the porch. He scowled as rays of sunlight shone onto his form. Why did it have to be this bright? Sam closed his eyes as his bare feet touched the rough grass, and he felt the pain as the blades cut at his feet. Good. There should be pain. If there was anything in this vision that was real, it was the pain. 

He opened his eyes and saw his sister on the swings. Raleigh looked at him and smiled. Sam maintained his emotionless expression. 

“Sam, you always act so depressed,” his sister observed, “why?” 

“You’re dead. Everyone’s dead. This isn't real. You aren’t real.”

Raleigh simply rolled her eyes. “If I weren’t real, I would know.” You say that, Sam thought. Not seeing any more reason to be outside, Sam walked back into the house, back into his room, and lay in his bed for the rest of the day. This is fake. My real family died a month ago. The world ended then. This is just my brain teasing me. He couldn’t stop the visions. So he waited for it to end. He waited through the sound of his fake father pulling up into the driveway, through his fake mother calling him for dinner. He pulled the blankets over his eyes as his parents opened the door and bid him goodnight. Then the door closed, and the room was filled with darkness again. Good riddance, Sam thought.

“Awaken me,” he said aloud. And awaken he did. 

 

Sam stepped back out into the apocalypse, sniffing in the smoky air. The sky was still light, but it was darkening. Good. I have enough light to help me in the city. Because he knew that it would get dark before he left, however, he grabbed an unlit torch. He checked his satchel, then swung it over his shoulder. Finally, he clutched his hatchet in his hand, then set off for the looming city, the fortress of death.

Unfortunately, he had to pass through his old neighborhood. Sam sighed as he walked past abandoned houses, windows broken, doors hanging by their hinges, roofs caved in. It looked as though nobody was there anymore. Sam knew better than that. 

He finally began to hear the groaning. There were multiple voices, he knew. The calling corpses were just one of the many features of the cities. He passed one, moaning on the ground, dead eyes facing the sky. He shuddered and moved on. 

After what seemed like forever, Sam made it to his destination. He lit his torch as the sky turned black, and squinted in the darkness. There, he thought. The gun store was a dangerous location, filled with mutants, but Sam was prepared. Snuffing out his torch, he opened his satchel and threw a rotting piece of deer meat onto the road, then ran into the alleyway, listening as he heard grunts, roars, and rushed footsteps. Sam poked his head around the corner. If not for the store light, Sam wouldn’t have seen the four monstrosities that were fighting over the meat, each trying to get to the meal. They were tall, at least seven feet, and their skin was cold and grey. Sam winced as one sliced at the other with its long, sharp claws, drawing brownish-grey blood. Then, taking a deep breath, Sam jumped through the nearest window. 

He landed on the other side, ignoring the pain as he rolled into a shelf full of rifles. His heart began to beat faster and faster as he saw a mutant with long tusks and red eyes standing right on the other side of the shelf. The monster sniffed the air, eyes widening with excitement as he smelt Sam’s flesh. Sam quickly jumped up, hatchet brandished, and hacked at the creature’s arm. It shrieked, a long, distorted, horrible sound, and grabbed at Sam, its murky blood spraying onto Sam’s shirt. The boy cried out as the mutant’s claws wrapped around his arm. It can’t end this way, it can’t end this way, it can’t- A claw ripped through his chest, and he gasped as the mutant dropped him to the ground. I’m dead, thought Sam as he lay on the floor of the gun shop, watching as the monster stared at him. What’s going on?

The mutant turned and left the shop. Sam lay there, confused. How am I not dead? Why did the mutant leave? He felt his chest, where there should have been a bloody hole. There was nothing. Sam stood up and grabbed a rifle off the shelf. He found a magazine of bullets and loaded the gun. He couldn’t ever remember learning how to shoot, but somehow he could. He looked out the door and saw the first four mutants lying dead in the street, the fifth one, the one that had supposedly killed Sam, ravenously devouring the hunk of venison. 

The mutant thinks I’m dead, Sam thought, If he sees me walking around, he’ll make sure to finish the job. Sam was still confused at how he had survived getting impaled with the claw. Maybe it’s something similar to how the calling corpses work, except I’m still alive, he thought, Or perhaps I breathed in too much radiation, and I’m mutating. Sam looked down at his skin, but there wasn’t even the slightest tinge of grey.

He aimed the gun at the mutant and fired. There was a loud crack, and in a moment there was a fifth body lying on the road. Then, Sam re-lit his torch and hurried off into the night, back towards his camp.

 

It was raining in his dream, which was surprising because it was supposed to be summer. Sam scooped up a bit of his cereal with his spoon. “What day is it?” he asked.

“Son, you’ve asked that question yesterday, and the day before. In fact, you’ve been doing it for a whole month! It’s July 17th,” his mother replied, sighing. Just checking to see if the dates are consistent, Sam thought in his head, None of this is real, although if I notice that the dates are wrong, then I can further prove so. 

Mr. Daniels walked into the dining room, although he wasn’t wearing his operator outfit.

“Shouldn’t you be going to work?” asked Sam with a hint of annoyance.

“It’s a Saturday, Sam,” his father replied. Great, Sam thought sarcastically.

“Son, we need to talk,” Mr. Daniels stated in a concerned tone. 

“Shoot. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. This is all fake.”

His father sat down at the table across from him, saying, “That’s the problem, son. You’re taking this whole “disaster” thing too far. You spend most of the day locked in your room. You barely talk to us, and when you do, all you talk about is how “nothing is real”. Son, it’s affecting your mental health.”

“Mental health?” asked Sam, snorting. “This is a dream, Dad. You’re not real. You’re dead. You all are. You were all killed in the disaster.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Sam,” Mr. Daniels pointed out, “You keep saying things like that, but they aren’t true. It’s okay to pretend, for example, when I was your age, I used to pretend that I had a vampire girlfriend. But you can’t let your teenage make-believe get in the way of your life.”

Sam’s mother nodded. “We’re thinking about taking you to a psychiatrist,” she suggested. Sam shrugged.

“Whatever; I’ll still wake up tonight to the smoke and ashes of the apocalypse.”

So he allowed himself to be led out the door and into the car. Droplets of rain splattered onto the windshield and dribbled down the windows as the car drove down the street.

 

The doctor looked over Sam worriedly. “There is something wrong inside your head, Samuel,” he said, scribbling words onto his clipboard.

“So what?” asked Sam, “Of course there’s something wrong inside my head! I’m somehow dreaming about the world before it ended!”

“No,” the doctor contradicted, “Rather you are dreaming about the world supposedly after its end. Describe it to me one more time?”

Sam begrudgingly did so, and after he did he exclaimed, “I’m telling you, it’s the real world! I’ll wake up tonight and forget all about this! Look!” He grabbed a knife and sliced his own wrist. The doctor’s face turned from concern to alarm as warm red blood began to flow down Sam’s arm. The psychiatrist shouted for a medic as he pushed Sam out the door and into the hall. “It doesn’t matter!” Sam yelled, “I could do more than just that! I could kill myself, and nothing will happen, because the human brain can’t comprehend death-” He stopped. The human brain can’t comprehend death… He remembered the mutant’s claw tearing through his chest, the fact that he hadn’t died, the fact that there had been no wound. “Oh my god,” he murmured, feeling his bleeding wrist. “This isn’t fake. This is the real world. The… the apocalypse… It’s not real, isn’t it…” 

“I see that you’ve finally come to your senses, Samuel, although I would like to remind you that you just seriously wounded yourself,” the doctor observed as he pulled Sam into another room. Sam let the medics bandage his arm, a feeling of shock overcoming him. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The fan that had never run out of batteries. The fact that the store lights were still on, even though the power had gone out. The fact that Sam had known how to shoot a gun even without training. “My life… it’s ruined…” he muttered. 

“Not your life,” the doctor retorted, “Just your summer. You’re lucky this happened before school, or else maybe your life would have been ruined.” As Sam’s family rushed through the door, Sam leaped up and embraced them, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” he cried, “You’re not dead. You’re real. God, you’re real!”

“Of course we are!” Raleigh replied, “If we weren’t, we’d know!”
“My friends, Jerome and Eric,” Sam said, “Call their parents. Tell them that I want to hang out. I’m going to cherish this summer, and all the summers afterward.”

 

The End