CHAPTER 15
~Date Unknown~
Conqueror's war caravan advanced southward, carrying with it an important piece of cargo - human cargo, the last artist for a thousand miles. As Captain had promised, the pace was merciless - easily twice that which Storyteller could manage on his own, if not faster. On the rare occasions they halted their advance, it was for only a few brief minutes to gather supplies before returning to the road. On those stops, Storyteller was set free to take care of his needs, but he was all too aware of the guards watching him every second he was outside. After the first few days, he began to wonder if he had escaped a sure death only to face it again in some new prison. If nothing else, his new captors gave him enough liberty to work on his project - the long days on the road provided ample time to review and edit the contents of his notebook, to add annotations, and to reflect on his own experiences.
One morning, Storyteller was roused from his sleep by a powerful hand shaking him with great force. Willing himself out of sleep, he rolled onto one side to see Captain leaning into the hatch. "We have arrived."
Gathering his belongings, Storyteller stepped out into the sickly ocher sunlight. All around them was a great desert stretching miles in each direction, a desolation so utterly slain that it made the rest of the wasteland look Edenic by comparison. But it was what sat before the cart - the sole landmark in the midst of that terrible desert - that caught Storyteller's attention.
Captain stood beside Storyteller, a hand resting on his shoulder. "Welcome to Pinnacle."
Even in his short time he had spent in the Illinois wastes, Storyteller had heard no shortage of tales about Pinnacle. Every traveler spoke in hushed tones of an empire in the middle of the Shivan Desert, the land that nature had long ago abandoned to the iron rule of death. Somewhere in this lifeless expanse, there was said to be a city - a great city, like the ones that had dotted the landscape before the disaster. But no one knew anything about this city, for there were few with the fortitude to reach it, and none who entered ever returned. It was said that any man who walked through the gates of Pinnacle became the subject of its ruler, a man so feared and despised that his very name was a taboo. Storyteller had already learned to cringe at the sound of it - the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, an almost mythical figure whose ambition and cruelty were without limit. Only a fiend such as Conqueror could possibly have the strength to raise Pinnacle from the ashes of annihilation. This was a place that could not truly exist, and yet Storyteller found himself before that very city, with that diabolic myth awaiting his arrival somewhere within its walls.
"I was instructed to bring you directly to my lord's palace," said Captain. "Come, let's not waste his time."
A squadron of guards immediately appeared at Storyteller's flank, escorting him through the gate with nary a word to their prize. From inside the walls, Pinnacle was an even greater wonder than it appeared from the desert. The buildings were not repurposed ruins, as in most wasteland settlements, but were completely new structures built from recovered stone and concrete, reshaped and cast by skilled hands into brutalist buildings that would have been at home in some long-lost golden age. The main thoroughfare was wide and clean, decorated with clay sculptures depicting what Storyteller could only imagine were heroic figures and lined with shops and stalls. The area hummed with activity, the thoroughfare congested with people going about their business in a casual manner that Storyteller could not recall seeing anywhere else. And at the end of the street, looming high above the city, stood a great multistory citadel, ornamented with precious metals and carvings of monstrous creatures. This was their destination; this was his home, the soul of the empire, the heart of the beast.
As he moved through the streets, the people stopped and examined Storyteller, gathering as closely as the guards would allow. There were whispers from the throng, people speaking to each other in eager tones:
"Is that him? That's him, isn't it?"
"Amazing! The lord has found him!"
"You had doubts? The lord can find anything."
"He doesn't look like a wastelander, does he? I thought they were all savages."
"I know. This one actually belongs here."
Captain swept them aside. "You'll have time to meet him after our lord has spoken with him."
"Is this Captain of the North, returning with our most honored guest?" The booming voice sundered the thoroughfare; every voice fell silent and every pair of eyes were cast skywards. There was a single figure standing on the palace dais, his features obscured by the long shadow projected by the structure. Storyteller couldn't make out the man's face or anything more than the silhouette, but there could be no doubt as to this man's identity.
Captain looked up at the figure. "Yes, lord. I have brought him here unharmed."
"Excellent!" The figure threw out his arms. "Lead him into the welcoming hall and see to his comfort. I shall meet him shortly."
Captain squeezed Storyteller's shoulder. "Let's proceed. Our lord has been waiting for this moment."
Leaving the rest of the guards to manage the crowd, Captain led Storyteller into the palace, his massive hand pushing the smaller man along. If the exterior of the palace was meant to instill a sense of awe, then the interior served to drive home the superiority of its occupant. The narrow corridors were illuminated by narrow windows and the occasional ensconced lantern, granting the bare minimum of light while allowing the fixtures to dance in and out of the shadows. The walls and floors were polished stone and, judging by the lack of wasteland dust and grime, had recently been given a thorough cleaning. The hallway bent at the end, opening onto a spacious room with a long table and chairs - not recovered artifacts half-burned by the disaster, but well-kept pieces that looked as though they had been crafted by hand in the very recent past.
"The great Conqueror will arrive shortly. You are our guest now, and your comfort is our priority." Captain tapped on the wall next to an almost invisible hatch. A moment later, the hatch slid open and Captain removed a tray with a clay jug and several cups, placing it on the table. "From our internal well. It is cleaner than the water you would find in the wastes."
"Thanks, but I'm fine," said Storyteller, exploring the room.
"Then, do you desire food?" Captain walked back to the hatch. "Our stores contain a more diverse assortment than you may be accustomed to."
"No, I need nothing," said Storyteller. "When do you think your lord will arrive?"
"Conqueror appears in his own due time," said Captain. "However, I trust he will not be long. He has been awaiting your appearance for a long time now."
"Might you explain that to me?" said Storyteller. "I am not an powerful man. Why is my presence so vital?"
"Any explanations will come from Conqueror. I am but his servant." Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed down another corridor. Captain immediately sprang to attention. "The lord arrives."
Storyteller spun instinctively towards the source of the sound, a shudder passing through him with each step, quaking in time with the footfalls. He had never felt such inner conflict - mortally terrified and yet also eager, driven to escape but equally afraid that he would miss a rare opportunity. A shadow crossed the threshold, and a moment later, he entered - the figure from the dais. He was not a large man, but imposing nonetheless, with a physique honed by years spent in one of the most inhospitable places on earth. His face was broad and hard, his hands thick and crossed with old scars, the proof of a hundred fights fought and likely won. A red and black mantle fell over his shoulders, sitting above a shirt and trousers that had clearly been tailored just for him. He was crowned with an open helmet made from ivory - or possibly polished bone, though Storyteller preferred to believe that this was not the case.
He threw out his arms as he entered the room. "Ah, so this is the man. The artist, the great bard of the wastes, the Aesop of the age of ruins." He thrust out his hand towards Storyteller. "I am known as the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, undisputed ruler of these lands and all that surround them."
"And I am Storyteller." He extended his hand, which disappeared within Conqueror's mighty grip. "I am to understand that you requested me specifically?"
"Indeed I did." Conqueror looked at Captain. "You are excused."
"Are you sure, lord?" said Captain. "Usually, there is a man present when you meet guests."
"The situation is different," said Conqueror. "This man is not the sort of violent brute that we normally entertain. And there are certain issues that we must discuss in private."
"Very well, my lord." Captain bowed slightly and marched out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Storyteller wasn't sure if this gave him comfort or not.
Conqueror gazed down the corridor until he could no longer hear Captain's footsteps, then returned his attention to Storyteller. "You must excuse Captain of the North, he is strong and loyal, but rather artless, with no grasp on nuance. It is always a challenge to get him to leave me to myself, and I am sure that he never would have done so if he knew about the knife you carry."
Beads of sweat broke out on Storyteller's face as his thoughts drifted to the blade nestled in his satchel. "It means nothing, I assure you. I am not a man of violence, and I will be rid of it as proof."
Conqueror held up his hand. "No need to placate me, your character is well known. I know that if that weapon were ever to be used against me, it wouldn't be your hand guiding it."
"How do you know this?" said Storyteller. "For that matter, how do you know anything about me? My title, my reputation...I am hardly a legend."
"Ah, a statement guided either by humility or ignorance. My eyes and ears are many, Storyteller, and they are positioned throughout the wastes." Conqueror poured himself a cup of water, swirling it in his hand as though it were a particularly fine vintage, and leaned on one of the chairs. "I do not know everything, but an itinerant fabulist was something that my men would not easily miss. Of course, I am certain that you have heard of me?"
Storyteller pondered his words carefully, searching for a safe answer. "I have heard accounts, yes."
"There's no need to be coy," said Conqueror. "I'm familiar with the stories that men of the wastes tell. You've heard some of those stories, have you not?"
"Yes, I have," said Storyteller, nodding sheepishly. "I have heard well of your exploits."
"You have heard that I am a monster, that I take what I need and destroy those who oppose me? That Pinnacle is nothing more than a great prison?"
"Why did you send for me?" said Storyteller, barely concealing his terror. "I am not an important man, nor am I a threat to you."
"You underestimate your importance," said Conqueror, downing the contents of the cup in one swallow. "My people have acquired a taste for culture and entertainment, a taste that only I can provide for them. That is what I do, provide for them...the wastelanders have no appreciation for what I do, which is find things that my people need. That is why you are here. You see, Storyteller, your particular gifts are most rare and most precious to us." He groaned a bit, his face falling into the half-grimace of a man in the midst of a nostalgia trip. "Storyteller, Conqueror...these titles we've adopted do us little merit, do they?"
"I must admit, I do long for the days when a man was not defined solely by his skill," said Storyteller.
"Then let us shed these titles and greet each other as men once did." Conqueror removed his helmet, revealing a head of short, wispy hair. "I was named Leroy. And you?"
Storyteller looked into Conqueror's eyes as he conjured his will. The name had haunted him as a ghost, and he'd not dared to speak it or even think it since the disaster had changed him. "...Samuel. My name was Samuel."
"Excellent, Samuel! Now, there is much for us to discuss, but I'm sure that you are drained from your voyage. My staff has prepared a small room in the palace for you. Come, I'll show you to your quarters." Conqueror turned back into the corridor, expecting Storyteller to follow him.
Storyteller didn't budge. "Excuse me." Storyteller felt Conqueror's cobalt eyes upon him and immediately regretted interrupting this man. When his head remained attached to his shoulders, he decided to continue with his thought. "...Regarding those stories I've heard about your empire. I must ask how long I am to be kept here. Is this to be my permanent home?"
"The stories that men tell..." Conqueror flashed a glancingly sinister grin. "Don't concern yourself with such matters now."
"But I must know," said Storyteller. "Am I to be a slave as well?"
"All men are slaves. Some merely wear heavier shackles. I would think that one as smart you would understand that." Conqueror closed his eyes for a moment. "But I can understand your point. You assume that because no one ever leaves Pinnacle, that this must mean that no one is allowed to leave. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps no one desires to leave? The gates of Pinnacle are always open, and no guards bar the way. Doesn't this tell you something?"
"I suppose I had not considered that," said Storyteller.
"Perfectly acceptable, my friend," said Conqueror. "I know what you've heard about me in the wastes, what you've been told by the others. But I would hope that a man of vision such as yourself would trust in his own senses and keep his mind open."
"Of course," said Storyteller. "I will try and exhibit more fairness."
"I'll hold you to that." Conqueror took a deep breath, his chest already swelling with pride as he began his case. "Pinnacle has an advanced economy with a fully functional justice system, something almost unheard of in our day. The people here are sheltered both from the cruelties of untamed nature and the violent passions of the criminal gangs that surround us. As a result, it is more stable than any other settlement in the wastes, including the trading centers. But, this is not the part that would appeal to a man such as you. That part you will need to see for yourself."
Conqueror resumed his advance down the corridor, and Storyteller - his fear long since eclipsed by curiosity - followed closely behind. "In addition to creating day-to-day stability," said Conqueror as he ascended the stairs, "I have also endeavored to salvage and maintain the world's culture. These walls contain a treasure trove of old world knowledge. There are libraries filled with books that were rebound and preserved on these very premises. There are workshops where we pull apart the technology of the old world to find new applications in our current reality. And, as we speak, there are men combing the wastes to recover cultural artifacts of the world as it once was." He stopped at an opening, the word "Gallery" carved into the stone over it. "This is my personal collection. Few have the honor of seeing it, but its doors are always open for special guests."
Storyteller's mind drifted back to the odd collection of baubles he'd seen in Baroness's parlor, and the menageries he'd seen in trading houses before that. These were perhaps somewhat impressive due to the amount of manpower required to accrue them, but there was never much of cultural value within. He expected nothing less from Conqueror's gallery, save perhaps that it was even larger in scope, owing to the degree of cruelty available to assemble it.
What he actually saw was enough to snatch the air from his lungs and root him fast to the spot. This was not a mere collection but a true museum - smaller than the ones Storyteller had toured as a boy, certainly, but no less impressive. Here there were sketches, photographs and documents, carefully preserved behind panes of salvaged glass. Here there were shelves holding religious and cultural icons from a dozen nations, some of which were rare and precious even in the old world. There were displays of jewelry, of clothing, of reels of film that could no longer be watched and music albums that could no longer be played. Also on display were different objects of art, newer ones - things which had been made since the disaster by the new generation, the art of the apocalypse. Each shelf was painstakingly arranged, with the identity of the contents carved into the wood for posterity. Beyond the shelves, Storyteller could see larger objects - machines and statues in the process of restoration - which must have been fetched at no small amount of effort.
Conqueror smiled as he consumed Storyteller's awe. "Does it impress you?"
"That it does. I can't remember the last time I saw such a splendid collection." Storyteller walked among the stacks, each one revealing a new object that he had assumed was lost forever. "The amount of time and effort that must have gone into-"
Storyteller suddenly fell silent as he fell captive to one of the exhibits. It was, on the surface, an unexceptional piece - a battered metal cylinder, perhaps two feet around and four or five feet across, its dull gray surface all but lost beneath a decade and a half of rust. This piece was clearly not factory made, more likely a product of an enthusiast with a garage workshop.
Conqueror walked to Storyteller's side. "You've taken an interest in this object? It was one of the first we found. My men dug it up in a raised area not far from the walls of the city. We don't know what it is, but I believe it to be a time capsule. Unfortunately it's contents will have to remain a mystery until I can find a way open it without damaging what is inside." He looked at Storyteller, who was positively spellbound. "What's wrong? Does it strike a chord? Do you recognize it?"
Storyteller shook off the spell, returning to reality. "No...It just reminded me of something. Something I heard about when I was younger." He turned back to the door. "Perhaps I should lie down after all. Might you show me my quarters?"
"My pleasure, Samuel."
Conqueror led Storyteller down the hall to his quarters, tucked away at the end of a short corridor. The room was small but well-appointed, particularly for a wanderer who'd spent years sleeping wherever we was when night fell. There was a proper bed - by itself a rarity in the wastes - with pillows and blankets, a writing desk crowned with an ensconced lamp, and a wooden chair that was likely carved by hand. There was a window as well, one conspicuously too small to admit a fully grown man. As with every other room, it had been recently cleaned and revealed not even a stray mote of dust.
"Take some time to relax, but remember, the people will want to see you as soon as possible. And of course, we have much yet to discuss." Conqueror withdrew from the room, his eyes not leaving Storyteller until the last minute.
A flurry of images rushed into his mind, memories that he'd long since forced into the shadowy nooks of his consciousness, snapshots of a childhood in a world long since gone. There were the streets with their funny Greek names, and the school where they'd tormented him, and the restaurant where his brother had worked, and the intersection where his father had died, and the hill where the whole thing came to a glorious end. And there was Will Scarborough, not merely a character in a tale, but a real person who had lived, and who had passed on like the rest of them.
"I made it," he whispered to himself. "I'm home."