CHAPTER 21
~Date Unknown~
In the hours that followed his trip to the Patmos ruins, Storyteller became thoroughly acquainted with the texture of the stone used in the ceiling of his quarters. There was little to do besides staring upward - the guards would not speak to him even to issue threats, and there was no sign of Conqueror, presumably off planning some elaborate punishment. Storyteller wondered if perhaps this horrid anticipation was the first step in that regimen of suffering, or if it was merely a sign that his captor had been too overwhelmed with rage to dream up a suitable agony. In any case, the waiting had become a torture all its own. He was in no shape to attend to the notebook, and there was nothing else to occupy him time save watching the sun move across the sky as he awaited the drop of the sword.
At length, a truth came to Storyteller - there was no point in dwelling on what might come next, escape was the only thing that mattered. No one had ever left Pinnacle, and Storyteller could easily understand why. Pinnacle was not a city but a cage, the palace doubly so. The windows were narrow enough to stop anyone with a skeleton from leaving, and the echoing halls made a quiet exit impossible. There was only one door to his room, and Captain of the North was always there, standing at attention. On the few occasions Captain had left he was swiftly replaced by other guards, moving with a sublime mechanical precision. There was simply no opportunity to flee, and no excuse to even leave the room. That left only force, which - even if violence was in Storyteller's nature - was nothing short of suicide. Conqueror had left Storyteller's knife in his possession, but the small blade would be of little use against a giant like Captain, who could easily kill Storyteller with naught but his hands. If there was any way out, Storyteller would have to dream it up himself, but no dreams came to him.
Storyteller's thoughts were interrupted as Captain stormed into the room, carrying a tray with a doughy roll and a clay cup. "Time to eat," he said, setting the tray down on a small table.
"Then Conqueror is still feeding me?" said Storyteller. "A surprising mercy."
"If it were me, I would have strangled the life out of you on the spot," said Captain. "My lord has other plans for you, larger plans."
"Plans?"
"My lord does not take a life unless it advances his vision. I'm sure that your death is on the horizon, but not yet, not while there is value in your bones. Better that you'd ended your own life than made such a bad choice."
An desperate idea danced through Storyteller's mind - a true long shot, a fantastic plan that hinged upon the warrior's gullibility and his own perfect timing. It was an impossible thing, and there was no time to plan it out, but Storyteller was ready to cast his lots on an escape.
"You are right, but not because I fear for myself," said Storyteller with a deep sigh. "I realize far too late that I have dishonored a great man and, in my own fashion, hindered his plan for a new world."
"How wise of you to see that," said Captain. "He admired your skill. You would still be in a place of honor were it not for your disgraceful lies."
Storyteller buried his face in his hands. "Yes, I know. I dread that there may be no erasing this terrible disgrace." He reached into his satchel, slowly drawing the knife and resting it in his hands. "Perhaps there are no options left to me."
"What are you doing?" said Captain, reaching for Storyteller. "Put it down!"
Storyteller gripped the knife in both hands, the blade pointed at his heart. "Why? What purpose is there to live in shame? How can a man live with that agony? You are right - better I go this way."
Captain grabbed Storyteller's wrist, wrenching his arm away and knocking the knife free of his hands. Storyteller lunged for the weapon, but Captain already had it fast in his grip. "How did you even get this?" said Captain, eyeballing the knife. "You must have sneaked it in or stolen it. Did you plan to kill my lord?"
"Certainly not. It would have been a fool's errand for a man such as me to strive to slay a god." Storyteller bowed his head again. "Conqueror allowed me to have this. I assumed that this was an act of mercy, granting me the option of an honorable exit."
Captain rubbed the back of his neck. "That does make more sense than a weakling like you bringing it in. But Conqueror told me nothing of this."
"Why would he? This path was mine to choose." Storyteller held out his hand. "Please, grant me this favor. Allow me to end this torment."
"I should check this with Conqueror. But..." Captain peered back out the hallway - his replacements were not due for a while yet. "...Very well. It will only take a minute to ask. But know this, Storyteller: If you've lied again, I'll ask Conqueror for permission to execute your punishment myself."
Storyteller sat quietly as Captain walked down the hall, listening for the footfalls, each quieter than the last. Once the air was truly still, he darted to the hallway and crawled out on his hands and knees, peeking around the corner. The area was completely desolate - no guards, no slaves, just the faint crackle of the lanterns hanging from their sconces. His gambit had worked - the way was clear, an opportunity for flight open, though there was no telling for how long. He snatched his satchel and advanced into the hallway, moving as quietly as he could and as swiftly as he dared. His body screamed at him to run but he instead advanced with prudence, listening for any sound of advancing guards as he descended the stairs and passed through the welcoming hall. The final corridor was ahead and clear of men; Storyteller held his breath as he emerged into the open air.
Night had fallen in Pinnacle, but the moon was full and bright with a glory that gave the impression of daytime. The citizens of the town were taking full advantage of the evening, lounging outside of their homes, chatting over the day's events or showing off their recent acquisitions. Storyteller had hoped for more darkness - all it would take was one person to spot him and assume that another exhibition was being held, and all would be lost - but it was far too late to revise the plan or end his escape. He would leave Pinnacle that evening or die for his arrogance. He crept down side streets, darting from house to house like a common thief in search of easy prey. With each step, the outer walls loomed larger and larger, the entrance coming into view, until there were mere yards between him and swift freedom. As Conqueror had said, there were no obstacles but his own fear to bar his exit. Steeling his nerves one last time, he sprinted for the entrance, moving as quickly as his legs could carry him. His senses were sharpened by the burst of adrenaline, each step booming with thunder as he darted through the massive gate. In the next moment, he was outside. There were no footsteps bearing down on him, no guards sounding the alarm, no arrows or bullets glancing off the walls over his shoulder. He was clear, free of the great cell.
Storyteller pressed onward, charging across the desert until his body grew weary. Sitting to rest, he squinted back at the great city, silhouetted in the glorious moonlight, and allowed himself a laugh. He had done the impossible, escaping from the heart of hell on his own legs by his own wits. Just then, as he was fully lost in his private reverie, he could have sworn he heard something reverberating through the night air. It was a frantic sound, furious, bestial, but also human - a roar of outrage from the general direction of the palace. Had he imagined it? He couldn't hear anything from such a distance - surely it was merely a product of his racing mind? Real or not, it was a signal. There would be no time to rest, not yet, maybe not ever.
Storyteller ran, and looked back as he ran, and ran with big steps and small ones, and felt the pain of exhaustion and then ran more. There was nothing more for him to do but to run until he had truly spent every ounce of energy, push himself to run on the fumes of willpower, rest for a moment, then continue running. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. Without trade roads or guidestones, there was nothing in particular to give him any direction. He had been locked away in the cart for the entire trek, so he had little notion of the surrounding geography. The rise of the sun at least granted him the chance to get attuned to direction, but with no idea where Pinnacle was located this was of little help. There was no recourse except to pick a direction and trudge that way until he found something. So he ran, sprinting out into the desert as fast and as far as his legs would take him.
The night gave way to day, and then night again. Storyteller slept little - images of Conqueror's war carts besieged his thoughts any time he shut his eyes, serving only as inducement to accelerate his pace. This was fine at night, but what was a reasonable pace in the cool evening air was a death march beneath the savage desert sun. What's more, Storyteller had suddenly become painfully aware of his limited supplies. He had devised and executed his brilliant plan in the same moment, thinking of the impossible escape but not what would come next. In his haste, he had neglected to take even the barest of provisions, and had likewise forgotten to check his own belongings. He carried no food, and only a few scarce drops of water left over from before Captain found him. Any hopes that he could find supplies in the wastes were soon dashed by brutal reality. The Shivan Desert that surrounded Pinnacle was even more hellish than Storyteller could have dreamed - whatever rain had fallen here in the past had been greedily swallowed by the parched earth, leaving only a few meager patched of mud for sustenance. Plant life was even more scarce, with only the odd patch of brown grass and the occasional near-dead sapling struggling in vain for life. Storyteller chewed the grass whenever he could find it, finding that at least it stopped the pains in his stomach, but he could feel the hunger slowly throttling the life from him.
And still Storyteller trudged on, for there was nothing else to do. Darkness gave way to light, then receded again to darkness, the edges between the two turning fuzzy in his thirst-polluted mind. Storyteller slept in bursts, nodding off where he stood and snapping back to consciousness minutes later. Time began to have little meaning to him, his judgment clouded by exhaustion and dehydration. He no longer had any fear of Conqueror, no longer dreaded his cruelty. Instead, he clung to the perverse hope that Conqueror would find him again, knowing that he could more easily reason with the man than the desert. But even if he wanted to surrender, Storyteller had no way of finding his way back to Pinnacle, which had disappeared into the horizon days prior. Despite all his efforts, he could find no notable landmarks in the desert, nothing he could use to aid his navigation. No matter how far he went, all he saw was more desert. Was he even advancing, or merely pacing circles around Pinnacle? Was there a world at all anymore, or had he wandered into a no man's land beyond his limited knowledge?
Day and night, night and day - this was the only wisdom that Storyteller still possessed, the only thing that still anchored him in the real world. Apart from that there were only ghosts, the specters of memories that came from the notebook and the stolen story in his pocket. At times, he felt like a child again, fearing everything that he couldn't see, cringing at the shadows. The coyote song that he heard at night - could that truly be real? Could any wild animal survive in this kind of environment? There was nothing concrete for him anymore, least of all his thoughts which he no longer commanded. The past and the future were just delusions, and the present was swimming beyond his grasp with each day and each step.
Bit by bit, the weakness of his limbs grew until it was more than he could bear. His head was throbbing, the pain radiating to his fingertips and back, a newly vivid torment. He pressed a leaden hand to his face, which was dry and sore. The world was spinning, awash in shadows that flickered in and out of existence, whatever existence there even still was. His struggle was futile, all options disappearing into the hot air. There was nothing left for him.
Everything went black.