CHAPTER 39
~Date Unknown~
"Samuel!"
The memories departed Sam's mind, scared away by the sound of his name. He was back in Scrapland, back in the Cathedral of History, the tinny music still playing but blotted out by a voice calling to him.
"Samuel!" came the voice. "Run! He's here! He found you!"
"Who is that?" said Sam, still slightly disoriented.
Farseer turned his head back to the clearing. "Our pursuer has found us."
"Our pursuer? Of course, Rebecca..." Sam placed a finger to his temple. "...Then who is it that has found me? It couldn't be..."
Rebecca's cries were lost amid the cacophony that followed. It was a thunderous roar, a chaotic mingling of voices and noises that rolled down the streets leading to the clearing. At times, a single distinct sound could be heard over the bedlam - always a sound of pain, a lost soul falling to the blade, the anguished scream of a man fleeing for his life, the war cry of a bloodied victor. And still that thunder grew louder, closing in on them, moving with ever greater momentum.
"Someone is trying to desecrate this place." Farseer sprinted into the clearing. "I will handle this. Be safe."
"Wait! Don't leave me here!" cried Sam as he chased his benefactor.
From outside of the structure, the sounds were even more grim, more gruesome, more haunting. There was the sharp sound of steel striking steel, the crack of gunfire, the damp crunch of breaking bones, punctuated at times by the dying gasps and gurgles of the fallen. This was not an ambush, not a robbery - this was war or at least a battle, a true melee happening mere yards from where Sam stood, a melee drawing ever closer. There was movement as well, the blur of someone running along the tops of building but only watching, never taking any action. Then, without warning, there was silence. The guns, the screams, they all vanished, hedged out by the howl of the wind - a silence that was far more terrifying, far more grotesque in light of what he had just heard.
Sam followed Farseer around the corner, dreading what he knew was there but drawn by morbid curiosity all the same. What he saw froze him dead in his tracks.
The street was lost beneath a living sea of red and black that rose up along the buildings and toward the umber sky. They were warriors, their numbers beyond counting - angry eyes peering out from every side avenue, dozens of pairs of them at least, each last one locked onto Sam. They carried their weapons proudly, blades and cudgels moist with the blood of the foes whose remains lay beneath their boots. The raiders - Sam never imagined that he could have sympathy for such jackals, but there could be nothing but pity for anyone who wandered into the path of this war machine, no reward but a handful of sand tossed onto a pile of mangled flesh left to rot. And there, at the vanguard of the grisly display, was a man Sam had hoped never to see again. He wore the same helmet, freshly polished for the expedition, but now also sported a dense cloth tunic, metal breastplate, thick leather arm guards (tinted orange from the melee), a revolver holster and a familiar-looking knife just emerging from his belt.
Sam took a step back. "Conqueror..."
"Names, Samuel. I thought that we were closer than that." Leroy tapped his hand on the grip of the knife. "You left this behind in Pinnacle. For a precious piece like this, I had to return it in person."
"Leave this place at once!" howled Farseer, marching slowly toward Leroy. "This is sacred ground, and I will not have you defile it with your tainted presence!"
"Who is this man?" said Leroy. "Yes, I've seen you before. You are a man of some repute, correct?"
"I am Farseer, a condemned soul sentenced by fate to protect history against those who would exploit and destroy it," said Farseer. "I was placed here to stop the ruiners. I was placed here to stop you."
"Ah, another with a passion for speech!" Leroy flashed a brief smile which quickly sank into a scowl. "But there is a time for poetry and a time for honesty."
Farseer drew in a deep breath, defiantly staring Leroy in the eye. "I am Farseer, once known as Wayfinder, who wandered the breadth of this land."
Leroy pressed two fingers to his lips. "The man who blazed the first trail through through the wastes? Ah, a conqueror in your own right! Under other circumstances, I may enjoy this, but my patience for zealots is limited, and I have business here which does not concern you. Therefore, I will give you one - just one - chance to leave of your own volition."
"Everything that happens in this place concerns me," said Farseer. "Especially if you plan to bring harm to this man. I shall not be cowed by your brutality. A righteous man has no fear from a corrupted-"
The first bullet caught Farseer off guard, striking him in the abdomen and producing the same look of shock that might accompany a sucker punch. The second bullet, which penetrated his lungs, silenced any potential last words. He stood still and quiet as the third bullet hit, then the fourth, the fifth the sixth. Life had departed him before his body came to rest on the ground. It had happened so quickly that Sam couldn't quite register it until he traced that invisible line from Farseer to the gun in Leroy's hand.
"Now, perhaps we can finish our discussion." Leroy casually opened the cylinder and extracted the casings as he spoke. "You've wronged me, Samuel. You've wronged me, and payment must be made."
"I did not lie to you, at least not intentionally," said Sam, each syllable trembling as his tongue formed it. "I remember everything now. It was all another story, one that I invented to give the others hope. I told it so many times that it became real for me, as real as any of my actual memories. I deceived myself as surely as I deceived any other."
"Were it such a simple matter," said Leroy, fishing a fresh cartridge from his pocket. "Unfortunately, your escape complicated matters. A man is his reputation, and your actions have harmed mine. You have made me look foolish, and now I must recover what you took from me."
"How did you find me?" said Sam. "Your own men could not match my face to the target of your wrath."
"Ah, there is that. You are quite elusive, and finding you here required me to tap some rarely used resources." Leroy slid the cartridge into one of the cylinders. "Your friend the healer was most helpful."
"Lifebringer spoke of me?"
"Do you feel betrayed? You shouldn't." Leroy snapped the cylinder shut. "It took ample inducement for him to divulge your destination. From there, it was a simple matter of tracking you from settlement to settlement."
"Inducement? Spare me your euphemisms. You threatened his people, didn't you?"
"I did what the situation required."
"Then you are a beast after all." Sam's voice trembled again, this time with outrage. "Whatever sins the world committed, it did nothing to warrant such a devil."
"Words. In the end, the only thing a self-righteous man possesses." Leroy held the revolver by the barrel and took a few steps toward Sam. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, Samuel, a lesson you should have learned long ago."
"I have nothing to learn from you."
"I don't make martyrs. I'm going to kill you, but first I need you to understand why." Leroy flicked his wrist and the revolver flew through the air, landing a few feet away from Sam. "I respect you, so you get one chance to save your life. One shot."
Sam stared at the revolver, afraid to even approach it. "I don't understand."
"One bullet, that's what you have. If you can kill me with that..." Leroy waved his arms across his army, each man bowing his head as Leroy's gaze crossed him. "...then my men will acknowledge you as the better, and they will let you go."
Sam shook his head frantically and turned his eyes away. "No. I'll not use this. I'll not make myself a party to your crimes."
"Still speaking of pacifism? Merely a cover for cowardice born of privilege and ease." Leroy drew the knife from his belt. "I know well of what men do when death is on the line. Principals are such fragile things."
"I've never..." Sam clasped a hand to his face as a wave of nausea set it. "...My brother told me not...he always handled such things."
"But your brother is dead, isn't he? He's a memory. He doesn't even exist. A man of integrity and courage who sacrificed so that his kin could keep a feeling of unearned superiority...the wrong brother survived I think." Leroy ran his thumb along the edge of the knife. "Unless I'm wrong. Go ahead, prove me the fool. Die with your honor intact."
The least bit of forward movement from Leroy was enough to send Sam lunging for the revolver, his body acting without thought or conviction. The weapon was in his hands - he could feel the scuffs in the metal, see the cartridge sitting ready in the chamber.
"That's right, boy," said Leroy, suppressing a laugh. "Now, pull back the hammer."
Sam pressed his thumb to the hammer - heavier than he thought, or perhaps his hands would not make this an easy task. The gun make a ragged click as the cylinder moved, advancing the bullet one more step toward its destination.
"What do I do?" muttered Sam. "Will...what am I supposed..."
"Now is the moment of truth." Leroy cut the straps holding up his breastplate, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter. "You think I'm a beast? Then put me down like one. Would you hesitate to shoot a rabid wolf with his teeth closing around your neck?" He patted his chest right above the heart. "Go ahead, teller of tales. Tell me the story of a devil's death."
Sam's finger trembled as it found its way inside the trigger guard. The weapon might have weighed a hundred pounds, might have had a sentience of its own that resisted as he held it. His vision was blurred so much that he could hardly imagine the shot landing, but there was no other choice. "...No!" He twisted his hand away, pointing the gun to the ground next to him. The air exploded - for a moment there was no sound except his own pulse. The weapon tumbled from his hand onto the dusty street. "No."
Leroy glared at Sam with disdain. "So you've made you choice."
"I have," said Sam. "I'll not give you the pretext. If you wish me dead then so be it, but know that it was not an act of honor by a warrior, but mere murder."
"I'm growing weary of your tales," said Leroy. "Little songbird, I think this is your final day."
"Maybe it is," said Sam. "Maybe I'll never touch the sky again, but I have one song, one tale left in me - and this one you'll not silence! You'll listen to every syllable, every word sounding in your head forever more until your own turn comes at last!"
Sam broke into a dead sprint, headed back down the path leading to the Cathedral of History. Leroy took off first, waving behind him for his men to join the pursuit. The entire force was on Sam's back, a flurry of scarlet and jet swarming down the street. Sam was exhausted already, spent from his journey and his flight from the raiders, but the pain was a fading illusion against the backdrop of what awaited him. The Cathedral rose before him, but there was no other path, no exit with the river and the rubble surrounding him - the only way to go was up, toward his final exhibition. Pressing his body to the surface of the Cathedral, he began his ascent, scrambling hand over hand up the wall of detritus. Behind him, he could just spot the warriors stripping off their armor to pursue him up the tower. Death was here, its hands just feet away, closing their reach quickly.
"With my last breath, I make an offering to Leroy, the Conqueror of the Southern Wastes, king of demons," shouted Storyteller as he climbed up a length of pipe. "Once upon a time, there was a place called planet Earth. It was home to a magnificent group of creatures, the human race. The land was beautiful and vast, providing everything the humans needed. They built wonderful things, chronicled the nature of their world, crafted things of great beauty, and mastered the art of the miraculous. It was a paradise."
One of the warriors stretched as far as he could, his fingers brushing against Sam's foot. Sam grabbed a bundle of wires and pulled himself up, briefly losing his pursuers as they struggled to regain their grip. A bullet glanced off of the structure next to Sam, so close that he could feel the air part before the bullet. He almost released the structure from shock, but his own grip held true enough to let him reach the next terrace.
"But it wasn't enough," continued Sam. "The humans wanted more. And when they got it, they decided that it still wasn't enough, and they needed more, and more, and still more. In the name of their avarice, they began to destroy their paradise. They stole from their neighbors, and then made slaves of them. They made war on each other, stealing by the sword. They built machines that filled the world with poison. In the end, they became terrified, afraid that their pursuit of more would bring tragedy and death. But they were more afraid that they would have to give up their wealth."
Sam's footing grew precarious, the metal and plastic slick beneath his boots. He tightened his grip on the facade, holding his breath, keeping his eyes skyward, speaking just to blot out the fears invading his mind. He leaped across a gap to the next terrace, dodging even more grasping hands. More projectiles filled the air - spears, arrows, all clattering off the Cathedral around him. The loudest sound, though, game from the structure itself, the metal groaning as it buckled beneath the weight of the men. It didn't matter - there was only one path, and it led higher.
"When the night was at its darkest, a man appeared offering the greatest miracle of them all. He said that he had a machine, a very special machine that could fix all of the damage and bring their paradise back, all without sacrifice. So great was the avarice of the humans that they believed him without question, and gave him everything he needed to build his machine. But his promises were lies."
At last, Sam reached the summit of the Cathedral, clinging precariously to the side of the narrow steeple. The warriors were inches away now, well within reach. There was no more time, no more space, no more hope of survival.
"In the end, the humans destroyed both the paradise and the miracles they had wrought. Pursuing of more, they ended up with nothing. If only they had acknowledged the beauty that was around them, and the beauty within, perhaps the conclusion would have been different." Sam took one last breath and closed his eyes. "That's it. I'm ready...maybe there's yet a garden for me."
There was a mighty groan from the Cathedral, then a bone-vibrating creak. The entire structure pitched forward ever so slightly, hung suspended for a moment as the makeshift foundation faced its final moments. Some of the warriors, their instinct self-preservation overwhelming their loyal rage, jumped back to the ground and tried to flee, but there was no time. The facade was already falling, shedding bits in a great hail of plastic, kicking up clouds of dust and exploding into dust as they hit the street. The supports splintered, the metal bars bent, and at last the foundation surrendered. Most of the men had only enough time to scream as the Cathedral collapsed upon them.
Storyteller only had time to fall.
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From her perch atop a nearby building, Rebecca was positioned to watch the entire fracas - the arrival of the tyrant's army, the death of Farseer, the chase, the climb, and the final fall. All she could do was watch - there was time enough to warn Sam of the coming massacre, but not enough time to stop it. She scurried down the surface of the building, holding her breath as dust rose up around her. Her hand slipped from the final handhold, but it slowed her only for a moment before he regained her footing and began the search.
"Sam?" Rebecca choked on mouthfuls of dust as she shouted for Sam, blinking back tears from the particles as she searched. There was little movement on the ground - most of Leroy's men were dead, and the rest were beyond saving, not that she had any urge to save them. There was only one face she wanted to see, but with each pile of rubble she cleared with her walking stick, with each mortally wounded warrior she unearthed, her hope faded. Then she spotted movement, agonized movement but movement all the same. "Sam? Are you alive over there? Say something!" A pained groan was the only response.
The rays of the sun returned as the dust settled back to the ground, revealing a man who was clearly not Sam Scarborough. He had been an unknown figure before the melee, when she watched him lead an army on a mad rampage and execute an unarmed man without a trace of emotion. He could be none other than the fiend of the south, the one the scouts murmured about when none were listening. Here, though, he looked less a fiend than a wounded animal in the jaws of death. Most of his body was pinned beneath hundreds of pounds of metal and plastic, leaving only his left arm - which was clearly broken - free to move. The weight on his chest made every breath a struggle, and he was clearly in immense pain. Despite all of this, he was not merely alive but conscious, watching Rebecca as she neared him.
"It's you." Rebecca dropped her stick. "The Conqueror of the Southern Wastes."
Conqueror smiled through his agony. "I am, for what it's worth at this moment. You did not catch me on my best day, it seems."
"I don't know. This seems like a good position for you." Rebecca peered down, spotting a gleam of metal laying on the ground just out of Leroy's reach. She knelt down and picked it up - a knife, a fine weapon and one she could sworn she'd seen before. "Where did you find this?"
"It was a gift of sorts," wheezed Leroy. "A present from an ingrate and a liar. I came to pay him his just dues."
"You came all this way just to kill him," said Rebecca. "A man who'd caused you no harm."
"He caused damage enough." Leroy groaned as the weight shifted atop him. "It seems that honor comes at a steep price sometimes."
"The steepest." Rebecca felt her hand curl around the grip of the knife. "Do you have any idea what you have done here? What you have taken from the world?"
"I claimed what was my due. Nothing more or less." Leroy twisted his head towards Pathfinder. "Now, allow me a question. Who are you that seems to know so much?"
You want to know who I am?" Rebecca advanced on Leroy, walking in rhythm with her words. "I am Rebecca Jameson. Granddaughter of Joshua, who tried to conquer the world in his own right. Daughter of Benjamin, who died to save my life. And the lover of Samuel, who died in the name of your ambition."
Leroy tried to laugh but only managed a series of painful coughs. "Then you knew the Storyteller as well? Can I assume that you were present for what happened?"
"I was."
"Impotent to do anything but watch the inevitable. You must be angry."
"I am."
"And so your thoughts turn to revenge." Leroy squirmed under the wreckage. "Against this broken shell of a man."
"It's not revenge," said Rebecca. "You've needed killing for a long, long time. Sam's final gift to me was the opportunity to end a great evil."
"You presume to kill me in his name?" said Leroy. "You didn't know him as well as you thought. Samuel would never approve of that. He saw all living souls as his kin. Even the fiends."
"I know," said Rebecca. "But I'm not Samuel. And I'm not so sanguine."
The words had but a moment to move the air before Rebecca lunged for Leroy, the knife tight in her hand. She grasped his chin in one hand, forcing his head backwards with a hideous crack. Leroy struggled against the attack, but in his wounded state he could manage nothing more than a feeble spasm. Rebecca lifted the knife and drove it between Leroy's ribs with one powerful thrust, the fine point biting effortlessly through his flesh. He let out a grunt of pain through gritted teeth, his torso bucking from the sudden shock, his eyes wide. A second later, Rebecca pulled the blade free, sending a spray of blood into the air. Blood erupted from the wound, slowing to a trickle as Leroy's eyes went dead, one last gasp trickling from his lips.
Rebecca's limbs were lead, her heart hammering in her chest. For a time, she simply sat frozen, and when she regained her strength she could only rise slowly. There were new sounds in the air, the reverberations of combat as the redeemers, raiders, and remnants of the Conqueror's army fought to regain control of the area - but these were distant, hazy, unreal. The square outside of what had once been known as the Cathedral of History was eerily still, as though it had come unmoored from the rest of the world. Rebecca looked down at her hands. hands. The ornate knife, wet with blood, slipped out of her hand and clattered on the dusty ground, a few crimson drops falling from her fingertips along with it.
She dropped to her knees again and wept.
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"Hey pal, you still with me?"
The first thing Sam could feel was pain - a universe of pain, dancing along every nerve. Slowly he willed his eyes to open, wincing even at that small act. This was no vision of heaven or hell he'd ever imagined, but nor was it Scrapland as far as he could tell. He assessed the situation as best he could with his pain-numbed senses. The ground was wood, and it was rocking - a boat of some sort. He couldn't be certain of that, though - all that was sure were the injuries which made themselves known anew with every breath.
"So you are alive?" There was a man here - thin, wiry, his face obscured by the dusty sun.
"Where..." A pulse of sickness pushed through Sam's lungs as he uttered his first word, but he pushed through it. "Where am I?"
"Lake Michigan, or at least that's what I think it is," said the man. "I'm not the man to ask, I'm new here myself."
"Boats on the lake..."
"Yeah, I was surprised, too. Pretty developed up here, given that the whole world caught on fire." The man took a seat next to Sam. "You're a lucky man, you know. We found you floating on the surface, but another minute and you'd be at the bottom of the lake."
"It hurts when I move."
"Hardly a surprise. We all saw that fall you took off of...whatever the hell that thing was. You must have broken half the bones in your body at least. Not much I can do for the pain, I'm sorry to say."
Sam bent his face into a smile. "I can withstand. Pain means that I am yet alive. I will gladly take it over the alternative."
"Good way to look at it." The man glanced off at the horizon. "Hey, I didn't ask you your name."
"Storyteller."
"That's right, I forgot that some of you guys dropped your names," said the man. "But what's your real name?"
"...Samuel."
"Nice to meet you. I let the guys around here call me 'Porter' just to be nice, but my real name is Roderick."
Sam tried to raise his head, sending a fresh shock through his body. "Roderick?"
"Lucky me, huh? I'm used to having an odd name at least. So what brought you to that ruin?"
"...My past."
"Me too. I came here from a really long ways away to find someone. Rumor I heard along the way was that she was running some secret settlement around here, but I never found it." Roderick let out a rickety sigh. "You'd think I would have stopped listening to stories like that by now. Funny thing to say to you, I guess."
"Maybe not." Sam looked around, moving his head as best as he could. "Damn, my bag isn't here. I must have dropped it in the melee."
"Don't worry about food," said Roderick. "We've got plenty, fresh water too. You can find a way to pay us back later."
"It's not that," said Sam. "My notebook was in there. There were years of my life there, my whole history, gone in a moment."
"Nothing I can do about that either," said Roderick. "The only thing to do is start again. Maybe you'll even write a better story next time."
"A better story..." Sam chuckled a bit. "...Right, I can always bring him back."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Perhaps at our next port, I can obtain a new notebook and new instruments, and write the story of this world."
"That's a good attitude," said Roderick. "Look, we've got a medic here. He's not great, but at least he can set those bones so they heal right."
"One more thing," said Sam, turning painfully on one side. "Where are we headed, exactly?"
"Far northern wastes."
Sam rolled back onto his back and breathed deeply. A single ray of sunlight penetrated the haze and fell upon his face.
"Northern wastes," said Sam. "Never been there."
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Rebecca walked without destination - for minutes, hours, days, she couldn't hazard a guess. She felt no hunger or weariness, not fear, not even sorrow but rather a haunted sensation. The world was lost around her, a distraction from someone that she couldn't quite glimpse. It was only luck that she did not cross paths with some hostile - she had neither the fortitude nor the willpower to as much as defend herself, not in that state.
It was the bag that finally restored her to some level of awareness. The thing was familiar, something she'd seen many times before, even if she couldn't quite place it. Samuel - that was it, it was his bag, one she'd seen in his possession. She nearly tripped on thin air as she sprinted for it, falling on top it with her arms around it as though it were at risk of dying. When she was sure that it was real, she held it at arms length, studying it, scrutinizing it like one might with some ancient artifact. Then she opened the flap and reached inside with eager, frightened hands. Her fingers landed on a sturdy leather object - the notebook, there could be nothing else. There was a faint musty odor as Rebecca opened the thing, the pages faded but legible, covered margin to margin in Samuel's scrawl.
Laying it on the ground, she gingerly opened it to the first page and began to read.