The End of the World
Anne lay on her back. She was no longer falling, which was good. Her body hurt in many places, which was not as good, but at least nothing felt broken.
Movement in the sky high above drew her attention. A colossal island of rock drifted slowly overhead, like an 800-quadrillion-ton cloud. That island and all the others, including Saint Lupin’s, was known as a tier. Anne had learned in Why the World Is a Bunch of Giant Floating Islands that all the tiers (along with the sun, moon, and stars) orbited a big glowing field of magick that, due to either a sheer lack of imagination or just plain laziness, everyone called the “Big Glowing Field of Magick,” or just BGFM. Together, the tiers and the BGFM were known as the Hierarchy, and somewhere out there was Anne’s home, the tier on which she’d been born.
Anne sat up and discovered she had landed on a narrow ledge on the side, and some twenty feet below the top, of the Saint Lupin’s tier. To her right were the ancient remains of a staircase carved into the rock; this must have once led to the surface, but it was too broken to climb anymore. To her left was a large gap where the ledge dropped away to the BGFM far below. Anne stood up. Neither direction offered an escape route, so she searched the cliff face for possible hand- and footholds to climb back up to the top. To her dismay, the stone was completely smooth. She considered calling for help, but she was too far from the orphanage for anyone to hear. Moreover, the dragon, if that’s what the “something big” was, was still up there. Announcing her location probably wasn’t such a great idea.
As she considered her options, she heard a faint noise.
O, o, o, o, o.
Was that Penelope searching for her? Or was it the “something big”? Anne strained to hear.
O, o, o, o, o.
“Hello?” she answered back, not daring to raise her voice much above a loud whisper.
Lo, lo, lo, lo, lo came back to her, a little stronger, a little closer.
“Hello? Hey! Hey, down here!” she called out, trying to find the right balance between keeping her voice low enough so as not to be heard by a roaming “something,” yet loud enough to be heard by a person who might be able to help, yet again low enough so as not to draw the “something’s” attention to that helpful person. Needless to say, it was a tricky balance.
A face appeared over the edge. It wasn’t Penelope. It was a woman with dark brown skin and warm brown eyes and a head of voluminous, perfectly styled black hair.
“Excuse me, but are you the orphan with the identification number”—the woman read from a small slip of paper—“6-5-5-3-5?”
Anne blinked. “Um.”
The woman checked the paper again. “Is your name Anvil?”
Anne grimaced. “I prefer Anne.”
“Excellent. Anne it is, then.” The woman leaned farther over the edge. “I’m pleased to inform you that you are this year’s completely random selection.”
“I’m… what?”
“Otherwise known as the wild card, dear. I know, I know. It’s all very exciting, and you’re simply too shocked for words. No need to be embarrassed. It happens to everyone, especially those from lower tiers such as this. Have no fear, though. I’m sure you’ll adjust in no time. Still, we should probably have a quick chat before getting under way.”
“A chat?”
“To cover a few of the basics, so you’re not completely overwhelmed.”
Anne looked around. “You want to have a chat with me while I’m stuck down here on the side of the tier?”
“Actually, if it’s not too much bother, I rather think up here would be best.” The woman lowered one end of a rope.
Anne shied away. “But there’s… there’s something moving around up there.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, that was probably me. My apologies if I caused any undue distress.”
Anne remained wary. “Do you roar and shoot flames at people?”
“Only when I miss my midmorning tea.” The woman chuckled again, but stopped when she saw Anne’s guarded expression. “I’m kidding, dear, of course. But come, we mustn’t dillydally.”
The woman’s warmth and self-assurance finally won Anne over. She grabbed hold of the rope and scrambled up the cliff and back onto level ground.
As Anne knelt at the edge of a small clearing, she got a better look at her rescuer. The woman wore dark trousers, shiny leather riding boots, and a rose-colored vest over a cream blouse. An ornate rapier handle stuck out from beneath a gray hooded cloak, and a richly embroidered bag hung from her shoulder. The ensemble presented a dashing appearance, but it was less the look of an actual adventurer than that of someone who had studied what adventurers looked like in great detail and who had done their best to mimic them.
The woman stood and brushed the dirt from her knees. “That’s much better.” She took Anne’s hand and helped her to her feet. “Now, my dear, let’s have a good look at you.”
She stepped back several paces and studied Anne with a practiced eye. “Hmmm, I’m seeing some interesting choices. Orphan, obviously, but not outright vagabond. That’s a smart pick this season. Vagabonds were completely overdone last year, and I’m simply sick to death of them. Nice solid shoes. Good. Good. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen young women trying to manage it in heels. The Forest of Death is not a fashion runway, I always tell them.”
“Er,” said Anne.
The woman tapped her chin. “But the hair, dear, really, what are we trying to say? I’m seeing frayed. I’m seeing clumped. A little dirt. A little matting. It’s too much. Far too much. You need to think about what message you’re sending.” She swept her hand in a wide arc, as though speaking to some invisible audience. “Yes, desperation, that’s fine, we can work with that. But a quiet desperation, a reserved despondency, would be much better received, I think. It’s your choice, of course. Completely your choice. I wouldn’t presume to interfere. But I do urge you to give it some thought. I would hate to see you penalized for something so trivial.”
“Er,” said Anne again. She had only caught half of what the woman was saying, and she understood less than half of that.
The woman produced a lace handkerchief from one of her vest pockets and used it to dust a few flakes of ash from Anne’s shoulder. “Still, all things considered, I think you’re off to a splendid start. Is there anything specific you’d like to ask before we get going?”
“Do I even know you?” asked Anne.
“Oh, of course. How rude of me. Introductions.” The woman swept her cloak back in an elaborate bow. “I am Lady Jocelyn Abigayle Daisywheel the Third, student of the natural sciences, linguist, and most important for our immediate purposes, professor of mythological studies at the local quest academy.”
That caught Anne’s attention. “The local what academy?”
“Quest academy, dear. I teach all the courses in Old World mythology, and I offer the occasional evening class in rodent taxidermy. We make lovely dioramas.”
“I didn’t realize there was a local academy.”
“I’m not surprised. We’re an independent school, and not very large, but there are advantages to that, and I think you’ll find that we take very good care of our students. We would love for you to join us.”
Anne experienced a momentary glimmer of hope, which was quickly swept away by the crashing wave of reality. “I can’t go,” she said, hanging her head. “The other academies said I couldn’t enroll because I don’t know where I’m from. I guess it’s a rule or something.”
The woman—Jocelyn—smiled at her. “Well, if those other academies don’t know how to bend the rules a little, that’s simply their loss, then, isn’t it? For starters, they could use one of these.” Jocelyn dug into her pack, brought out a plain wooden box, and handed it to Anne.
Anne opened the lid. Inside, lying on a piece of crushed blue velvet, was a worn brown leather glove. The entire back side of the glove was covered in strips of overlapping metal that were riveted together, and it
had a wide extended cuff that was also encased in metal. On the underside of the cuff was a circular inset.
Anne frowned. “An ugly glove?”
“Technically, dear, it’s called a gauntlet,” said Jocelyn. She motioned for Anne to pick it up.
Anne removed the gauntlet from the box, but she held it away from her body as though it were a dead fish—a really smelly one. “And, er, what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Why, wear it, of course.” Jocelyn took the box and stuffed it back into her bag. “Surely you don’t expect to begin your training without it?”
“My training?” Anne finally put the pieces together. “You’re saying you’re willing to train me? At your academy? To go on quests? Just as long as I wear this… gauntlet?”
“Precisely. With one of these, you don’t need to know your place of origin. It’s like having a free pass.” Jocelyn pointed at the gauntlet. “Go on, then. Try it on.”
With a sense of growing optimism, Anne slid her left hand into the gauntlet, pulling it snug. It fit her, for lack of a better expression, like a glove. In fact, it was almost as if the maker had measured her actual hand. A tingling sensation flowed through the fingers of her left hand and up her entire arm.
Anne held up the gauntlet and studied it. “So—so you’re saying I can leave Saint Lupin’s? No matter what?”
“Of course. You can’t go if you don’t leave.”
“But what if the Matron tries to stop me?”
“Well, if this Matron of yours wishes, she can file a complaint with the Wizards’ Council,” Jocelyn said in a lecturing tone. “Although in that case, you would be well within your rights to contact a union representative and request arbitration. But in my experience things rarely come to that.”
“And what about my friend, Penelope? I couldn’t leave her behind.”
“You’ll need adventuring companions, so the more the merrier.”
“That’s wonderful.” Anne faltered. “I should probably mention that her family name currently has a ban on it, though. But she’s really wonderful and works hard, and I know she would make a great adventurer if someone would just give her a chance.”
“That’s one of the advantages of being an independent school, dear. You don’t have to follow everyone else’s silly little rules. Your friend is more than welcome. And even if that weren’t the case, a gauntlet-wearer may choose anyone she wishes for her adventuring party.” Jocelyn closed her bag. “Well, are we set, then?”
“I think so. But where do we—”
Anne had been about to ask where she and Penelope should meet Jocelyn after they left Saint Lupin’s, but she stopped midsentence as a large, shiny black shape burst from the undergrowth on the opposite side of the clearing. A twenty-foot-long serpent-like creature slunk along the ground on stumpy legs, its heavy scales sparkling like black diamonds in the sunlight. Anne opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she could utter a sound, the creature reared up, its tiny leathery wings flapping madly, and spewed out a sizzling green ball of fire. The fireball struck Jocelyn and vaporized her instantly, leaving only a curling wisp of smoke on the ground where she had been standing.
The creature landed back on all fours with a ground-shaking thump and turned to Anne, who dove behind a nearby tree at the edge of the clearing. The creature let out a low growl, as though Anne had cheated it out of its meal (which she was only too happy to do). She could hear the dragon—for she now saw that it was definitely a dragon—pacing back and forth, but it didn’t come any closer.
She risked a peek.
The dragon glared at her with an unmistakable look of annoyance. Anne tried to recall anything useful she had ever read about dragons, but her brain was too occupied with being in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack. The dragon seemed to be waiting for something. If it was for Anne to simply step out and be voluntarily disintegrated, she wasn’t about to accommodate it. Finally, the beast growled and started thumping across the clearing toward Anne’s hiding place. She hastily calculated the number of steps it would take for her to reach the edge of the tier and jump down to the ledge below, but she felt fairly certain the answer was at least half a dozen steps past “burnt to a crisp.”
Just before it reached the tree, however, the dragon stopped. It stared in the direction of the main compound, twitched its ears, sniffed, and without giving so much as a good-bye roar, turned and bounded over the edge of the tier and dropped out of sight.
Anne collapsed against the tree trunk and let out a shuddering sigh. That poor woman, Jocelyn—here one moment and gone the next, taken away in the blink of an eye. Or more accurately, torched away in the blink of an eye. Or even more accurately still, torched away in the crackling doom of a fireball. And along with Jocelyn had gone Anne’s one chance of attending a quest academy. Her chance for adventure. Her chance to explore the world and maybe even locate her real home.
The whole thing made her ill.
Ill or not, Anne had to return to the orphanage before she got into deeper trouble, with or without Dog. In fact, in all likelihood the fire lizard had been reduced to ashes by the dragon as well. Anne took a calming breath, pushed away her bitter disappointment, stepped out from behind the tree—
—and walked straight into an iron knight.
Anne stumbled back. Next to the iron knight was the Matron, staring at her with a steady, chilling gaze.
“So, this is how you follow my instructions, is it?” said the Matron. “I tell you to remain on the grounds, and you immediately run off? And what are you doing out here exactly? Trying to burn the forest down?”
“N-no, ma’am. There was a—”
The Matron’s eyes widened. At first Anne feared the dragon had returned, but then she realized the Matron was staring at the gauntlet.
“What is that?” asked the Matron, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anne started to hide the gauntlet behind her back, but the Matron stepped forward and grabbed her arm.
“Where did you get this?” the Matron demanded.
“I—I didn’t—”
“Where?” screamed the Matron.
Anne stood shaking. She had no idea how to respond.
The Matron stared at the gauntlet. Finally, her gaze flicked back to Anne, her eyes revealing a barely contained fury.
“Bring her,” the Matron commanded.
The iron knight grabbed Anne by the collar and dragged her toward the compound. Anne didn’t resist. She staggered along numbly, her head filled with images of green fire as all hope of ever leaving Saint Lupin’s crumbled away.
TOTH’S GUIDE TO ALL THINGS DUNGEON RELATED SAYS THE FOLLOWING ABOUT DUNGEON DESIGN:
Use smooth stone for all surfaces (eliminates tunneling), a thick oak door with an iron bar (locks can be picked), shackles on the walls and ceiling (for variety), and the bones of at least one former occupant piled in the corner (for morale).
HOWEVER, IT ALSO ADDS:
Regardless of the design, never put an orphan in a dungeon. It’s not worth the headache. The little rascals never stay put.
The Silver Medallion
… two hundred thirty-nine, two hundred forty, two hundred forty-one…
Faint vibrations.
Anne lay on the hard bunk, staring at the stars through the tiny, barred window high up near the ceiling. Like the Matron’s office, the dungeon was immaculate to the point where a person could practically eat off the floor. In fact, knowing the Matron, one might be given no other choice. The Matron had thrown Anne in the cell without another word, but not before confiscating the gauntlet and everything in her coat pockets, including her drawings, the book, and the passenger ticket.
… two hundred eighty-four, two hundred eighty-five, two hundred eighty-six…
The vibrations increased and the bunk began to rattle.
Anne thought about the gauntlet. The mere sight of it had elicited such a bizarre response from the Matron. Anne had seen her angry many times, but never
so livid as to be rendered speechless. Then Anne’s thoughts shifted to Jocelyn. Anne pictured again the dragon rearing up, its glowing green eyes, and the green ball of flame. She shivered at the memory and shook her head to clear the images from her mind.
… two hundred ninety-eight, two hundred ninety-nine, three hundred.
An iron knight stomped past the little slot in the doorway.
Five minutes exactly. That was the length of its patrol. Anne had been keeping track, and it hadn’t deviated once, not by a second. There had been little point in trying to sneak away during daylight hours, but now that night had fallen, Anne could make her way to the dock under the cover of darkness, hopefully in time to board the ship. That was presuming she could escape and avoid getting flamed to death or eaten by a roaming dragon.
As soon as the iron knight moved past the door, Anne rolled off the bunk. Fortunately, the Matron had been so furious she hadn’t bothered to search Anne thoroughly, and the pocketknife was still tucked inside her sock. Anne took it out and moved to the door. It was solid oak, six inches thick, but Anne focused on its weak point: the lock. The pocketknife contained more than just a blade. Anne had attached other implements as well, including a thin probe perfect for lock-picking. She’d first created it to get into the library and had gotten plenty of practice with it over the years.
After only half a minute of careful work, Anne heard a satisfying click as the locking mechanism released. She pulled on the door handle, but the door didn’t move. She braced her foot against the wall and pulled with her full weight, tugging repeatedly until she nearly hyperventilated, but it refused to budge. It must have been barred from the outside as well.
The Adventurer's Guide to Successful Escapes Page 3
