Sword and Backpack: The Three Companions

From the pages of The Young Adventurer’s Almanac,
Fifth Edition, published by Rothbard & Gazpus, Inkwell Row, Lanternport:

Gazetteer:
“Lanternport: Gateway to a Thousand Adventures”

Ah, the glory of Lanternport! Of all the cities and towns and villages in the Open World, Lanternport is perhaps the greatest of them all. Home to over two hundred thousand souls of different backgrounds and origins, the City of Torches is one of the primary commercial and cultural hubs of the Known Kingdoms, a melting pot of wonder, adventure, and danger, a grand metropolis that can be all things to all people. Surrounded by a protective wall and bordered by cliffs, forests, hills, and placid Lantern Bay, Lanternport has natural protection against invasion by land and sea, and attracts visitors and immigrants from all points of the compass rose. The city was named for the lighthouse that stands on Lantern Rock, as well as the countless lamps and torches—­which are fastidiously maintained by ward organizations called Lamplighter Guilds—­that line its docks and city streets. The city stands as a figurative and literal beacon of excitement and opportunity, and for centuries it has been the embarkation point for countless quests both small and epic, whether they be travelers shipping out to the west to try their luck in the labyrinths of the Catacomb Archipelago, setting out on the Northroad to seek fortune in the Crookspire Ranges, tramping along the Eastway to explore the forests of the Outer Downs, or hitting the Southmarch to find intrigue in the tropical latitudes. But as this entry in the Almanac will show, there is more than enough intrigue and adventure to be found in Lanternport itself to satisfy even the most jaded Mage, Knight, or Rogue. Which is fortunate, as the city produces so many of them, thanks to one of its chief landmarks and the reason you’re holding this textbook in your hand: the College of the Three Companions, founded by the legendary Three Companions themselves to train Knights, Mages, and Rogues in their respective disciplines. Many of the finest adventurers in the land have graduated from this grand institution (tuition ranges from low-­cost to free, and the campus itself is a marvel, home to practice dungeon simulators, dueling grounds, excellent feasting halls, and top-­notch magical research facilities). The college is a beacon in a city of beacons, a monument to the era in which we now live, which the wise have called what is sure to be an enduring era of wonder.

The Grand Age of Adventure is just beginning.

* * *

Chapter One
THE MAGE

The Grand Age of Adventure was over. That much was true and agreed upon everywhere. Its passing was discussed among the Sorcerers who sat on the Council of the Seven Seats in the Twilight Keep in the Crookspire Ranges of the frigid north. It was commemorated in the shanties sung on the ships that sailed the Catacomb Archipelago of the Western Seas. It was eulogized in taverns along the Eastway and as far afield as inns in the Outer Downs. Everywhere, the accepted wisdom was this: The Grand Age of Adventure had come to an end, and in its place, an age of grimness and cynicism and hard-­heartedness had arisen and taken hold of the hearts and imaginations of the people of what used to be known as the Open World, but which was now called the Splintered Lands.

The adventuring spirit itself had not died so much as it had become . . . distasteful. Unfashionable in its earnestness. It was a relic of the past, something to be embarrassed by or looked down upon. Oh, the three great adventuring professions still existed, but that was more in name and title rather than their original intention or spirit. Knights still plied the trade of the blade across the Splintered Lands, but instead of taking principled stands against injustice or undertaking righteous causes and crusades, they mostly went about acting as mercenaries: fighting battles for this old kingdom or that upstart empire, guarding merchant caravans, taking on duels for noblefolk who wouldn’t lower themselves to lift up a sword, and other suchlike jobs requiring might and force. Mages still scribed spells, studied unknown mysteries, and told fortunes for monarchs and peasants, but most of their time and effort was spent as hermits locked in their isolated sanctums and aeries, looking only inward for wisdom and insight and turning their backs on the mundane trials and tribulations of the rest of the world. And Rogues still skulked around the dark corners of the night, but rather than engaging in secret missions, grand deceptions, and sneaky acts of bravery, to be one in this day was primarily to creep onto the second floors of castles in search of unattended jewels, or to don disguises to deceive the eyes and drain the purses of targets.

Adventurers themselves were held in low esteem by many, and were considered undesirables, or actual criminals in some places. Groups of adventurers still roamed the Splintered Lands, but they were mostly bands of treasure hunters dedicated to plundering long-­abandoned tombs and temples, groups of angry hired swords spoiling for conflict with any creature unfortunate enough to cross their path, or loose-­knit gangs of rowdies to whom adventuring seemed primarily to be concerned with boasting about their weapons and brawling with anyone who looked at them sideways or raised an eyebrow askance.

Yes, no matter how you looked at it, adventuring was in a sorry state, and this sorry state was what preoccupied the mind of Archivist Apprentice Ehmett Turzel as he skulked along a shadowy, torchlit corridor of the Eternal Archives, the vast library that was his home.

Why am I creeping out of the safe confines of my home to venture out into the midnight streets of Lanternport in search of adventure? he asked himself. If the wisest Archivist Adepts agree that the Grand Age of Adventure is truly finished and the epic tales recounted in the histories of the Three Companions are firmly in the past, who am I to contradict them?

The Eternal Archives was where Ehmett lived, studied, and worked. His role as a young Archivist Apprentice meant that he was learning the disciplines relating to the gathering and preserving of knowledge. He was devoted to the Archives, and he was enormously curious about all manner of subjects, but his chief passion was cartography, both magical and mundane. The study of maps and mapmaking thrilled him to no end, and that passion was one of the reasons he was skulking about this evening.

Though the Eternal Archives never truly closed its doors to patrons, at that late hour there were few researchers lurking about its torchlit, labyrinthine corridors. Its miles of stacks, cells, basements, subbasements, oubliettes, study carrels, attics, and great halls were almost deserted, so there were few to note Ehmett’s passing. But it was also the hour in which any Archivist Apprentice not burning the midnight candle at their desk or busy studying books and scrolls was expected to be abed in their dormitory rooms, most likely dreaming of studying books and scrolls. If Ehmett was challenged on his midnight skulking, his plan was to explain to the questioner that he was simply making his way to the kitchens of the Archives in search of a cinnamon pocket and a mug of instant hot spiced tea to sharpen his studying. Which was true, in part; he was going to the kitchens, and he was going to sneak a pocket or two, but instead of returning to his room, he was going to continue on to the door in the kitchen that led to Script Alley, the narrow thoroughfare that ran along the rear of the Archives. From there, he would continue into the nighttime streets of Lanternport, heading to his planned destination: the College of the Three Companions, a place that was long closed and abandoned.

It rankled Ehmett that some said there never even actually was such a thing as the Great Age of Adventure, and that the accomplishments and exploits of the legendary Three Companions were wildly exaggerated at worst, or simply an historical anomaly at best. Some cynics went even further and said the era that followed their great adventures and famous exploits—­the time when the College of the Three Companions was founded in their tribute, and the roads of the Open World were crowded with jolly crews of adventurers looking to see the world, have some fun, do some good, and perhaps make a little bit of a fortune while at it—­some now said that those times were little more than people echoing the deeds of those that came before. They said that it was inevitable that the Open World became the Splintered Lands, for nothing truly golden could endure, and if anyone dared to suggest otherwise, they would regard them with withering scorn.

In Ehmett’s opinion, if the Grand Age of Adventure was truly gone, then the world was the lesser for it, sadder and meaner. The news from abroad and far afield always made its way to the Eternal Archives and into its vast collection of information, and that news was oftentimes grim. There was a reason the Open World had come to be known as the Splintered Lands over the centuries; beyond the walls of Lanternport, the world was suspicious and difficult to navigate. The borders and highways between countries and kingdoms, the boundaries and arteries that were once free to pass along and through, were nowadays often closed, guarded, and watched, patrolled by suspicious soldiers. Free movement was the exception rather than the rule, and rumor ran rampant. Though Lanternport had always been and remained a free city where people and ideas came and went freely, as a whole the Splintered Lands were not a whole at all; they were truly broken apart, fragmented and fearful. And tonight, Ehmett was going to dare to somehow break into the College. And within its forbidding walls, he hoped that he’d find knowledge. History. A link to the past and, possibly, a path to the future.

A breeze blew down the hall from the darkness toward Ehmett, stirring his hair and clothing. It was somehow both warm and icy, the wind, and it carried on it the scent of dust and old parchment, of burning candles and sealing wax, of leather bindings and brass clasps. It smelled of history and wisdom and stories and things long dead but not forgotten. Knowing what would follow that strange wind, Ehmett swiftly ducked into a shadowy alcove and clutched the satchel that he was carrying close, hiding himself just in time to avoid the passing of one of the Eternal Archives’ Library Revenants, the hooded phantoms of long-­dead Archivists, whose dedication to the knowledge contained within the Archives was so great, it animated their spirits after death and caused them to wander the great structure’s halls, haunting the stacks with their ghostly presence. They were helpful, in their strange way; they spent much of their deathless and now endless free time reshelving tomes, indexing new additions to the collection, and retrieving items for still-­living Archivists. Not only that, they were constantly at the ready to defend the Archives if need be (the mysterious folds within their shrouds concealed wickedly sharp magical blades used for both bookbinding and battle).

Finally, the Revenant passed Ehmett’s hiding place and floated silently down the hall, making a left turn to descend deeper into the stacks. Once he was certain it was gone, Ehmett relaxed and straightened his satchel, patting it to reassure himself that the supplies he had packed (among them his prized personal copy of the now very rare fifth edition of The Young Adventurer’s Almanac, which he had found in a bookseller’s stall in Lanternport’s Grand Market over the summer and which he studied relentlessly) were secure, and headed in the direction the creature had. But instead of turning left, he made a right, descending the stairs that would take him to the Archives’ kitchens. He frowned to himself as he wrestled with the term break into; perhaps it was too strong a phrase for what he was attempting. Break into implied that he was going to use some sort of force or devious method to gain entry, which he was not; he planned to locate some sort of ingress by careful inspection and deduction, and then slip inside. Break into implied that he was not supposed to enter the College, which was technically untrue (tradition held that the College’s grounds were not to be trespassed upon, but no one could quite say where that tradition had come from). Break into implied that he was after some sort of reward, treasure, or bauble, but he wasn’t after anything except for the thrill of being inside the College and walking the same halls that generations of famous adventurers had walked. And if along the way he should happen to find any interesting relics to enrich his knowledge of the history of the College and add to the collection of the Archives, well . . . he was a scholar above all else, and research was his job.

Finally, Ehmett came to the kitchens, and he marveled at the lively chaos as he entered the warm and comforting warren of ovens and fires. The aroma within was intoxicatingly, overwhelmingly glorious. In one corner, a Mystic Bardbox was perched precariously on an upturned crate that was formerly a transport for potatoes. The enchanted music mechanism was playing a tune by the Better Legends, a popular band of traveling bards. Its driving melody of lutes, drums, and horns set the work of the kitchens to a percolating rhythm, and wrapped up in their tasks, the kitchen staff paid Ehmett no heed. Still, careful not to bring too much attention to himself, he brushed past the racks of spices and hanging herbs and sacks of grains and flours, and around the great casks and chests enchanted with spells of frigidity to keep their contents of drinks and meats cold and preserved, murmuring a polite “excuse me” or “pardon me” whenever it appeared that he was getting in the way of the elaborate dance the late-­night cooks were caught up in: stirring the porridge for the morning, baking loaves for tomorrow’s lunch, seasoning meats for supper, and more. On the counter close to him, a tray of pockets sat cooling, and Ehmett considered them; he reasoned that his task this evening might take a few hours to complete, and that in those hours, it was likely he would get hungry. Taking his line of reasoning to its logical end, Ehmett located a large kerchief in his satchel (he’d read in The Young Adventurer’s Almanac that a traveler should carry no fewer than three kerchiefs in their pack at all times) and placed three pockets within. As he was busy tying the ends of the kerchief together, he suddenly realized that he had caught the attention of another occupant of the kitchens.

“You’re up rather late, Archivist Apprentice Turzel.”

Ehmett startled at the voice, surprised to hear himself addressed at all, much less by name. He turned to see who had spoken and was relieved that it was someone he was passing familiar with: a woman, older than him by at least ten years, leaning against shelves laden with iron pots and onions.

She peered at him over the tops of the spectacles she wore, an amused smirk on her lips. “Out for a midnight snack?”

“Archivist Elect Gamblevon!” he spluttered, his voice rising an octave in surprise. “I, uh, yes. Yes, I am!” He looked around furtively. “Please don’t tell any of the Archivist Adepts I’m here. Apprentices aren’t supposed to be down here after hours.”

“I know. It is very bad that you are sneaking into the kitchens at night. Very much against the rules.”

Not knowing what to do, Ehmett grabbed another one of the pockets from the tray, thought again, then took another and offered it to her.

She accepted the pastry with a nod of thanks, and took a bite and winked at him. “But that didn’t stop me from doing the same thing when I was in your position, and I suspect that I’ll continue to sneak down here to pilfer baked goods even when I’m an old Adept.” She took another bite, chewing with obvious pleasure. “They are good, these pockets, aren’t they? Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you, Archivist Elect Gamblevon.”

“Please, call me Jessyl. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that I was an Apprentice, just like you. I’m not that old.”

Ehmett relaxed. He had taken instruction with Archivist Elect Gamblevon before, and she had always given him the impression that she was more interested in the spirit rather than the letter of the rules of the Archives. It occurred to Ehmett that she might be considered a bit of a rebel within the walls of the great library; she was fiercely intelligent, with a reputation for kindness and humor, and she was always willing to question the orthodoxy of the Archivist Adepts.

Somewhere outside, the chimes of the Lanternport city clock began to sound the hour, reminding Ehmett that he was getting behind schedule. Rebel or not, he thought, I still need to get rid of her and be on my way.

Jessyl ate the last bite of the pocket and yawned. “Oh, dear me. That’s the midnight Watch Bell. I don’t know about you, Archivist Apprentice Turzel, but I am very sleepy and must get some rest. I’ve a busy day of cataloging scrolls ahead of me, and I’m sure you have a lot to do before bed.” Jessyl raised an eyebrow as she examined Ehmett’s outfit. “I mean, look at you: You’re still dressed as if you were just coming in from walking around the city, satchel and all. Or about to go out walking. But why ever would you do that? It’s so late. Only someone who was up to something would be sneaking out of the Archives at this hour. Are you up to something, Archivist Apprentice Turzel? Hmm?”

Ehmett chuckled nervously and adjusted the strap of the satchel he was wearing across his chest, formulating an excuse he did not have and was sure to fumble when he stuttered whatever first came to mind. But before he could make up anything, Archivist Gamblevon walked to the kitchen doors, not waiting for him to answer her question. “Oh, one more thing, Archivist Apprentice: If you could do me a favor and check to make sure the door that leads out to the alley—­that door over there behind those crates, that no one would ever notice someone coming in or out of, the one that I’m pointing at . . . See it? Yes? There’s a lad. If you could make sure that door was firmly closed before you finish up in here? Yes? We wouldn’t want anybody from the outside making an honest mistake and coming through it and accidentally finding themselves inside the kitchens in the middle of the night. Or accidentally exiting through the door that leads to Script Alley and finding themselves on the midnight streets of Lanternport, with all of its secrets to explore! Who would do that? Huh! It makes you think, doesn’t it? Good night!”

And with a final nod, she was gone. Ehmett stood for a moment, fixed fast to the kitchen floor, his “Good night, Archivist Elect—­er, Miss Gamblevon—­I mean, Jessyl” spoken to empty air, afraid that if he made the wrong move, someone would come in and ask him more questions and actually wait for his explanations, and then stop him.

But no one came. His courage slowly returning, he wrapped two more pockets into a clean kitchen cloth, placed them into his backpack alongside the others, and scuttled over to the door leading to the outside. He took one last look around and, reassured that his movements were still unobserved, crept out into the Lanternport night, toward the unknown.

It took him the better part of an hour to make his way through the web of Lanternport streets that led to his destination. Ehmett pushed through crowds of late-­night revelers who never even noticed the shy Archivist slipping through their midst; he nimbly avoided the teams of steeds pulling wagons and carriages through the thoroughfares, and only stopped for a moment to watch a street musician and her pet wyvern perform a fire-­and-­song routine for a circle of appreciative late-­evening strollers (they were so good, Ehmett threw them one of the few coins he carried, and he could have sworn that the musician and the wyvern actually winked at him).

The crowds thinned and the streets began to empty, leaving Ehmett almost alone, save for the other folk creeping about on mysterious midnight errands. But Ehmett was careful not to catch anyone’s eye or bring unwanted attention to himself. They didn’t disturb him, and he hurried past them, anxious to get to his ultimate destination.

Cobblestoned paths, shiny with rain, led ever upward, until he was on a hill above Lanternport. It was eerily unpopulated, this place; the rest of the city was always bustling with some sort of activity, even at such a late hour, but this small clutch of blocks was dramatically deserted, as if it were haunted. If anyone lived here, they kept quiet behind closed doors. Even wandering street creatures like rats and cats and stray dogs seemed to avoid it. Atop the hill, protected by a wall and ringed by a narrow alley, was a ramshackle castle of sorts—­or rather, three castles; the trio of structures was set close but not too close to one another, each of them obviously one of a trinity, yet also distinctive in its own right. They were old, these three castles; rambling structures of old mortar and old stone, and they were all three surrounded by an old wall covered with old vines as tall as a brass golem, and in that wall there was not a single door to be seen. Ehmett stood before his destination, the College of the Three Companions, which had not been a school for the better part of a century, and he realized that he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to actually enter.

But as he gazed upward at the looming towers of ancient masonry, he was again convinced of one thing: The College of the Three Companions was waiting for him. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew it in his heart. It was irrational, but that didn’t make it any less true. Ehmett had known about the College since he was a small boy; every child in Lanternport grew up on legends of the haunted school, but something about it had seized his imagination, even when he was young, and he spent much of his free time and off-­hours hunting for whatever information he could find about the College in the stacks of the Eternal Archives. Over the years, this had turned him into something of an informal authority on the College, and he had become convinced that gaining entrance to the College of the Three Companions and wandering its halls, torch in hand, was his destiny. Somewhere within its halls was where he would find his future. He needed only to figure out how to get inside. The rest would take care of itself.

Considering his problem, and knowing that he puzzled better on a full stomach, he produced one of the pockets from his handkerchief and took a bite, muttering a brief grunt of satisfaction at his luck (it was roasted mushroom with cheese and onion). He considered his next move as he strolled along the alley, his steps echoing in the silence, examining the wall and hoping for inspiration. He was so absorbed in his inspection, he didn’t notice that behind him, a shape had silently separated from the darkness.

And that’s when it came to him—­or, rather, he came to it: a small wooden door, arched at the top and banded by iron, a small barred window in its center and a handle and a lock below the window and to the right. If I only had the key, he thought. But all the same, he reached out a hand, grasped the handle, worked it . . . and found the door locked tight. Of course it was. He took another bite of his pocket while he thought on the problem before him.

And that’s when Ehmett felt the unmistakable touch of the point of a dagger at his side. The astonished Archivist Apprentice realized too late that contrary to all appearances, he wasn’t alone outside the deserted College. The knife-­holder spoke, their harsh, whispered words chilling in the cool, early-­autumn air.

“Your mushroom pocket or your life, nerd.”