Chapter 2: Tipping the Apple Cart
The Great Manor House of the Guild of Thieves had never in its long history been robbed successfully. There had been attempts of course; such a storehouse of all things worth stealing made a juicy and irresistible target. Many interlopers had tried, some had even come close. But it had never happened, ever. It was a matter of pride to the brothers and sisters of the Guild that it stood as the one place in all the lands that could not be broken. Not even the Grand Impenetrable Fortress Monasteries of Thume could boast that, for had not the Guild robbed them of their precious reliquaries?
The Manor had been designed by thieves, built by thieves, and was maintained and occupied by thieves. Save for the larger spaces such as the mess halls, training rooms, vaults, labs and armories, the halls were intentionally convoluted and often twisted back on themselves in mind-boggling loops and swirls. Traps of all types and varieties, some magical, were woven into the very structure of the building. Many halls and rooms were designed to be identical to each other down to the smallest detail to further confuse outsiders. Secret passages cut across all of them and many rooms contained hidden alcoves and peepholes to facilitate ambushes. The guards that roamed the hallways at all hours did so on the most random of schedules. It was considered the first right of passage for any Guild initiate to be able to make it from the dormitories to the privies and back unscathed. In short, the collected knowledge of generations of master thieves had been compiled into the most finely-tuned masterpiece of anti-thievery that ever existed. It was commonly held that it would take a thief of god-like craft, cunning and caution to break its defenses.
So enamored were they with their own clever thinking, it never had occurred to them that someone might one day, like some applecart in the street, push it all over and take off running. The mad rush of the unlikely pair was like a sudden gust of wind through an open window, flattening a house of cards.
It caused a catastrophic collapse of the Guild’s defenses. Traps that had been minutely balanced to snare the overcautious triggered too late, snaring instead the men’s pursuers. The moans and curses of the poisoned, stunned and paralyzed soon filled hallways. They hung from their ankles, clutched desperately at the edges of pitfalls or were bound in neat little packages to the floor. Feet were pierced, eyes where stung and noses were offended.
The least fortunate were those who had been caught by the enchantments. They staggered the halls beneath heads swollen to ten times their size, covered in brightly glowing spots or with tentacles for arms. They floated to the ceilings, sank ghostlike into the floors or stood encased in blocks of gel. One had been hit by so many enchantments that they had mixed unexpectedly and transformed him into a green three-eyed goat that hiccuped bubbles.
Desperate attempts to rally their defenses left whole groups of guards trapped in secret passageways, the finely crafted doors and delicate mechanisms having been smashed in and jammed shut by the keen eye and strong shoulder of the larger man. Their ambushes were being foiled as well by the smaller man’s quick wit and agility. Springing forward he would cut down tapestries or overturn obstacles leaving behind tangled piles of men and weapons.
Through the course of their dash, the two men soon developed a rhythm of movement that played to each of their strengths: the smaller dashing two and fro quicker than thought, sometimes using the larger man as a springboard or platform from which to launch his attacks, the larger, steady and inexorable, falling like a hammer on the distracted and confused foes that the smaller man had placed in his way. Broad grins grew on their faces as they raced on, leaving destruction and turmoil in their wake.
Pandemonium ruled the halls.
© Tucker Johnson 2020