The Fell Switcheroo

"The Fell Switcheroo"

    The tall pine trees that enshroud the city of Mauville prevent moonlight from shining down on the scoundrels who creep through the night.  Unfortunately for Lord Francis, these beautiful evergreens also provide convenient access to the third floor of his manor for the intrepid spirits who seek illicit entry into his domain.

    The leader of these scoundrels is a man of sinewy physique.  His wiry frame is adorned with dark leather and a black cloak.  A hood covers a shock of black hair and scheming brown eyes.

     “What’s taking so long, Eli?” one of the scoundrels asks the leader in an anxious whisper.  “Ann should have cleared the way for us by now.”

    Eli is concerned as well but can’t allow this weakness to be observed by his colleague.  They remain perched perilously high upon the thick branch of a pine tree, eyes fixed on the shut window of Lord Francis’s gallery.  Any minute now, a third operative of the Golden Glove should be opening the window and allowing them to enter with the obtuse package they bear: a cylindrical tube that is roughly twelve feet long.  Eli’s colleague is hunkered close to the branch holding the tube parallel to the limb, hoping to suppress their visual presence by any means.

    “Your worried nerves will interfere with your competence, Bernard,” Eli warns, the stubble on his chin barely moving with each surreptitious word.  “We must have faith in Ann’s ability to infiltrate and navigate.  She has doubtless encountered some setbacks, but we would know by now if her position has been compromised.”

    “Just feels like we’ve been here too long,” complains Eli’s companion.  Tufts of auburn hair stick out from beneath the hood of Bernard’s black cloak.  Eli notices the anxiety in the young thief’s green eyes—he’s doubtlessly calculating all the ways tonight’s job can go wrong.  A truly amateur mistake.

    Can’t believe they stuck me with this green recruit, Eli thinks cynically. 

    “Yes, well that is the nature of lying in wait.  Take a deep breath and allow Ann the time to make the necessary preparations.”

    Many excruciatingly long moments pass in which there is naught to be done save for listen.  The call of a distant owl. The chorus of locusts heralding the advent of the night.  The low murmur of muffled conversation within the manor on its first floor where the night’s patrons are still delighting in supper, strong drink, and exaggerated stories. 

    At last, the window of the gallery opens.  Ann pokes her head out the window with her hand outstretched.  Her black hair, normally tied into a neat knot atop her head, has loose wires spilling over her ears and forehead. 

    Bernard sighs in relief and feeds the cylindrical tube until it reaches Ann’s grasp.  She grabs the tube and reels it into the gallery.  Bernard then turns to Eli as if to ask for direction.  Eli simply points to the window.  The red-haired scoundrel nods, steadies himself in a low crouch on the tree branch, then launches forward.  He clasps onto the windowsill and braces his legs against the boards of the manor’s walls as quietly as possible.  Ann lends a hand in pulling Bernard into the room.

    Eli follows suit, needing no assistance from his companions to pull himself into the gallery.

    Pale rays of moonlight shine through the two windows on the opposite side of the room.  A sliver of orange light from the hallway seeps into the gallery below the crack beneath the door.  Upon the each of the gallery’s walls are the many pieces of Lord Francis’s collection of oil paintings, most of which are of little interest to the Golden Glove operatives.  At the center of the room is a raised platform displaying a renowned collection of statues.  Five of these are carved of white marble with a sixth being carved of a black stone, likely onyx or jet. 

    Eli allows himself a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the statues.

    The six statues depict an important scene in the mythos of the Terrosan Empire: a hideous aberration with black wings and dark curved horns lies on its back.  An armored warrior stands with a boot on the monster’s chest, his claymore held threateningly at its throat.  On either side of this pair are two wolves who are nearly as large as the warrior, their snouts fixed in a permanent snarl.  Completing the scene are two figures clad in robes.  One bears a scepter, the other a tome that, if the legends are to be believed, was used to seal the aberration deep beneath the earth.

    “Took you long enough,” Bernard whispers to Ann, the snide comment breaking Eli from his recollections. 

    Eli slaps the kid in the back of the head reproachfully.

    “Were you spotted on your excursion from the first floor to the third?” Eli asks quietly.

    “No, but there were quite a few close calls with the servants.  They were more active than I expected, so I had to lay in wait among the shadows for a long time.”

    “Fine work,” Eli says as he pats her on the back and moves to the object of their infiltration.   

    Opposite of the gallery’s door is an enormous portrait of one of Terros’s oldest emperors, Jauffre the First, whose condescending countenance fits his legacy as a ruthless conqueror and merciless despot.  He is depicted wearing ornate black plate armor with gold trim.  A scarlet cape is draped over one shoulder.  Both of the old emperor’s gauntleted hands rest upon the crest of a jeweled scepter.  Even in his old age, Jauffre’s eyes seem to burn with some mixture of agitation, indignation, and domination. 

It will be a great pleasure for Eli to defame such a piece.

“Let’s get to work,” he orders. 

Ann unscrews the lid of the twelve-foot long cylinder and begins sliding out a rolled up sheet of canvas.  Meanwhile, Eli and Bernard each grab one side of the gilded frame that encloses the painting and lower it to the floor.  With the discerning use of pliers, chisels, and the careful blows of a hammer, the two liberate the painting from its prison.  Eli passes the painting to Ann while she gives him a convincing counterfeit.

The scoundrels work wordlessly as Ann rolls the original painting into a long, tight scroll to slide back into the overlarge cylindrical case.  The other two place the counterfeit into the frame of the original painting.  After a few minutes of silent cooperation, Eli and Bernard have reassembled the frame and hang it on the wall upon its rightful nails.  Only the most discerning and learned of critics will notice the subtle differences between the original and this copy, and by then the scoundrels will have long since returned to their haven far to the south.

Eli notes with satisfaction that Ann has just finished sealing the cylinder which contains their loot.  Some have called this kind of art priceless, but Eli already has a buyer lined up.

“Time for the easy part,” Eli whispers.  The escape from such graceful heists like this are always immensely gratifying.  Yet when he turns his back from the wall that bears the counterfeit painting, he notices that the statues that were at the center of the room are gone.

More accurately, only one statue remains on the platform at the room’s center.  The black depiction of a winged demon stands proudly upon its stage.  It brandishes a cruelly sharp trident.  Its black eyes seem to glow with a mute red ferocity. 

Not wishing to overstay his welcome, Eli gestures for his team to return to the window through which they entered.  To his dismay, he sees that the path to the window is blocked by the statue of an armor-clad warrior who stands with his hands resting upon his claymore’s hilt.

“What’s going on?” Bernard asks in a frantic whisper.  “Do these things move?”

“Obviously,” Ann says in a cutting hiss. 

To Bernard’s credit, the statues remain still at their stations.  Each of the four windows as well as the door are blocked by a white marble statue, the wolves and priests guarding the exits which are not guarded by the knight. It’s as if they dare the thieves to try to make a break for it so that the magics which enliven them will allow the statues to gut the foolish intruders.

“It seems Lord Francis has some powerful intrusion countermeasures in place,” Eli tells his team.  He puts on a brave face and forces his voice not to quaver in fear.  “Don’t admit defeat.  A path will present itself in time.”

The gargoyle strides off its platform and slowly approaches the band of thieves.  Its movements are oddly silent aside from the slight sound of grating stone. 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” asks Bernard, whose frantic eyes betray his mounting terror.  “This thing could run us through in a heartbeat.  Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this job.  Fenrir said it would be simple, he said it would be easy.”

The kid is recalling his mortality.  He faces it with the entirely wrong attitude.

“No job is ever as simple as the contractor makes it appear,” Ann scolds as she draws a shortsword from its sheath.   “If you didn’t want to see any danger, you should’ve kept working the fields back in Lone Hill.”

The black stone monstrosity towers over the group of scoundrels.  It raises its polearm and thrusts it forward, causing the three to dart in different directions to dodge its strike.  It then swipes the weapon in a broad arc with frightening rapacity.  Eli ducks beneath the blow and Ann rolls forward, boldly landing at a crouch near the monster’s hooves, while a chunk of flesh is torn from Bernard’s shoulder.

He cries out in pain.

“Shut the hell up, you dolt,” Ann says in a hushed shout.  “Our cover is not blown yet, but it will be if you don’t get a hold of yourself.”

With the gargoyle’s spear arm yet outstretched, Eli lunges forward and wraps both arms around the black stone, attempting to anchor himself to the floor and possibly pacify their adversary.  Ann simultaneously crawls up the back of the monster, raising her shortsword above its neck to deliver a rehearsed killing blow. 

The gargoyle turns its dead eyes to Eli.  It waves its spear arm to toss him off, but he clings tightly to the animated statue.  He hears a clink clink clink as Ann futilely attempts to cut into the statue’s neck with her blade.

Guess it was worth a shot, Eli reckons.  Not like a weapon of that caliber could wound a fell creature like this.

A black fist soars through the air and pounds Eli’s skull, dazing the counterfeit artist and knocking him to the floor with a thud.  A searing hot pain announces itself on his forehead.  His right eye stings as blood flows into it. 

A path will present itself, he reassures himself. 

Incidentally, Eli notices Bernard trying to force a path at the window guarded by the statue of an armored warrior.  The desperate thief lunges first left, then right, then attempts to slide beneath, but at each attempt the statue coolly positions its blade to prevent escape.

Turning his attention back to the gargoyle, he watches as it uses its free hand to snatch the scampering thief who futilely strikes at its neck.  Ann wriggles and writhes as she tries to free herself from its grip to no avail.  Eli is already in a sprint by the time the gargoyle throws Ann fiercely to the wooden floor.  It raises its trident until its hilt nearly touches the ceiling, then strikes downward just as Eli hooks each hand under Ann’s arms and yanks her to safety.  The prongs of the trident pierce the wooden floors.

If the party guests weren’t aware of us before, they are now, Eli considers, cursing his fell stars.  Wish that damn path would present itself already.

He and Ann are back on their feet, scrambling toward Bernard who cowers in a corner of the room as his comrades are assailed thusly.  Though their backs are turned to the statue, Eli hears the smooth stone grating of its movement.  He understands that it is moving perilously close to their flank and accepts that within an imperceptibly slim moment the trident will thrust toward them. 

Guided by instinct, he runs toward the statue of the armored knight, Ann running at his side.  He grabs a fistful of Ann’s cloak and pushes her downward as he falls forward.  He feels his own cloak being yanked by the prongs of the trident as it thrusts mercilessly forward, missing its mark as it collides powerfully with the marble breastplate of the stoic knight, who is rocked from the impact of the blow.  The marble shatters the window through which they entered.

“On your feet, you two,” Eli shouts as he scurries to the base of the statue of the knight.  His comrades understand his intent and imitate his motions.  They grip and heave from their squat, lifting with all their might.  With their joint efforts they lift and push the statue of the knight until it topples out of the window, cutting into the wooden boards of wall during its descent. 

“Back to the tree, both of you,” Eli commands. 

Bernard doesn’t need to be told twice.  Before Eli has finished issuing the command, the green thief has leapt from the third floor of the manor to the branch of the pine tree outside.

“What about you?” Ann asks hastily, eyes on the glowing glare of the gargoyle whose trident prepares another strike.

“I said move,” Eli says.  She ducks below another thrust from the statue’s spear and acquiesces to Eli’s orders, jumping to the branch from which Bernard has already descended.

The cylindrical tube is on the opposite side of the gargoyle, of course.  Refusing to leave empty-handed, Eli stands his ground.  He awaits another strike, which he sidesteps before once again clinging with both arms to the statue’s black stone arm.  History repeats itself as the gargoyle lifts a black fist to launch at the thief.

Before the blow lands, Eli promptly releases his grip and scampers between the statue’s hooves.  It turns to follow him, but by the time the sluggish creature has adjusted to his strategy he has already snatched the tube from the floor.  Eli is uncertain about whether or not animated statues can feel agitation, but this one certainly seems perturbed.  He can practically see the gargoyle seething through its scowl.

It swings its trident in wild, swift strikes.  The art collector nimbly ducks, leaps, rolls, and soon finds himself at the hole in the wall.  He throws the tube like a javelin to the ground where Ann waits anxiously.  Bernard is nowhere in sight.

The dreadful sound of grating stone is just behind the thief.  He leaps to the tree branch and descends to the lush grass below with understandable relief.

By the time he reaches the ground, Bernard has approached on a steed with a second one being pulled by its reigns.  Ann shares Bernard’s saddle.  She proudly brandishes the tube that contains their loot.

Eli smiles caustically.  He bends to collect a memento—the helmed head of the shattered statue of the knight—before mounting his steed and fleeing into the night with his colleagues.  The guards of Mauville attempt to close the city’s wooden gates before the suspicious figures escape, but they are woefully slow and critically ill informed. 

The Golden Glove operatives are soon galloping downhill outside the city’s walls, hooting and hollering into the night as they celebrate their narrow escape, each of them dreaming of what they’ll do with their share of the loot.