The Churchwarden watched the knights finish off their last mugs of ale as they gibbered, laughed and stumble together under a lamp post. They were three of the last five to leave the Inn after closing. Almost :24 past by his timepiece, which after the last 3 weeks of trailing this lot had earned a new wear spot or two. This night had taken them, and thus him, to this small brew house halfway between Worthen and The Bells of Alyss whose sad lingering melody could be heard this far off, drifting over treetop and thatch roof.
For nearly 4 hours he had waited just off the road where a small incline rose gently about 2 feet before leveling off. At the edge of the rise lived a bush large enough to shield him from all but expert eyes, coming up just to his throat. There was a space sized just right for the Warden to stand and still be able to move a bit here or there if need be and even better an old, thick oak in the perfect spot to act as both something to lean against and extra camouflage for both him and his horse. The animal was tied to a stump far enough back in the wood to remain unseen but easy enough to get to in four quick strides. The two men he followed were known to make quick departures and there could be no chance of losing them now. It was clear though that a rapid escape was not something to worry about tonight.
The three men weaved together under the orb of yellow light as though they were the last remaining men alive on the deck of a ship being heaved around the sea by the wrath of both the Great Gods. After draining his cup, and turning it completely over his open mouth, the brown knight began to make his departure. He loudly said his farewells and tried his hardest to stumble to the barn where his horse was probably sleeping in a fresh pile of hay. The Warden's eyes never left his charges, one of them had sat atop a crate sitting at the bottom of the lamp post as his partner held a repeat performance of brown knights' cup emptying before nearly falling when the ground his was standing on hit a rough patch in the storm of ale and whiskey.
These men were both sworn knights of the Holy Command. Members of the ancient of noble brotherhood of Robyn's Wing, under the direct command and patronage of the Father Baily. Father of the Baily was the highest seat in the county realm. Under his command there stood 300 sworn knights of the Holy Command, all chosen by the Hierarchy, of several different orders'. Along with about 170 knights from local jurisdictions and orders. These locals were known as the brown knights because of their cloaks. Not all of which were brown, as a point of fact most were not, but nearly all were dark, earthly colors common of the area. It is commonly said that some random knight returning to the Holy Capital in the East after a long trip to Wards of the North West answered the question of what his thoughts of the area and its peoples were with "All browns and greens. Mostly browns." Probably meaning the heavily wooded landscape and long rolling fields of the area. But the local garb was similar so that version is much preferred.
But these knights stood apart from all their different circles of brotherhood and oath, they were men of evil. The Warden could not condemn them as so, no living being could (save perhaps the royal Head of House or Pope), that was a duty solely for the Risen God. But these men were as close to it as the laws and standards of the realm decreed. Their own order had come to the Wardens with proof of their offenses and theories of more being committed. Theft, rape, torture, bribery, sacrilege and murder were the duos favorite pastimes. After tracking their days and nights for so long the Warden was wondering how they had any time to do anything else, such as their duties, but they always found time for drink. Every night it was a different pub or some random Inn along some long stretch of road, a brothel under a flimsy costume to mask their bold entrances. But the Warden knew, it was all part of the job. It was how they knew who was ripe to rob, which working girls had laid with which official or business owner, which shipments were heading to and fro and when they would be most vulnerable. All the information they needed and the station feel as if it were their right. A few days ago he wasn't sure they'd ever stop until they got rich and bold enough to stand out as rebels. But now…something had changed.
The older of them started walking a pace or two behind his partner when the younger was caught up talking to this person or that. He had begun saying less, laughing shorter and watching more. He had always been cautious, filth he was but foolish was not. It had changed, ever so slightly. When he was usually watching their mark for flinches or eye darting he was eyeing his young accomplice. And vice versa. Today was the day. The Warden arrived at the knight's designated meeting place almost an hour early (as usual for something like this) and found the older man already there. Warden saw knight long before knight ever had a chance to see the warden; the skilled watchmen moving from one group to another, blending like a shadow. From morning bells in the small village they stayed the night to a lunch on the road of bread, hard cheese and wine the senior man said less than ten words. He sat and watched and always on his mind, front and center was death. It was as apparent in his eyes as emotion. From high noon on two men walked the world waiting for the death of the oblivious third. The knight was waiting for the moment, that just right moment to open throat, stab liver or pierce heart. And always present but never seen was the warden.
After throwing his utterly empty clay mug into the trees the younger knight laughed and spun, stumbling off several yards to the edge of the light and started unbuckling his pants to relieve himself as he hummed some tune. As he spun and moved away the warden never lost him, constantly aware of what he was doing but his focus stayed on the crates and the man sitting on them. At that same moment it happened. As soon as the young man's back was to him the older man straightened up. He was instantly more awake, alert and as if by some miracle very sober. Stealing a quick glance up and down the road and a final glance at the Inn the old man slid both hands together in his lap for a moment and pulled them apart now holding a dagger in one hand and a rag in the other. He slipped from his crate as slow and silent as a cat correcting his grip while taking extra care no light from any lamp glinted off the blade.
At this same moment the warden was walking through the tree line towards the men. He had slipped from his spot and slid across the darkened road and into the same side as them like wisp of smoke as soon as the young one tossed his empty cup. As he moved the warden slid his elegant wooden pipe into a specially made pocket of his trench coat with one hand as he hooked one finger around the leather cord slung over his neck and shoulder and traced it down to the grip of his sword-arm. Both men were silent as ghosts but the warden was quicker. As the knight raised his arms, one to cover his partner's mouth with the rag as the other was aimed to stab deep into his liver the warden stepped quickly to his right. With a rising angular slash both knife and gloved hand flew up and out into the road, the knight gasped, a noise that sounded very inhuman, and stared down and his new nub where his forearm and below formerly resided but before he had time for any other reaction, even to scream in pain that his brain was now becoming aware of the warden finished the rotation of his arm to bring the butt of his weapon down so hard on skull it made an audible crack. The gasp and wet, meaty crack of skull fracturing grabbed enough of the young knights' attention to turn in a quick 180 in time enough to come face to tip with the warden's sword-arm aimed right between his eyes.
Osborne of Rhys Hill, Church Warden of Holy Glen allowed the young, brash knight's eyes take in his mutilated, fallen partner before he wildly and drunkenly turned back to the blade extended towards his head and lastly on Osborne himself. "Wha-?!" was all the villain managed before the warden loudly and clearly declared, "You are guilty of reasons against Royalty, Church and country." The sound that came from the sword-arm was like the crack of lightning held within a blade, the vibration shook Osborne's entire body and made him clinch his teeth but neither was as bad for him as the criminal on the other end. The force blown toward his skull hit like a tidal wave. His body fell like a suspended sack of stones that had its rope cut. Osborne didn't need to assure he was unconscious, he knew the knight was. He would check in a few moments to see how man teeth the man had left.
The shot of the sword-arm had brought the brew master and two serving wenches to the Inn's wooden door where their heads stuck out around the door itself and looked to be stacked on one another.
"Back inside, now. When you're needed we will come to you." The warden told them and without so much as an effort used his left arm to fling his large black trench coat out of the way as his arm shot upward either from something he held hidden in his palm of from his very flesh, the Inn workers could not tell, came a flash followed by a small screaming orb of golden fire shooting into the sky to pop and crack in a fiery green explosion a hundred feet above the tree line. A moment later the was a cloud unlike any anyone at the Inn had ever seen, roiling shades of green that hung and hovered in the air where it popped, lighting randomly throughout like tiny electrical storms chasing each other.
The brew master sent the wenches to finish cleaning up and locking up –twice, while he crouched at the bottom corner of the smallest window facing the road. The man in black with the gun-sword had sat the two loudmouth knights up, propped up against the empty crates and barrels that were waiting to be taken and filled with fresh goods. After getting a good last look at the faces and sigils the knights were wearing the brewman looked for man in black but only barely spotted him. He was all but pressed up against the front wall off the inn, inches outside the circle of lamp light. Just barely visible if you thought someone might be there and stopped for a real good look. But no, there was something else. The brewman had to squint his eyes just right to spot the faint red glare of a lit pipe about a foot below his shaded face.