The night was a quiet one-the sky clear, the moon all but vanished into a sliver of soft gray high in the sky, a cool breeze tickling the treetops from time to time. Bohemia slept.
Below the town of Rataje nad Sázavou, a lone figure walked the road. His steps were purposeful and measured. His attire was plain-dark brown cloak over simple peasant’s garments. The only thing that might have singled him out were his eyes. They were hard eyes, used to hard deeds and ugliness, out of place in the midst of such natural beauty.
He stopped and stared upward to the gate as he approached to within perhaps 200 feet, his posture shifting slightly, bending his knees and dropping into a crouch.
It was, all together, a rather well fortified place. The town was solidly encircled by a wall, and most approaches were rendered especially difficult due to the steep hillsides that lay beneath the walls. The few more flat areas were well guarded-he counted at least 3 men standing watch at the main entrance, and there could easily be more nearby.
He began to move forward, but no longer in a walk-he instead crawled along the roadside, keeping the light bushes besides the path between himself and the guards ahead. He crawled until within perhaps 50 feet of them, and here he stopped again and looked long and hard.
Two men strolled back and forth outside the walls, ahead of a small fire that illuminated the final approach to the castle quite well. They had the manner of men stupefied with boredom, and frequently stopped to chat with each other, likely needing to do so to avoid the temptation to doze. Above the gate, another sentry leaned on his spear, occasionally moving to his left to chat with an unseen figure, probably another guard keeping an eye on the town.
The man in brown reached down the front of his shirt and brought out a length of cord with a leather pouch in its center, and fit a rock slightly smaller than a chicken’s egg into it. He waited until the man up top had drifted back to chat with his friend and then, he gave the sling a swift series of spins and let the rock fly.
It collided with the rock to the left of the two bored sentries, and they went silent in surprise at its clatter. The two men walked forward, incautiously, more curious than alarmed, likely imagining some half-starved dog responsible for the sound. The man in brown melted from the shadows, moving past them like a ghost as they peered into the dark, and moved quickly to the right up the path, and then up the rocks. It was treacherous ground, but he stepped with care. The two men below, finding nothing, returned to their post, none the wiser. This was the weak point of the town-the rocks here rose up to within perhaps 8 feet of the wall’s upper lip, and the man in brown steadied himself and pulled out a length of knotted rope from his satchel. Fashioning a simple, large noose, he listened first intently for a time for footsteps or breathing before he tossed the rope around one of the battlements. He climbed the rope in a flash, the knots keeping his hands secure as he pulled himself up, and, after a quick look from side to side, he moved onto the top of the wall.
For a split second, the man’s calm veneer shifted, and a hint of a smile played across his lips.
He moved forward with the loping, powerful steps of a tiger, silent and watchful and wary, and one hand strayed down to the hilt of his dagger as he heard the sound of plodding footsteps ahead. The man in brown drifted back, and waited for them to recede. He made his way to face the sleeping town.
He looked down into Rataje, and the faint outlines of the houses in the dim night’s light. He studied the roofs until the one he sought became visible. An ordinary house, but its form seemed to him to waver with purpose and wealth. This time, the smile came to his lips entirely, and a kind of obscene light brought life, albeit cruel, hungry life, into his eyes.
He made his way down into the city, avoiding detection by the in-suspicious guards with ease, and now he strolled its streets with purpose. The only guards inside the city were, as far as he could see, situated near its tavern at the moment, and were likely so entirely unused to taking action that he could probably sprint past them without drawing more than a half hearted request that he go back to bed.
The man in brown arrived at the house and here he again stopped for a time, to let the clouds drift out of the way of the moon, and from his satchel he brought out an oilskin pouch, full of neatly wrapped lockpicks.
The lock was old and not especially complex, and before too long it clicked open with a gentle snapping of tumblers.
From a little glass bottle the man in brown drew olive oil, and with a brush he gently worked it into the hinges, and with the care of a man handling the bones of a saint, he pushed open the door.
It was dark inside, the furnishings nothing but indistinct blobs of grey to his straining eyes, and for that reason he left the front door open a ways, and he made his way forward now with extreme caution, his hands reaching out delicately ahead of him for things that he might topple and give himself away with.
The bedroom door at last met his questing fingers, and now the dagger came out of its sheath in earnest, and with a firm hand the man in brown opened the bedroom door, ears straining.
From the gloom, he heard the delicate sounds of quiet, restful breath.
He stepped forward. He pushed down the dagger into the indistinct form as his hand sought the sleeper’s mouth.
There was a ragged gasp, and a violent spasm, a smothered, frightened prayer, and then, nothing.
The man in brown pulled a ball of dry twigs from his satchel and made a fire with a few careful strikes of his flint and steel in the small fireplace to the left of the bed. He built a tiny fire, making sure to close the shutters before it gave off much light, and quickly doubled back to shut the front door.
He tossed the corpse from the bed, wrapping it in the sheets like so much dirty clothing, and shifted the bed to the side. Beneath it, he pushed at the stone flooring gingerly, until he felt the telltale wiggle. With a few hard twists, he pulled the stone free, and stared down into the hole.
The box was plain, wrapped in yellowed linen, but as he lifted it the man in brown changed in aspect from killer to kid, and a mania played out across his aspect as he tore the linen into ribbons with trembling hands.
Into his eager palm, fell a diamond as large as a robin’s egg, and the color of a deep mountain lake.
As he rolled the stone across his palm, the man in brown glanced at the bloodstained sack, filled with the stone’s former owner, and a harsh bark of laughter made its way across his lips.
“I’d wager a king’s ransom you wish you’d never sought such a bauble, eh? Ah well, least ye died warm and full a good food, unlike your pal Lot.”
The man in brown crossed himself, somewhat sheepishly, and stomped out the fire. He paused before exiting, and walked back, dipping his fingers into the ash, and smeared the image of a raven tearing into a two-headed snake, with the words “SO ENDS A JUDAS” below.
“May your first day in hell last a thousand years.”
And just like that, the man in brown faded away.