Chapter 1: The Rescue

“What hell is this?” mutters Giroud under his breath as he drops down off the ladder into a large cellar. The air hits him like a wet blanket – thick with mold and decay. Torch flames flutter weakly against stone walls that weep with moisture, casting more shadows than light.

He scours the dimly lit room quickly before pushing away a large decorative cloth on the wall which unveils a sturdy timber door. It does not lock, and Giroud opens it carefully. He steps into a room already lit by a couple of torches as he is jumped by a sword wielding bandit. Giroud effortlessly steps aside, dodging the blow as the bandit crashes past him against the stone wall. Giroud turns, drawing his sword and thrusting it into the man’s back, severing his spine in the process. He feels the tip of his sword hit the stone wall. The vibration from the sword striking stone travels up Giroud’s arm, making his teeth clench. His fingers tingle from the impact, and he flexes his hand around the grip to shake off the numbing sensation.

The dead bandit slumps against the wall, leaving a wet streak as he slides down. Blood pools around his boots, spreading across the uneven stone floor in dark rivulets.

“Bah,” he mutters to himself again. “Going to have to resharpen that later.”

Putting his boot against the bandit’s back he pulls his sword out of the dead man’s body and lets him crumple to the floor in a heavy heap. Blood pools rapidly beneath the corpse. As a Wanderer, Giroud is no stranger to dealing with clumsy, untrained “soldiers” fighting for causes they never benefited enough from to warrant putting their lives on the line.

Giroud turns to survey the room the bandit had been hiding in. His eyes go wide with shock. There is nearly a dozen crudely made bamboo cages. One of them occupied by a young girl.

“Please, please, let me out!” pleads the girl.

Giroud approaches the closest cage, which holds the young girl. As he reaches her cage, he is able to see her better. She looks about 14 years of age. A pretty, round face; big, warm brown eyes; and a thin, athletic figure that has nearly shed the softness of youth. She probably competed well with her brother and friends in ball games. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail as she looks up to meet Giroud’s gaze.

“Please get me out of here,” pleads the girl again. Giroud had drifted into a stunned trance, his practiced detachment cracking at the sight of those warm brown eyes. Children weren’t supposed to be part of this mission.

“What is your name?” he asks, his voice gentler than intended.

“Aya,” replies the girl. Her voice is pleasant, something he’s not used to hearing in his line of work, even with the undercurrent of distress.

“There are no other prisoners?” Giroud enquires after freeing the girl.

She shakes her head ‘no’.

“The others tried to fight and they killed them before getting here.”

“How many more bandits were there? How long ago did they leave?”

“Not long ago. There was six of them – one died when we got here. My family ... My family and our neighbors were all killed.”

“So how are you still alive then?” asks Giroud.

Aya shrugs her shoulders. “I killed the one that died. Another one of them said not to hurt me because I was useful.”

Giroud’s eyes narrow as he processes Aya’s words. A girl her size, killing a grown bandit? He scans the room again, noticing a broken piece of bamboo, its end sharpened to a crude point and stained dark with dried blood. The dead bandit’s clothes are piled in a corner, a deep puncture wound visible in the fabric of the shirt.

“You made this?” He picks up the makeshift weapon, studying its jagged edge.

Aya nods, her brown eyes hardening with a flash of pride.

Giroud examines the weapon more closely. The cut is clean, purposeful - not the work of someone acting on blind panic. The bamboo shows meticulous grinding against it to create the point, the result precise and intentional. This girl had planned her defense, waited for the right moment.

“Show me how,” he says.

Aya demonstrates the stabbing motion through the cage bars, her movements fluid and practiced. “Like this. Right in the chest when he bent down to grab me.”

A chill runs through Giroud’s spine. Her voice maintains that sweet, youthful quality even while describing such a brutal act. He’s seen hardened warriors with less composure discussing their kills.

Blood trails on the floor confirm her story - drag marks where the other bandits must have moved their companion’s body, leaving behind only the clothes as evidence. They’d clearly underestimated what this child was capable of.

He looks at Aya with new eyes - no longer just a prisoner to be freed, but someone with surprising depths. “We need to move. Those other bandits won’t stay away forever. How did you learn to fight?”

“My Dad taught me and my brother,” she explains. “I can help you.”

“You may think you can. But I don’t need your help,” smiles Giroud. “You have heard of Wanderers?”

Giroud pauses to let her think. As her eyes go wide with knowing, he continues, “The people I deal with every day are not nice, and they are much bigger than you. Even knowing how to fight will not save you.”

Aya can’t mask her surprise at hearing Giroud is a Wanderer. Most had heard tales of the highly trained warriors, lone crusaders that traveled the lands putting out the fires troubling humanity as they went. Only some believed they were real.