Chapter 28: The Abandoned Farm

Golden rays spill across the Ancient Plains as they thunder northward, the horse’s hooves beating a desperate rhythm against the packed earth. The warm breeze carries hints of sun-baked grass and wildflowers, the peaceful scents a jarring contrast to their grim purpose.

With each passing mile, the knot in Giroud’s stomach tightens, twisting like a serpent. His eyes scan the horizon until something catches his attention.

“There.” He points toward a weathered silo rising above the crest of a hill like a sentinel.

The farm nestles in a natural bowl, sheltered by rolling hills that cup the valley on all sides. The perfect hiding place - invisible until you’re nearly upon it. A collection of dilapidated buildings huddles to one side of the valley, their weather-beaten forms stark against the golden fields stretching into the middle distance.

“We’ll leave the horse here,” Giroud murmurs, guiding them toward a small copse of trees.

As they emerge from the shelter of the trees, Aya moves like a shadow at his side, her footsteps matching his with practiced precision as they begin their approach across the exposed ground between hilltop and farm.

A low growl freezes them both. Six wolves emerge from behind a rocky outcropping, their ribs visible through matted fur like barrel staves. Yellow eyes lock onto what they clearly see as prey, hunger making them bold. The pack spreads out in a practiced hunting formation, stalking them like experienced killers.

Giroud’s sword sings free of its scabbard in one fluid motion. “Take my back,” he commands, hearing Aya’s dagger clear its sheath behind him.

The first wolf launches itself through the air, jaws gaping. Giroud’s blade meets it mid-leap, opening its throat in a spray of crimson. The beast’s momentum carries it past him, leaving a bloody arc in the morning air. Beside him, Aya drops into a crouch as another wolf lunges. Her dagger flashes upward, stabbing twice into it’s belly. The creature’s dying yelp is cut short as its own weight drives the blade deeper.

The remaining wolves attack as one, coordination making them more dangerous than simple beasts. Giroud’s sword dances, catching another in mid-spring. Blood spatters his boots as the creature falls. Aya dances beneath the lunge of another wolf dishing out similar treatment to the first.

The last two wolves circle warily now, but hunger drives them forward. They charge from opposite directions, trying to split their prey’s attention. Giroud pivots smoothly, his blade a perfect arc that catches one wolf across the throat. Behind him, Aya’s dagger finds the last beast’s eye, driving deep into its brain. Both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously, their blood soaking into the thirsty earth.

“You’re getting faster,” he notes, cleaning his blade on a clump of grass. The praise comes automatically, even as part of him wishes she wasn’t quite so efficient at dealing death. “No magic though?”

“Wolves are harder to read and faster than people. I didn’t want to be caught out casting a spell,” she explains.

Leaving the bloody scene behind them, they move low through the grass, the sun already burning away the last of the morning’s dew.

Giroud crouches behind a fallen log at the farm’s perimeter, studying the movements of the sentries. The sun beats down on his neck as he counts them - eight guards in dark leather armor patrol in groups, their paths intersecting with military precision. Two more watch from vantage points on the farmhouse roof, crossbows glinting in the harsh light.

“Count them,” he whispers to Aya, her small form pressed close beside him.

“Ten total I can see,” she breathes back. “Two groups of three, one group of two, plus the watchers.” Her tactical assessment fills him with a mixture of pride and unease.

He nods, watching the guards’ movements create a complex web of coverage. But after twenty minutes of observation, the pattern becomes clear - small gaps appear when the patrols reach certain points, like a dance with predictable steps.

“There.” He points to where two guards split from their route behind a broken wagon. “That’s our first opening.”

They circle through tall grass, moving like shadows until they reach the wagon. The sweet scent of hay mingles with old wood and rust. Giroud strikes first - his sword whistles through the air, taking one guard through the throat before he can cry out. The man’s eyes go wide with surprise as he crumples. Aya’s dagger finds the second guard’s kidney twice from behind with surgical precision, slipping between the plates of his armor.

Minutes later, they ambush three more behind the old stable. Giroud engages two while Aya’s magic manifests as writhing black tendrils that wrap around the third’s neck. The wet crack of breaking bone punctuates the whisper of Giroud’s blade as it ends the remaining pair.

They drag the bodies into the stable, then crouch behind weathered hay bales. Sweat trickles down Giroud’s neck as he watches the final patrol of three approach their position. His hand tightens on his sword hilt, muscles coiled like springs. Beside him, Aya’s breathing is steady, controlled - a warrior’s calm he recognizes in himself.

The patrol draws closer. Twenty paces. Fifteen. Ten. Their boots crunch on scattered straw, the sound feeling thunderous in the tense silence.

Giroud signals to Aya with three fingers, then points to the guard on the left. She nods, understanding she’ll take that one while he handles the other two. The patrol passes their position, completely unaware of the death waiting in the shadows.

“Where are the—” one begins to ask, noticing the absence of the other patrol.

Giroud explodes from cover, his sword cleaving through the middle guard’s neck in a spray of crimson. The man doesn’t even have time to scream. Aya’s magic wraps around her target’s throat like a serpent, crushing his windpipe with merciless efficiency. The third guard manages to draw his weapon, steel ringing against leather, but Giroud’s blade finds his heart before it clears the scabbard. The man’s dying gasp mingles with the soft thud of his body hitting the packed earth.

They drag these bodies into the stable as well, the dead weight leaving dark smears in the dirt. The watchers on top of the farmhouse haven’t noticed anything amiss yet, their attention still fixed outward across the sun-baked fields.

As they creep toward the barn, Giroud’s boot brushes against something that makes him freeze. The sickly sweet scent hits him first, then his eyes lock onto the distinctive purple-black petals - grimhemp. Row after row of it stretches across the field, the rare flowers swaying gently in the breeze. Their presence explains El-Raffar’s choice of this remote location. The nectar, crucial to soul essence production, pulses with latent power even in its raw form.

“Can you strangle the watchers on the farmhouse from here?” Giroud asks.

“Mmm,” ponders Aya. “One at a time, I don’t know if I can control tentacles at two targets at the same time.”

“Okay, let’s wait until they’re watching opposite directions. That will hopefully be enough time for you to strangle one then the other.”

“Now,” Giroud breathes, his eyes fixed on the farmhouse roof where the two watchers stand with their backs to each other.

A chill runs down his spine as Aya she begins her incantation, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes beginning to glow that familiar red. Dark energy coalesces beside her, writhing like living shadow. The hair on his arms stands on end as the magic takes shape, forming a tendril of pure darkness that snakes through the air menacingly toward the first guard.

The ethereal tentacle wraps around the man’s throat. His crossbow clatters to the rooftop as his hands claw desperately at the invisible force crushing his windpipe. Giroud watches the guard’s legs kick weakly, his body lifted slightly off the ground. The second guard remains oblivious, scanning the opposite horizon.