They set the field like a board, smoke in the ditches, wires across the pinch points, chalk marks on the broken wall to keep angles clean and exits tight. Wind pulled steadily from the west, enough to carry grey into the cuts where goblins liked to crouch.
"Leaders on the right," Raul said, still and watchful. "Runner sticks close."
They lit the smoke.
Grey poured into the ditch like slow water. The hiss was soft, a steady thread. Movement answered, small feet, quick and careless, scraping dirt. Seven shapes slid out first, heads low, old wool and scraped leather tied around ribs. Two more peeled from the wall gap, blinking through the haze. Ten in all, with one heavier shadow hanging back.
They waited for the first pair to hit the wire. It sang, a thin, sharp note, and tangled their ankles. Both went forward on their faces. Raul stepped in from the side, knife short and certain, two cuts that ended fast. He didn't linger; he slid back to his chalk and let the smoke eat the sound.
A goblin burst through the grey in a panic run. Arin angled left, let it pass half a step, then cut where jaw meets neck. It dropped clean. He didn't chase. He reset his feet and listened.
Trip-lines caught another. Raul dipped low, knife under ribs, then turned a strike with his off-hand into the temple, short yet brutal. Two goblins clawed at the broken wall to gain height. Arin didn't jump; he let them reach, stepped in, placed the edge at the wrist, then slid steel into the soft above the knee. One fell back with useless hands. The other stayed down and didn't move.
"Four," Raul called calmly.
Arin counted with his eyes. "Five." A small one had tried to crawl under the collapsed stones; Raul already had a boot on its back and finished the throat in a single line.
They didn't rush the ditch. They let smoke push bodies into open ground. Another came coughing, eyes closed against the grey. Arin cut at the hinge below the ear and stepped away before the drop. A wild-swinger followed, blade high. Raul let the swing over-commit, turned that motion into empty air, and shoved the goblin into Arin's mark. Arin finished it with one motion.
The wind shifted a finger's width. "Back a step," Raul said, and they moved together, keeping grey between their feet and the ditch.
Nine lay scattered, the funnel tight. Silence settled, the breath before whatever held the rear finally chose to move.
He moved.
___________________________
The leader came through the smoke with a half-limp and a long bone club wrapped in wire. Plates from old pots were strapped across his chest with belts, charred and dented. He had scars that crawled over his shoulder, the kind that heal wrong when you don't stop moving. His eyes were mean in a way that liked making people small.
He didn't rush. He tested them with a half-step, trying to pull Arin into a narrow angle by the wall. When Arin didn't bite, the leader tapped the ground three times, an order for flanks that were already dead.
They kept quiet. The space narrowed to three people and a strip of dirt.
The leader feinted right, wire whipping at Raul's sleeve. Raul gave him half an inch, enough to make him think he had a bind, then cut the distance wrong for the club so the hit glanced off the forearm and slid by. The leader was quicker than his limp suggested. He switched hands, tried to smash the ribs.
Arin stepped into the swing and turned his guard to catch the wire, not the club. He slid the wrap off steel instead of letting it lock, and cut as he moved, taking a thumb's width of flesh under the arm where the plate didn't reach. The leader snarled and pulled back, surprised to be injured without a memory of being caught.
He spat and charged low. Raul planted a foot, tripped over the rush, and shoved the club past his hip. The leader stumbled, recovered, and whipped the wire for Arin's hands. Arin let the wrap try to bind, then notched it near the tip. The wire slackened. The club lost its trick. Anger flashed in the leader's eyes.
He came in raw. Arin went for the throat hinge and met a plate. He shifted a thumb-width and cut the strap. The plate dropped. Raul took the opening, Dagger straight from jaw to soft. The cut wasn't deep, but it pulled the head back. Arin drove the point into the notch under the chin. The leader jerked, tried one last swing. Raul stepped inside and hit the temple with the hammer, short and hard.
The big goblin staggered, raised the club again, and caught Arin's shoulder with the wire. It burned through cloth and bit skin. Arin gritted and held his ground. Raul pressed the advantage with two fast cuts across the eyes. The leader's world went dark. Arin finished the throat with a clean line and stepped out of reach.
He didn't fall at once. He tried to breathe around the blood, took a step, and failed. When he went down, he stayed down.
They held still for three breaths. Smoke thinned. No more feet scuffed dirt.
Raul kicked the club away, then checked the leader's hands and belt. "Wire from a fence," he said. Plates from cookware. No crest."
"Stole from the locals, it seems," Arin said.
They cut off the goblin's ears, ten, including the leader's. They worked fast and neatly, keeping count as they dropped them into the sack. Blood darkened the dirt in a wide smear. The wind took the last of the grey.
They cleared what they'd set. Arin coiled wire back into loops, checked each trip-line for frays, and pocketed the better bits. Raul snuffed the smoke pots and wrapped them in cloth. Chalk went back into a tin. Dagger returned to his belt.
"Materials," Raul said, nodding at the leader. "Bone club's ugly but saleable. Wire too. Plates will fetch scrap."
Arin pulled the plates free, wiped them with a rough cloth, and stacked them. He checked the runner, light feet, quick hands, and found a bone charm with three teeth. "This," he said. "Talismans sell if you find the right stall."
Raul searched pockets with practised fingers. He found two copper coins, a bent nail, and a short strip of good leather. He tossed Arin the leather and kept the coins in the job bag. From another corpse, he pulled a pouch of black powder that smelled sharp. "Smoke mix," he said. "We can trade it or test it."
They walked the line once more, made sure no one was pretending to be dead, and dragged bodies away from the wall so Holbrook's men wouldn't step on them when they checked the field.
Arin bound his shoulder with a coarse bandage. The wire had been cut shallowly but messily. Raul handed him the bitter powder to clear his lungs, and they both took a pinch because the haze had settled deep.
"Harder than I wanted," Raul said, not complaining.
"The leader had tricks up his sleeve," Arin answered. He tightened the knot and rolled the shoulder. "We won anyway."
Raul shouldered the sack. It weighed like a week of food. "Guild, then merchant's row," he said. "Turn in the proof, then sell the scrap."
"Done."
They took the farm path back. Wind carried the clean smell of cut stalks. The ditch looked harmless now, just a shallow groove running to a dry basin. Even so, they gave it space.
Ashenvill's walls grew taller as they walked. The gate guard glanced at their sack, then at the fresh bandage, and said nothing. The city was busy in the simple way that keeps a person's mind quiet, bread, iron, the call and answer of sellers and buyers.
At the guild, the clerk counted ears without looking up, placed the leader's ear aside, and tallied coins into two neat stacks. "Fallow fields?"
"Clear," Raul said.
"Leader?" the clerk asked.
"Down," Arin answered.
The clerk stamped their paper and slid 3 silver coins forward. "Holbrook sends thanks. If raids continue, there'll be follow-up postings."
They stepped back into the street. Merchant's Row waited with its rust stalls and rope stands and jars of questionable powder. Raul held the sack like it was worth more than copper. Arin felt the ache in his shoulder and the steadiness in his hands.
"Sell what we can," Raul said.
"Then we go eat," Arin replied. He looked once toward the eastern fields, now quiet. "We did it clean, good job."
They turned toward the stalls, two men moving in step, the day bright over stone and wood, the field behind them swept of noise. The imprint would wait. Tonight was a party and proper food, after days of just bread and dried-up meat.