1 – The Last Coffle

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Draft 21 – Updated 11 February 2026 (C001/D022)

From his current position, Hunter had a clear view and the element of surprise. If things took a turn, his daughter would take the deputy to his right. Their partner, Autumn, would take the boss. The rest were his to manage.

The slaves wore leather collars linked together by chains, forming a coffle. Since they were children, this was probably unnecessary. But two centuries of tradition created habits that were hard to break. 

His target was a fugitive who—for reasons Hunter had yet to determine—was accompanying this coffle disguised as a guard. Was it the foolishness of youth? Hiding in plain sight from the very people seeking him by disguising himself as one of them was . . . unusual. On one hand, it was brilliant. On the other, it was dumber than stump.

It also complicated things for Hunter’s team. To collect the reward, they had to capture the fugitive before the people he was traveling with figured out who he was. They also had to do it before the coffle train reached its destination . . . tomorrow evening. After that, the man they were after would be safe in the Shadows and beyond their reach.

Three weeks of patient observation had attuned Hunter to the coffle’s daily routine. This was its last stop. At the bottom of the hill, the wagon train split into two parts. The lead segment turned and headed uphill into the small mountain town. The support wagons continued past town toward a river camp, where they would spend the night. This cut their forces in half. It was the only time before sundown today that the coffle would be vulnerable.

The segment climbing the hill into the town square consisted of the overseer, four mounted deputies, and three wagons. As the column passed the clapboard businesses and approached the stone church, Hunter watched three deputies fan out to establish a perimeter. The fourth deputy, Hunter’s target, the bold young man with the black pinched-front hat, stayed with the overseer.

Deputy Number One, a grizzled grey-beard with an eye-patch covering a thick white scar, cantered his horse toward the butchery’s roughstone smokehouse. Hunter watched him circle his daughter and the butcher, who were trading at a weathered butcher’s block table beside it. 

The deputy was on the lookout for red flags. Weapons or armor, in particular, would immediately tigger an alarm. Unable to see what was hidden from his view, though, he backed off and took up a position nearby—hand on his weapon, his good eye on the butcher.

Deputy Number Two, thin and cocky with a hateful smirk, walked his gelding slowly past the hitching post in front of the butchery where Hunter was organizing the contents of his saddle bags. This deputy—spitting into the dust near Hunter as he passed—would not be concerned with his wooden bow and arrows. Nor, if he could see them, would his stone blades raise any concerns. Elf hunters troubled no one. They were traders, support staff who minded their business, not threats.

Deputy Number Three, a hulking, barrel-chested brute, assessed the group of dignitaries gathering on the steps of the church. Apparently satisfied, he too fell into position, ready to smash the first sign of trouble. With all three guards in place, Hunter—as invisible as he’d hoped to be—was now free to concentrate on the transaction getting underway on the front steps of the church.

The smith, a slave-owner himself, greeted the overseer enthusiastically. The lanky town fletcher—one of Hunter’s allies—stood inconspicuously at the ready behind him. The wiry collier and the head-scarfed millwright wobbled slightly as they left the tavern to join the delegation.

The squeak of leather from the collier’s right shoe. The jingle of coins in the millwright’s pocket. Three barking dogs. A coughing child. Whispered words between his daughter and the butcher. 

The elf’s keen perception locked onto each sound individually. Where most of his kind were overwhelmed by the onslaught of sounds in human environments, Hunter had learned to operate comfortably.

Heavy footfalls on the plank floors in the shop behind him announced that the butcher’s wife was on her way as well. As the door to the butcher shop stuck then rattled opened, the scent of blood swirled in the eddies. Exchanging a somber glance with her husband, she smoothed her dress, checked her hairpin, and inhaled deeply. Raising her double chin, she stepped off the boardwalk and marched across the square. Hunter could see how difficult this was for them.

*****

The coffle’s overseer, knowing exactly what he was looking for, got straight to business. His boss, the governor, had very specific tastes and had equipped him with detailed sketches. Satisfying those desires was his highest priority. 

As the butcher’s plump wife reached the steps before the church, the front doors swung open. The soft-spoken minister and his own genial wife led the set-asides out and organized them from tallest to smallest. The coffle master scrutinized the line.

Young, pretty with high cheekbones, a diamond-shaped face, and a small, upturned nose. The treaty that paused the Slavers’ War made it illegal to enslave non-human races, including fiendlings. But there was nothing in the ceasefire about human slaves who looked like fiendlings, so the governor had learned to make due.

Beyond that, there was the commercial trade to consider. So he also had an eye out for merchandise that would move quickly in the slave markets. Ten-year-old boys. Nine-year-old girls. Healthy. Dark of hair with good teeth and clear skin. 

“This one,” said the overseer, prying a girl’s mouth open and shoving a gloved thumb in to examine her teeth. “How old?”

“Nine-years, Master,” replied the clergyman. “She is trained in kitchen service primarily. But can—”

“She’s skinny as a quirt, preacher,” he interrupted, shoving the gagging child back into line. “Don’t we pay you to feed ‘em?”

“Yes, Master. Our governor is a most generous benefactor and the town provides more than enough food. But not all cows produce equal milk. At this age, some grow tall before they grow thick.”

“Hmmmm,” said the slaver, pressing his lips together while looking up and down the line.

*****

Autumn, an eladrin elf, stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. If things took a turn, he would be in the middle of it. The overseer himself wasn’t particularly deadly, but his armed bodyguard would kill to protect him. He trusted that Hunter was a good shot. But for at least a few moments, it would be two-on-one and Autumn, unarmed, would be face to face with steel. 

The small eladrin was much younger than Hunter. He had less experience with the ungodly noise of human settlements and did not, in the least, care for it. How a species so practically deaf could accomplish so much absolutely baffled him. Individually, he had some sympathy for humans. Collectively, he found them offensive.

Always, with these people, there was something. Today . . . it was coughing. If they couldn’t hear it, they were impaired. If they were ignoring it, they were heartless. Children were rare in The Wood. They were precious. Humans, strangely, seemed to take their children for granted. They were always coughing, their noses were always running, and nobody seemed to bother about it.

Autumn knew his assignment. He understood every detail of their plan. He knew that straying from the plan could be fatal, but he also knew that, as the one in the middle, the person in greatest danger, he had the power to make changes.

As his pony approached the group assembled on the steps of the church, the overseer’s back was toward him. Their black-hatted bounty stood back-to-back with his master facing the square. His team was expecting him to stop and engage their target, but Autumn tweaked the plan.

*****

Black-hatted LT was Guard Number Four. His assignment was to guard the coffle master’s back. As much as he wanted to cut the man’s throat for what he was doing to these children, LT knew that would have to wait. 

This moment required patience. Tomorrow night, he would be inside the Shadows. If he found what he expected to find, it might put an end to all of this. Then . . . he could think about settling scores.

LT saw the eladrin riding toward them from the livery. There were two more elves across the street. The woman, engaged with the butcher, seemed familiar. He felt like he had seen her in another town a while back. The guy reorganizing his saddlebags . . . who could tell? Elf hunters wore identical garb and had the same woodlands skin tone. They were so anonymous that distinguishing one from another was nearly impossible.

The elf riding toward him, however, was not a hunter. He was an eladrin elf, petite with red-orange hair tied up in a Celtic braid. His clothing was oddly feminine but he wore a ginger beard—neatly trimmed—beneath a thick handlebar moustache. He carried no obvious weapons and offered no hint of threat. As far as LT could see, he was just an elegant eladrin in a brown leather jacket adorned with a burnt umber cape.

LT’s eyes followed the rider as his horse sauntered in their direction on a line that would see him pass a safe distance away. For a moment, the eladrin made eye contact. It seemed as if he was about to say something, but a cough from one of the girls in the slave wagon distracted him. The small man frowned slightly and his head tipped to one side. His eyes moved from LT to the girl. Angling his mount’s course deliberately, the little man approached the coffle wagon and stopped beside it.

This was a breach of protocol and everyone who saw it knew. Everything stopped—the clergyman, the councilors, the adult attendants. Everybody froze. Everyone held their breath. LT’s hand moved to his pommel. All eyes were on the ginger.

*****

The overseer, sensing the reaction of the people facing him, turned slowly to behold a small savage with a large moustache sitting on an elven pony next to his lead wagon.

“Oh, honey,” the elf cooed into the wagon. “Are you feeling poorly?”

A collared little girl nodded and her eyes welled with tears.

The eladrin turned slightly in his saddle to face the hushed assembly. The black-hatted bodyguard stepped forward to intervene, but the overseer waved him off.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the ginger. “I’m afraid this child’s poorly.”

The coffle master paused. There were so many ways to respond, but none of them seemed exactly right. 

“You’re an eladrin,” he observed.

“I am.”

“And you’re a healer?”

“Folks call me Autumn—” the elf said, smiling and extending a hand.

“I didn’t ask your name,” he interrupted. “I asked if you’re a healer.”

“I am a healer, sir,” Autumn replied, withdrawing his hand and turning off his smile.

The overseer paused, studying the ginger elf, wondering if this was a ploy. He searched Autumn’s eyes for any hint of a lie, but found none. 

“This kind of cough spreads like wildfire,” Autumn volunteered. “If this child ain’t treated today, I promise you the rest’ll have it tomorrow.”

He knew the savage was right. He cringed at the thought of delivering slaves to the Shadows only to have them die a few days later.

“How much?” he asked.

“That depends,” Autumn replied. “I can cure her proper. That’ll cost three silver and take half a day. Or . . . for one silver . . . I can give her some medicine. If it ain’t set in yet, it’ll stop it for a day or two. But if it’s already took hold . . . it won’t do much.”

The coffle master heard Autumn’s price and relaxed. Healers in the haff-land performed an essential service, but none of them did it for free. Autumn, his instincts told him, was exactly what he seemed to be.

“I’ll give you ten for the bunch,” he countered. “You got enough for all of ‘em?”

The healer frowned as he counted and then nodded when he was done. “I believe I do, sir,” Autumn replied cheerfully, climbing down from his horse and reaching into his saddle bags.

The black-hatted bodyguard’s long frontier knife flashed from his sheath the moment the healer’s hand disappeared into the saddlebag. Oblivious to this development, the elf withdrew a canteen, a small bowl, and a burlap bundle. He set them both on the ground and then sat cross legged in front of them.

His body guard hesitated, long blade drawn, wavering in indecision while the overseer suppressed a smile. He hated this part of his job—traveling from town to town, playing a role, collecting tribute, placing children in bondage. It was a dreary way to repay his loans and put off his turn on the wheel. 

But this . . . was an amusing distraction. Until today, he had never met an autumn eladrin. And this one, his first, was at once fearless, oblivious, charming, and entertaining.

The tiny ginger counted out twelve holly leaves and placed them into his bowl. He recited a short incantation to create a tiny flame, which he carefully placed amongst the leaves. In a few moments, they smoked, turning instantly into ash. 

Reaching into a pocket inside his shirt, he withdrew a small pouch from which he added a handful of dried blueberries. From another pocket he produced a small wooden pestle which he used to crush them. As he did this, he recited another incantation, this one in a comical singsong language that nobody understood but everyone found funny.

“Keep an eye on the healer,” the overseer instructed his bodyguard. Then he turned his back on the medicine show and finished his business with the clergyman, the butcher’s wife, and the rest of the town council.

*****

Noticing for the first time that all eyes were upon him, Autumn spoke, though to no one in particular: “Children don’t like the taste of ash” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s burnt and yucky. The blueberries make it taste better . . . and the color is pretty,” he added, smiling up at the little faces in the wagon.

By the time the contents of the bowl were blended into a smooth paste, everyone had relaxed. The bodyguard’s knife had been returned to its sheath and the entire group was watching with eager curiosity. All were quiet except the little girl; her raspy cough punctured the silence.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly. I’m going as fast as I can,” Autumn said as he began thinning the paste by pouring water from the canteen into the bowl and whisking it in with a pair of polished sticks. A few heartbeats later, he was done. The sticks went back into a pocket in his jacket and out came a small wooden spoon. 

“A little help, sir,” he said, extending a hand to the fugitive disguised as a slaver.

*****

LT hesitated, uncertain, but extended his hand and pulled Autumn to his feet. As he rose, the little ginger smiled and mumbled something LT did not understand.

“What?” he asked, trying to unclasp his hand. Autumn held firm to his grip, smiling, and speaking an unfamiliar tongue. 

LT yanked his hand to free it. Once. Then again. On the second pull, the healer let go causing the bodyguard to stumble and nearly trip backward onto the church steps. The whole group, slaves, slavers, and onlooking townsfolk burst into involuntary laughter. 

“Oh my goodness,” the mortified healer exclaimed, placing his thin fingers on his upper chest. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Please don’t laugh,” he begged the children.

LT recovered his balance and looked around feeling a rush of blood to his face and ears.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. It’s an eladrin thing,” Autumn explained. “When someone extends a hand to help us up, we offer them a blessing. I know it’s weird. And it takes a bit longer than humans expect. So it catches y’all off guard. Please don’t be cross.”

“Sure,” said LT looking at his wet, berry-stained fingers briefly before wiping them off on his breeches. “No problem.”

When the giggling subsided, the eladrin administered the medicine. One by one, each of the children was given a single spoonful of the purple liquid. Last to be treated was the green-eyed little cougher who gulped down the rest.

The healer carefully rinsed the bowl out with his canteen before returning it and the burlap wrap to his saddle bag.

“That will be ten silver please, sir,” he said, turning back to the man with the whip.

*****

Moments later, four more set-asides, recently selected from the church in Three Mills, were absorbed into the coffle. And by the time the coffle train slithered out of town toward the river camp, the autumn eladrin, the anonymous hunter, and his young female companion were nowhere to be seen.

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