1 – The Last Coffle

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Draft 25 – Updated 23 MARCH 2026 (C001/D025)

From his position in front of the butcher’s shop, Hunter had a clear view of the town square and road leading into it. The wagon train was coming into sight on the main road. At the T-intersection, half of the wagons would turn and come up the hill into town. The other half would roll past the corner and continue on to their camp by the river.

The fugitive he was after was posing as a deputy, one of four charged with guarding the wagon train and its rich cargo of slaves. Damn fool. The kid was hiding in plain sight, right under the noses of the people who were offering a reward to find him.

Hunter’s team had been tracking him for three weeks. They’d had several opportunities to grab him, but each time, as they were about to make their move, Hunter had called it off. Why would a wanted man hire on as a deputy and travel toward the Shadows instead of running away from them? 

Hunter wanted an answer to that question before grabbing him. It might could be that the wanted man was onto something. It might could be that he had a plan Hunter ought not to mess with. But now time was running out. By sunset tomorrow, their fugitive would be out of reach, safely hidden in the Shadows.

At the corner, the lead wagon turned up the hill toward the square where Hunter and his team were waiting for them. Three wagons followed it, along with four mounted deputies, and their boss—the overseer. The rest of the wagons, and the adult slaves who trailed the coffle train on foot, continued on to the river camp, effectively cutting their strength in half.

In a few moments, the wagons would top the short rise and enter the town square where a delegation was waiting to greet them on the stone steps in front of the church. The deputies would fan out, as they always did, to protect their leader while his back was turned.

They would see an elf scout trading her meat with the butcher at the table next to his smokehouse. They would see an elf hunter sorting through his saddlebags in front of the butcher’s shop. And, eventually, they would see an elf healer ride through the square on a mountain pony. But since none of these sights were unusual, none of them would rate a second look.

If things took a turn, Hunter’s daughter would handle the deputy near the smokehouse. Their partner, the healer on the mountain pony, would take the overseer. And Hunter would handle the rest.

He was a good shot. But he would have to be careful. The slaves in the wagons were locked into coffles, held fast by short steel chains attached to thick leather collars. He didn’t have to worry about them stepping into the crossfire during the chaos. But the wagons were open, arrows had been known to ricochet, and none of the enslaved children wore armour.

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, the butcher, and the deer carcass laid out on the heavy wooden table between them.

The deputy was on the lookout for red flags. Weapons or armor, in particular, would immediately trigger 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 fixed 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 saddlebags. This deputy—spitting into the dust near Hunter as he passed—would not be concerned with the elf’s wooden bow. 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 to the slave trade.

Deputy Number Three, a hulking, barrel-chested brute, assessed the group of townsfolk gathering at the church. Apparently satisfied, he too fell into position, ready to smash the first sign of trouble. With the deputies in place and no alarms raised in the process, Hunter was now free to concentrate on the transaction getting underway in the square

The smith, a slave-owner himself, greeted the overseer warmly. The lanky town fletcher stood inconspicuously behind him. A wiry collier and a head-scarfed millwright wobbled slightly as they left the tavern to join them.

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 at the butcher’s table.

Hunter’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 the overseer’s 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 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. But there was nothing in the ceasefire about human slaves who looked like fiendlings, so the governor had learned to make do.

Beyond that, there was the commercial trade to consider. So the overseer 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, his hand resting on the whip at his waist. He could take four from each town. This was the last town.

*****

Autumn 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 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.

*****

LT stayed with the overseer, assigned to watch his back. Idiots. It had taken less than three weeks to get this close. He wanted to use this trust, wanted to see the looks on their faces when he stepped up behind the overseer and cut his throat for laying his hands on these children. But he knew he couldn’t do it. 

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 elf on the mountain pony entering the square. 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 healer’s braid. His clothing, particularly the burnt umber cape, 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.

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, he 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.

*****

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

“Oh, honey,” he heard the elf coo 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 young bodyguard watching his back stepped forward to intervene, but the overseer waved him off.

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

The overseer 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?”

The elf smiled, extending a dainty hand. “Folks call me Autumn—” 

“I didn’t ask your name,” the overseer 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 the children in the wagons and then nodded when he was done. “I believe I do, sir,” Autumn replied cheerfully, climbing down from his horse and reaching into his saddlebags.

The 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.

The bodyguard 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 fifteen 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 made the children giggle.

“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 Three Mills town council.

*****

Noticing, for the first time, the many eyes that were upon him, Autumn spoke, though he addressed 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 curious faces in the wagon.

By the time the bowl’s contents 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 fascinated 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 were 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 saddlebag.

“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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