1 – The Last Coffle

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Draft 30- Updated 30 AUGUST 2026 (C001/D030)

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

The fugitive he was after was posing as a deputy guarding the wagon train, hiding in plain sight, right under the noses of the people who were offering the reward to find him.

Hunter’s team had been tracking the young fool for three weeks. They’d had several opportunities to grab him. But each time, just as they were about to make their move, Hunter called it off. 

Why would a wanted man hire on as a deputy and travel toward the Shadows instead of running in the opposite direction? 

Hunter wanted an answer to that question before grabbing him. It might could be that the kid was onto something. It might could be that he a plan Hunter ought not to mess with. 

Spying on them, watching their every move, listening to their private conversations had led nowhere. And now time was running out. By sunset tomorrow, their fugitive would be out of reach, hidden behind the walls of 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 past town to set up camp.

In a few moments, the wagons coming into town would top the short rise. They would 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 the overseer while his back was turned.

When they fanned out, the deputies 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 in Three Mills, nothing should trigger their suspicions. 

If things took an unexpected turn, Hunter’s daughter—the scout trading meat with the butcher—would handle the deputy nearest the smokehouse. Their partner, the healer on the mountain pony about to ride into the square, would take the overseer. And Hunter, sorting through his saddlebags in front of the butcher’s shop, would handle the rest.

He was a good shot, confident in his abilities. But he would have to be careful. The slaves in the wagons were children.  They were fixed together into coffles, held fast by short steel chains which were attached to thick leather collars around their throats. 

They couldn’t run. So 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 right on cue. Hunter watched him circle his daughter, the butcher, and the elk 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 trigger his instant alarm. Unable to see what was hidden from his view, though, he backed off and took up a position nearby—hand on his own weapon, his good eye fixed warily on the butcher.

Deputy Number Two, lean and cocky with a leering, 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. They were no longer considered threats to the slave trade.

Deputy Number Three, a hulking, barrel-chested brute, assessed the group of townsfolk gathering on the steps of 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 on the stone steps below the church doors. 

The town’s smith, a slave-owner himself, greeted the overseer warmly. The lanky town fletcher, a friend of the butchers, stood inconspicuously behind him. A wiry collier and a head-scarfed millwright wobbled slightly as they left the tavern to cross the square and 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 pierced the ambient noise of the square and 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 to join the delegation across the square. 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 toward the church. 

Hunter watched her pass, knowing how difficult this must be for her. 

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