Draft 2 – Updated 23 OCT 2025 (C011/D002)
Weather permitting, Emmett Dawson ended every day the same way: sitting on his stoop, smoking his pipe, and watching the evening shadows climb the east facing peaks of the jagged mountains that walled in the valley. Mrs. Dawson—Rose—joined him with her knitting needles while their dog, an old hound named Hank, lay dozing on the plank floor between them.
This evening started in the accustomed way. Old Hank’s nose tickled with the smell of smoking everwood needles while the rhythms of rocking chairs and knitting needles lulled him to sleep, dreaming about chasing rabbits. Rose was working on a baby blanket as a gift for a neighbor’s daughter. Emmett was thinking about winter horse shoes, wondering if he should make a trip into Three Mills to see the blacksmith this week.
The first sign that something new was about to happen was a very slight twitch of Hank’s left ear. This was followed a few heartbeats later by a second, stronger twitch that woke the dog and caused his sad, sleepy eyes to open. Now both of his floppy ears twitched open at their bases, creating wider openings for sounds to enter. Old Hank tensed, lifted his head, and then stood. His nose turned toward the spot where the colony road vanished into the Beard. Rose stopped her knitting. Emmett’s gaze tracked the path marked by Old Hank’s nose.
Hank took two halting steps forward to the edge of the stoop. He lifted a front paw uncertainly. Then put it back on the ground and let out a short, low growl. Then he stopped once more to listen intently. Whatever the source was, Hank soon made up his mind about it. He jumped off the stoop and bounded about twenty steps toward the road before stopping again.
“Woof, woof, woof,” Hank barked then paused. “Woof, woof, woof,” he repeated.
Emmett stood, peering in the same direction. He could tell from the tone of his old dog’s bark that Hank was warning them of something, but could not tell what it was.
“Woof, woof, woof,” Hank barked again.
“Woof, woof, woof,” answered a dog on the farm across the river.
Over the next several moments, every farm dog at this end of the valley started barking in response to another dog’s bark. Like a chain reaction the barking spread east moving from farm to farm. When it reached the outskirts of Three Mills, the blacksmith’s dog joined in and soon every dog in Three Mills was barking.
“Woof, woof, woof,” said the sawyer’s hounds from their kennels by the river.
“Woof, woof, woof,” said the Fetcher’s lab, in the yard behind their shop.
“Woof, woof, woof,” replied dogs of every breed from every corner of Three Mills.
Scout, who was stirring soup in the Butcher’s kitchen, heard the barking start. “Slavers are coming,” she announced to Amanda, putting down the spoon.
Mrs. Butcher nodded, gravely serious, and began barking orders to her family. While they prepared to evacuate, Scout left the butcher’s shop and crossed quickly to the Fletchers’.
“Slavers are coming,” she announced, entering a shop rich with the scent of hot pine tar.
“How many?” Hannah Fletcher asked, looking up from a feather she was splitting.
“Don’t know yet,” Scout responded. “They’re on the move. Best get ready.”
“How do you know?”
“The dogs,” she replied. “Sets of three.”
Hannah Fletcher listened carefully. She could hardly believe her ears.
“How long?” Simon Fletcher asked from the door leading to the workshop.
“Don’t know,” Scout admitted. “If the barking stops, the slavers have stopped. If it starts again, they’re on the move again.”
At about the same time as this conversation was occurring in Three Mills, a posse of deputies emerged from the Beard and reigned their horses to a stop on the colony road.
From Emmett’s position on the stoop, he couldn’t see much. His weak eyesight was a curse in low light. The colony road was about as far as he could see at high-sun on a clear day. But at this time of day, with the valley in shadows, it was impossible to make out any kind of detail.
The mounted deputies appeared to be having a conversation. One of the men pointed across the road in the direction of the wagons parked at river camp. Moments later most of the posse rode into the river camp while one rider broke away and came up the road to Emmett’s farmhouse.
Hank continued barking until Emmett commanded him to silence. The rider trotted to the front of the stoop and reined in his horse. He was an older man with long curly chestnut hair that cascaded well past his shoulders. It was topped with a black, wide-brimmed felt hat that was pencil rolled at the brim. Dawson knew him as Captain Croft, the First Ranger from the Shadows—a decent man, as far as deputies go. The kind of man he could trust. A rare deputy who would not give him a hard time unduly.
“Evening, Dawson,” the captain nodded. “Mrs. Dawson,” he added politely, tipping his hat to a feminine nod of acknowledgement.
“Evening Captain Croft,” Emmett offered a friendly smile. “What brings you down the mountain this late in the season?”
“Oh, you know Emmett.” Croft spoke like a man whose throat was full of gravel and who was in no hurry to finish a sentence. “Just doing my job.”
“Looking for that coffle, I expect?” Emmett’s eyes flashed past him to the wagons across the road.”
“Any idea where they got to?”
Generally speaking, Croft was friendly and sociable. He was the kind of man who took an interest in other people. The kind who made an effort see things their way. But Captain Croft had a job to do and the people he worked for had a way they wanted things done.
“Saw them setting up over there a few days ago,” Emmett replied.
Captain Croft’s tone was neutral, in a way that earned him a reputation as level-headed.
“Didja see them leave?”
“Leave?” Emmett was uncomfortable with the question and felt it best to get to the point. “No, sir. I believe if you look, you’ll see they died there.”
The First Ranger did not appear surprised and Emmett figured he knew as much before he headed over to question him.
“Heard a hell of a racket after dark the night they arrived,” Emmett continued. “Next morning, weren’t nothing there but the wagons.”
“Hell of a racket, eh?” Croft’s leather saddle squeaked as he shifted his weight. “Did it sound like a fight? Like maybe they got ambushed or the like?”
“Might could’ve been an ambush,” Emmett nodded. “Sounded more like animals, though.”
A hint of grace curiosity played on the captain’s features. “What kind of animals?”
“Coyotes were making a hell of a racket,” Emmett confessed, unwilling to believe himself that coyotes could do such a thing. But he had no other explanation that might fit with what he heard. “Hard to hear much over that noise,” he confessed.
A follow up question was working its way onto Croft’s tongue when it was interrupted by an approaching rider in a white pinched-front hat with an unusually wide brim. It was Sergeant Marlow. Emmett and Marlow had never met face-to-face, but the man’s hat was unique and farmers liked to gossip.
“There’s blood everywhere,” said Marlow, “and what looks like gnoll tracks.”
Surprise sparked in Croft’s eyes while doubt wrinkled his brows. He turned back to the farmers on their stoop. “You got gnolls around here now, Dawson?”
Dawson was as surprised as he was. Living next to the Beard for fifty years, he’d heard a lot of unusual sounds at night. But gnolls? “Been a long time since we had gnolls in this valley,” he replied, thinking back to the noises of that night. “But . . . based on what I heard . . . I can’t say it weren’t gnolls.”
Croft regarded Dawson thoughtfully for several moments before speaking again. “Didja go over and have a look?”
“First light, next day” the farmer admitted. “Couldn’t see much from the road. A couple of the tents were knocked down. I called out. Didn’t hear nothing. Let Hank run around in there for a bit. He didn’t find nothing neither.”
“You didn’t go in?”
“You know I wouldn’t go into no Company camp without I had permission.”
Croft believed him. That much was obvious to Emmet. But the captain still seemed puzzled.
“You see anything at all?”
“Couldn’t see nothing in the dark,” Dawson testified. “Didn’t see nothing in the camp next morning, ‘cept what I already told you.”
“Any strangers about?”
“Elves,” he shrugged, then shook his head. “Nothing unusual.”
“Any unusual elves?”
“No”—an image flashed through his memory—”well . . . maybe.”
Croft squinted and cocked his head. Marlow lifted his hat off and ran fingers through his hair.
“The day your coffle showed up,” Dawson recalled. “Camp workers set up as usual. Then a while later three elves rode by into the Beard.”
“Didja recognize them?”
“Them hunters?” Dawson scoffed. “You know how hard it is to tell one hunter from another.”
Croft’s sharp eyes waited patiently for the coming point.
“One of them, though, was wearing a cape. Kind of a rusty color.”
Marlow’s chin lifted and his eyes squinted in thought as he replaced his hat.
“A healer, maybe?” Croft asked.
“Could be.”
“A hunter wouldn’t wear a cape,” Marlow put in.
Right, thought Dawson. Damn thing would snag on every branch the moment he left the trail. “Next day,” Dawson continued. “I saw an elf watering two horses over by the bridge.”
“A hunter? A scout?”
“Too far away to say for sure. Maybe a scout. Or a boy, maybe.”
Croft guided his horse a quarter turn to look back at the bridge. Marlow did the same, moving out of the way to give his captain a clear view.
“Where’d she go after that?”
“Not sure. I was busy with chores. Wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Two horses?”
“Two.”
“And one scout?”
“One . . . that I saw. Could have been two. I only had eyes on ‘em for a few sips.”
“Not three?”
Dawson thought about it. “No, sir.” He wasn’t confident in his eyesight, but felt he would remember if there had been three.
“And you ain’t seen or heard any gnolls lately?”
“Seen? No. Heard?” His head bobbed uncertainly on his neck. “They sound so much like coyotes it’s hard to know unless you’re listening for it. But nothing I recognized as gnoll for certain.”
Croft lowered his head, processing the information. Dawson waited for more questions, searching his mind for memories to share. Rose Dawson’s needles clicked and Old Hank stood panting, his eyes never leaving the deputies.
“Well,” Croft said at length, “I pre-shate your help, Dawson. I have any more questions, I’ll come by before we head back up. In the meantime, you folks have yourselves a restful night,” the captain said, tipping his hat again to Mrs. Dawson.
Old Hank watched the men on the horses carefully. He followed them all the way out to the colony road and stopped at the gate.
The younger man in the big white hat looked back at the farmhouse as they crossed the colony road and entered the river camp. “God, that’s hard to look at,” he said to his captain. “I don’t know how she does it.”
Croft’s face scrunched sympathetically. “Took half his face and most of his hair.”
“Heard it was a jug fire.”
Croft nodded. “Happened right over there,” he said, nodding to a goliath everwood stump between the river and the river camp. “Nearly killed him, they say.”
“Surprised he can see anything at all,” the younger man said, “face all melted like that.”
“Yeah, well,” Croft agreed, “that’s why I didn’t push him too hard on what he mighta seen. I don’t imagine his eyes work all that well.”
While Hank was doing his job on Emmett’s farm, Scout was in Three Mills doing hers. The dogs in town were silent now, so she was confident that the slavers had stopped. That meant they were spending the night at the river camp where they would rest and water their horses. They would arrive in Three Mills tomorrow, likely mid-morning.
Over the past two days, Scout and Amanda Butcher had worked together hiding as much preserved food as possible. During the day, cured sausages, smoked meats, bags of rice, and small wheels of waxed hard cheese were divided up into packages for Scout to stash in elf hollows. The same sort of thing was happening with the fletcher’s shop: bows, arrows, and arrowheads, along with surplus tools and raw components were stashed with Amanda’s food in small packages in the countryside.
In addition to the supply caches, an evacuation plan was worked out. Key people, like the Fletchers and the Butchers, would quietly flee to prearranged hiding places as soon as it was determined that the slavers were on their way. Similar plans were made with key allies in order to ensure that, if attacked now, the town would still be able to mount an effective defense in the spring.
And while all of this preparation was necessary, it was not, in Scout’s opinion, sufficient. In the event that the town was forced to fight—which seemed highly likely—it would be preferable to have access to a functioning forge and a carpentry shop. Hunter was bringing help, she was sure of that. What Scout could not guarantee was that he would be bringing suitable replacements who were equally well equipped for those important tasks.
In Three Mills, of course, the blacksmith and the sawyer were two of a half dozen enterprises that made use of slave labour. So there was a fifty-fifty chance that the slavers would spare them. But Scout never chose to go with odds so low when better planning could increase them.
And then there were the children to consider. In addition to the set-asides at the church, there were the children of the townsfolk. A plan must be made to evacuate as many children as possible in order to prevent the slavers from harming them or capturing them and using them as hostages. So many plans to make, she thought, so little time.
Exiting the Fletcher’s, Scout strode past the church toward the schoolhouse. Knocking on the door revealed it to be vacant. From there, she turned a corner down a side street until she reached the town’s smallest rooming house—a ladies-only affair run by the widow Franklin. A knock on that door caused Mrs. Franklin to appear and hesitate before reluctantly inviting Scout inside.
Scout stepped into the entryway and politely suffered through the uncomfortable warmth characteristic of all human homes. The smell of roasting goose fat mingled with fresh bread, making her stomach rumble. She thought of the soup waiting for her at the Butcher’s and wondered if she would get to eat any of it. Mrs. Franklin disappeared up a set of creaky stairs with a shaky bannister that wobbled under her hand. A moment later, Scout heard soft knocking followed by muffled conversation.
“She’ll be down shortly,” Mrs. Franklin said curtly as she shuffled down the stairs a few moments later. “You’re welcome to wait outside.”
Scout shrugged off the old lady’s obvious disdain and moved out into the cool evening air. A short while later, a middle-aged bookish woman stepped out on the stoop and greeted her.
“Oh,” she said with mild surprise, “I recognize you. I’ve seen you with . . . your father . . . is it . . . at the Butcher’s.”
“Yes, ma’am. “Name’s Scout.”
“Scout,” she repeated the name out of habit, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Scout. My name is Barbara Ann. I would invite you in, but Mrs. Franklin . . . she . . . doesn’t . . . allow us to have guests in our rooms. And . . . well . . . she would prefer if we did our business outside.”
Scout had no doubt that these rules applied to men and non-humans universally. “If it’s all the same to you, Miss Ann,” she replied, “I would rather we take the air while we’re speaking. What I have to say is private.”
“Alright,” said Barbara Ann curiously, descending the front steps with Scout, pulling her shawl up over her shoulders.
“There may be some trouble in town tomorrow.” Scout began explaining in a low voice as soon as they were a few strides from the boarding house.
“Oh my goodness,” Barbara Ann said. “What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Scout admitted. “But I’m hoping that if anything happens and if the children are in the school when it happens, that you might get them out of the school to somewhere safe.”
“Of course,” she assured Scout, her face a mix of puzzlement and concern.
“Ma’am, I know you want to ask me for more details,” Scout stopped and turned to face the school teacher. “But right now I really can’t give you any. I’m just hoping you will trust me enough to look to the children if there’s trouble.”
“Of course, Scout,” Barbara Ann assured her. “But may I ask how I will know when the children should be evacuated?”
Scout studied the woman before her. She was plain, but did not seem dull. Her hazel eyes were sincere, thoughtful, and—at the moment, anyway—showed an appropriate amount of concern. Scout wondered how much she could be trusted. She wished the woman was an elf.
“Didja hear the dogs, ma’am?”
“Like . . . a little bit ago? When they were all barking at the same time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I did. It was very strange.”
“If you heard that again . . . could you take the children down to the creek?”
She nodded, bewilderment wrestling with resolution in her eyes. “If the dogs bark.”
“If they all bark,” Scout corrected. “Sets of three. Like they did today.”
Confusion gave way to recognition. “Sets of three,” she said. “Yes. They were barking in sets of three, weren’t they?”
“Most were. Yes, ma’am,” Scout affirmed. “If you hear that tomorrow. You’ll take the children down to the creek.”
Due to the lower elevation of the river camp, sunset there occurs just a few minutes before sunset in the Three Mills. So while Scout and Miss Barbara Ann were strolling along the street during the last few minutes of daylight in Three Mills, the light was already gone in the river camp.
Yes. There were signs of a battle. Croft could see that much. Yes. There was dried blood and there were definitely tracks, lots of deep canine tracks that couldn’t be anything other than gnoll. But there wasn’t enough light at the moment to properly investigate the camp site. So with the permission of Emmett Dawson, Captain Croft’s men bedded down across the colony road on the edge of the farmer’s property. He would investigate the river camp first thing in the morning.