1 – The Last Coffle (C001/D014)

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Draft 14 – Updated 20 July 2025 (C001/D014)

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This is a serial novel. New chapters will be posted monthly until the end of 2025. Beginning in 2026, new chapters will be posted weekly.

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1 – The Last Coffle

Slavery had been a part of life in the valley for so long it had become a habit. Talk to people about it and you would find that most agreed it was wrong. But there didn’t seem to be any other way. As unjust as the slave tithe might be, bringing back the war seemed worse.

Hunter opposed it. Always had. But his days of hunting coffles and freeing slaves were behind him. That was Past Hunter. Present Hunter was a bounty hunter. And — at this present moment — his team were all in place, ready to grab another, and cash him in for gold.

From his current position, Hunter had a clear view of the square. If things went sideways (and things often went sideways when Autumn was in the middle), his daughter would take the deputy to his right. Autumn would take the boss. The rest were his to manage. If things went well (if Autumn stuck to the plan) no one would die and their mission would conclude before dawn. All they needed now was the coffle.

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

Hunter’s team had been trailing this particular coffle for weeks because one of the deputies was a wanted man. Their objective was to snatch him from the slave train before it reached its destination. After that, he would be safe in The Shadows and beyond their reach. They had one day left to do that.

Three weeks of patient observation had attuned him to the coffle’s daily routine. This was their last stop. As it reached the intersection at the bottom of the hill, the train split into two parts. The lead segment turned and headed up the hill into town. The support wagons continued past Old Mill toward the river camp, where they would set up to spend the night. This cut their forces in half. It was the only time the coffle was vulnerable.

The segment entering the town square consisted of the coffle master, four mounted deputies, three slave wagons, and a single wagon of support. As they neared the church, three deputies fanned out to check their perimeter. The fourth deputy, Hunter’s target, the young man with the black pinched-front hat, stayed with the coffle master.

Deputy Number One cantered his horse over to the smokehouse where he circled Hunter’s daughter who was trading with the butcher. He was looking for warning signs. The sight of weapons or armor would immediately sound an alarm. Unable to see what was hidden from his view, the mounted deputy backed off and took up a position nearby — exactly as expected.

Deputy Number Two walked his horse slowly past the hitching post where a disinterested hunter was organizing the contents of his saddle bags. This deputy would not be concerned with an elf hunter’s wooden bow and arrows. Nor, if he could see them, would the elf’s stone blades raise any concerns. Elf hunters troubled no one. They were traders, support staff who minded their own business, not threats.

Deputy Number Three assessed the group of dignitaries gathering on the steps of the church. Seeing nothing of concern, he too fell into position. Hunter was now free to concentrate on the transaction about to get underway.

The smith, a slave-owner himself, was already at the church, eager to greet the coffle master. The lanky and athletic town fletcher — allied with the butcher and, therefore, Hunter — stood inconspicuously behind him. The wiry collier and the head-scarfed millwright, both of whom had been drinking in the tavern since mid-morning, wobbled slightly as they crossed the square 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. The coughing child. The whispered words between his daughter and the butcher. Hunter’s perception locked onto each sound individually. Where most elves were overwhelmed by noisy human environments, Hunter now operated comfortably.

Amanda’s heavy footfalls behind him announced that she, too, was on her way. As the door to the butcher shop opened, the scent of blood swirled in the eddies. Exchanging a somber glance with Hunter, Amanda smoothed her dress, checked her hairpin, and inhaled deeply. Raising her double chin, she stepped off the boardwalk and marched across the square with as much dignity as she could muster.

*****

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

The church door opened as the butcher’s plump wife reached the steps before it. 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 ceasefire 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, the coffle master had an eye out for merchandise that would move quickly in the slave markets of Siouk. Ten-year-old boys. Nine-year-old girls. Healthy. Dark of hair with good teeth and clear skin. If the buyer was a fiendling, he would need an unusually large male or a portly young lady. 

“This one,” said the coffle master as he checked a girl’s teeth. “How old?”

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

“She’s thin as a bullwhip,” the coffle master interrupted. “Don’t we pay you to feed ‘em?”

“Yes, Captain Lewis,” replied the clergyman. “Governor Ducol is a most generous benefactor and the town provides more than enough food. But not all cows produce equal milk. At this age, some slaves grow tall before they grow thick.”

“Hmmmm,” said the slaver looking up and down the line.

*****

Autumn, an eladrin elf, stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. If things went sideways, he would be in the middle of it. The coffle master himself wasn’t particularly dangerous, 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 death. 

The small eladrin was much younger than Hunter. He had less experience with the overwhelming noise of human settlements and was not at all a fan. 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 uncommon amongst elves. That made them precious. Humans, by contrast, seemed to take their children for granted. From his perspective, they were always ill and nobody seemed to care.

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 man in the middle, the person in greatest danger, he had the power to make adjustments. 

As he approached the group assembled on the steps of the church, the coffle master’s back was turned toward him. Their black-hatted bounty stood behind his master facing Autumn. His team was expecting him to stop and address their bounty, 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 this was not the right time. 

Tomorrow night, he would be inside. A week or two in The Shadows was all he needed. If he found what he expected to find, it would put an end to all of this. And he could settle scores with the coffle master later.

The risk here was low. It had been decades since anybody had actually attacked a coffle. But from time to time there was trouble. Somebody, a drunk father or a grieving mother, would come to the coffle line and try to make a statement. While the coffle master was engaged, Guard Number Four’s job was to watch his back.

LT saw the elf riding toward them from the livery. There were two more across the street. The elf woman 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 uniforms and they all wore their hair the same. 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 under a burnt umber cape.

LT’s eyes followed him as he rode 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 slightly, 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. Everybody held their breath. LT’s hand moved to his pommel. All eyes were on the ginger.

*****

The coffle master, sensing a mood change, turned slowly to behold a small man 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 her head as her eyes welled with tears.

The eladrin turned slightly in his saddle before the hushed assembly to locate the coffle master. His black-hatted bodyguard stepped forward to intervene, but the coffle master waved him off.

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

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

“You’re an eladrin?” the coffle master asked with genuine curiosity.

“I am.”

“And you’re a healer?”

“My name is Autumn —” the elf said, smiling and extending a hand.

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

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

The coffle master 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 fire,” Autumn volunteered. “If this child isn’t treated today, I promise you the rest will have it tomorrow.”

The coffle master knew the healer was right. He also understood the grave consequences of delivering slaves to The Shadows only to have them die a few days later.

“How much?” he asked.

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

The coffle master relaxed when he heard Autumn’s price. Medicine men 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. You got enough medicine for all of ‘em?” he asked.

Autumn 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 bodyguard’s frontier knife flashed from his sheath the moment the healer’s hand disappeared into the saddlebag. Oblivious to this development, the medicine man 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 guard hesitated, his long blade drawn, rooted in indecision, while the coffle master 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 pay his bills and put off his turn on the wheel. 

This was an interesting 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 then recited a short incantation to create a tiny flame, which he carefully placed amongst the leaves. In a few moments, they smoked and quickly turned to ash. 

Reaching into a pocket inside his shirt, he withdrew a small pouch from which he poured a handful of dried blueberries into the ashes. From another pocket he produced a small wooden pestle which he used to crush the berries while reciting another incantation in a comical singsong language that nobody understood but everyone found funny.

“Keep an eye on the healer,” the master said to LT. Then he turned his back on the medicine show and finished his business with the clergyman and the council.

*****

Noticing for the first time that everyone was watching him, Autumn spoke 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, looking up at the children in the wagon.

By the time the contents of the bowl were blended into a smooth paste, everyone had relaxed. LT’s knife had been returned to its sheath and the entire group was curious about what Autumn was doing. All were quiet except the little girl with the green eyes; 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 wooden 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 LT.

*****

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

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

LT yanked his hand to free it once, then twice. On the second pull, the healer let go causing him to stumble and nearly fall backward. The whole group, slaves, slavers, and onlooking townsfolk burst into laughter. 

“Ooops,” the 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. It’s weird, I know. And it takes a bit longer than humans expect. So it catches people off guard. Please forgive me.”

“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 girl who gulped down the remaining contents of the bowl.

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 Old Mill, 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 female companion were nowhere to be seen.

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