Draft 2 – Updated 15 JAN 2026 (C013/D002)
With the exception of the deputy who stood last watch, Captain Croft was the first to rise. He walked out onto the colony road and peered back through the chilly darkness toward the perimeter lamps of the river camp. It was still so black that he could barely see his hand at arm’s length. So he followed the rutted road to the old stone bridge, leaned over the rails, watched the sky lighten in the east, and listened to the water ripple around the boulders below.
In a while, he could see his breath. A little after that, he could see the rippling water below the bridge as well as up and down the river channel. Seeing nothing upstream, he crossed to the other side to peer downstream. An inky blot appeared on the shore that he could not at first distinguish. Eventually, as the sky lightened, it became apparent that it was the derelict mill. Satisfied that he could now see enough to begin his investigation, the First Ranger went to work.
The road itself revealed the kinds of ruts and tracks he would expect to find on a major artery connecting one place to another in this valley. At the point where his posse exited the Beard, he could see fresh hoof prints leading into the river camp. He could also see hoof prints created when he and Marlow had travelled to and from Dawson’s place the evening prior. What puzzled him, though, was that he could not see any tracks on or near the road which were created by the coffle train. According to Dawson, it had come from the east and turned into the river camp a few days ago. It was as if the slate had been wiped completely clean on and near the colony road prior to his arrival.
As his men ate their cold breakfast on Dawson’s land, the captain sauntered systematically through the remains of the river camp. He felt it odd that there were a lot more tracks in the camp around the wagons than there were near the road. Also odd were recent hoof prints leading to the paddock which still contained horses; when he tried to backtrack them, they too vanished near the road. It was as though the horses in the paddock appeared suddenly near the place where the wagons were parked before being led into the paddock.
That was not the only puzzle. Near the place where the coffle would normally be chained for the night, he found a broken chain and some small human footprints. These footprints could be found nowhere near the wagons. The slaves, like the horses, seemed to have floated on air before arriving at the tree.
Also near the coffle chain was a large circular patch of freshly churned soil that contained a blizzard of gnoll tracks. How it was created baffled him because he could find no tool marks along its edges. Something must be buried there, he thought. He would have his men dig it up.
The blood evidence was less puzzling. It covered the tents and the supply wagons. There were spatters, streaks, smudges, stains, and handprints. There were blood trails leading into the forest, including one that could be traced back to where the coffle was chained. A length of chain remained attached to the base of the coffle tree but the lock was untouched. The chain appeared to have been cut by a blade. Blood and entrails were ground into the mud. There was also a blood trail leading toward the river that ended at the riverbank. Did someone escape? He wondered if they’d find a witness.
One thing seemed certain. Unless there was another upright dog species of which Croft was completely unaware, this was the work of gnolls. Their tracks were everywhere and it was unquestionable that they were the ones dragging bodies into the forest, leaving the blood trails behind. Were they alone or did they have help?
Captain Croft was aware that gnolls had language. Did they have magic as well? He couldn’t say. If they did, it would be nature magic, not stone magic, he guessed. Nature magic could be used to cover tracks. He didn’t know that but his experience led him to believe it. But why would gnolls—and/or whomever was working with them—make an effort to erase tracks near the road and around the coffle post but leave obvious tracks leading into the woods? Maybe someone was building a trap.
When the men finished their breakfast, the captain divided them into three squads, each with a specific assignment. One squad would follow the blood trail into the woods, taking care not to stumble into an ambush. A second squad would scour both sides of the riverbank—upstream and down—looking for anything that might be helpful, including the potential witness. The third squad, led by Croft himself, would canvas farms in the area and speak to allies in Three Mills. All three groups would return to the river camp before sunset.
Captain Croft, born to farmers, understood that farmers were busy in the mornings. So his squad would start in town and work their way back toward the river camp. As he swung up into his saddle to begin his trip, Dawson’s dog started barking. This sparked barking throughout the valley.
“Something’s spooked them,” the sergeant in the big white hat said, joining Croft as he rode onto the colony road.
*****
Scout watched everything from the shadows on a rise close to town. When she saw them split into three squads, she guessed why. And as the captain’s group passed the first trail leading to a farmhouse, she surmised that his squad would be starting their canvas in town, which meant that he would likely stop first at the blacksmith’s place. With that, she reined her mare around and headed back to town, choosing a path that would not take her past the mills along the river.
*****
The captain’s squad crossed the bridge and began climbing the long grade to Milton. They intended to ride past the abandoned village, but something made Croft stop. It was the sight of Butcher’s Barn. Having been inside it during the purge, he was aware of how large the structure was. And it occurred to him as he saw it once again that it would be large enough to shelter a coffle.
Stopping his squad, Croft walked his horse up and down the road scanning for trails in the long grass. One such trail led toward the barn. He instructed four of his men to circle the village through the wooded meadow. They were to approach the doors on the other side of the barn. The moment they were in place, the entire squad moved in together.
Nothing came of it. There was nobody inside to surprise. But it was clear that somebody—or something more likely—had surprised a skunk in the derelict building overnight, for the smell of spray was choking.
“I’ll need a lantern,” Croft said to Marlow as he stood in the doorway allowing his eyes to adjust. He had already seen the hoof prints leading in and out.
“Search the outhouses first,” Sergeant Marlow said to the deputies while they prepared torches and lanterns. “If you find one that’s been used recently, let me know.”
Croft entered the barn with Marlow and began inspecting the stalls. They found a dead fire and fresh tracks. A nearly empty barrel held a bit of water. The water was fresh. There was no dust on the barrel and none on the still surface of the water. He looked up to the roof for holes and wondered if it had rained here recently.
“Sergeant,” called one of the deputies. “We found something.”
Marlow left to investigate and then called Croft to join him.
“It’s been used recently,” said Marlow as Croft joined him at the outhouse nearest the barn.
The captain stepped inside and thrust his lantern deep enough into the hole to cast light on the contents.
“A few people for a few days,” said Croft.
“Or a lot for one,” Marlow replied, drawing a nod from the First Ranger.
“Check the other buildings,” Croft ordered his deputies, returning to the barn. A thorough survey of the area around the water keg produced nothing. The ground in every single stall was buried in a multitude of hoof prints, suggesting several horses.
“Hunters?” Marlow asked.
“Maybe,” Croft admitted. “No sign of children, though.”
Having made up his mind about what was likely happening in the barn, the captain turned to leave. But in one of those inexplicably lucky moments that befall all people at one time or another, a lone sunbeam falling upon a dusty horizontal surface illuminated something that caught his eye.
“What is it?” Marlow asked, seeing Croft’s reaction.
“It’s a handprint,” Croft answered, squatting near the hay trough in a stall holding his lantern up. “A small one.”
“Like a child?”
“Possibly,” the captain admitted. “Could be a small elf. Maybe a haff-ra.”
“A gnome?” Marlow suggested
“Too big for a gnome, I think,” said the captain, thoughtfully. “Definitely too big for a fairy.”
“How about a goblin?”
Croft shook his head. “No claws, far as I can see.”
Croft stayed low, carefully examining other surfaces low enough for a child to place their hands on.
“This barn is wide open for free use,” Marlow reminded him.
Captain Croft was well aware of that fact. “Could be anything.”
A thorough search of the village revealed only two more things that could be considered clues. There was a water well, recently uncovered then recovered, with fresh scuff marks on the inside wall and a chopping block with plenty of fresh wood chips scattered about. The well might account for the water in the barn. And someone bigger than a child had been chopping wood. Clues, yes; but clues to what?
He paused for a while on the colony road before leaving Milton. He surveyed the area imagining where he would hide a coffle of that size. He knew the area to the east. It was extremely rough country. He’d learned that during the purge. The area west was rough too. But it was not quite as rough and it was a much bigger area. Three druids were pulled from that side of the road during the purge. So he knew there were more places to hide out there.
As his squad approached the three mills set along the river at the base of the hill leading up into Three Mills, the blacksmith’s mutt circled them barking frantically. In fact, it seemed that every dog in town was alarmed about their arrival.
“Captain Croft,” the blacksmith nodded as the column came to a stop in front of his shop next to the river. “Sergeant Marlow”—he snapped his fingers and pointed at his dog—“Quiet!”.
“At least someone’s happy to see us,” the captain deadpanned, referring to the chorus of dogs barking all around them.
“It’s…they lost their minds yesterday, too,” Smitty replied. “I don’t know…they’re acting like the devil hisself is coming to town.”
“Gnolls maybe?” Croft asked, his gravelly voice probing for a reaction.
The blacksmith seemed puzzled. “No gnolls round here, Captain. Not ‘ny more.”
“Tell that to our missing coffle,” said Captain Croft.
A look of genuine astonishment landed on the blacksmith’s face. “What coffle?”
“The one I’m guessing came through here a couple of days ago,” said Croft, seeing recollection dawn on the smithy’s face. “Never made it to the Shadows. Looks like maybe gnolls got to it.”
“I…” the smith frowned, “I…I doubt it was gnolls…but we might could track ‘em.” Then he had an idea: “Want we should get the hounds, Captain?”
“You got hounds?” Croft was pleased with the man’s eagerness. He was short on time and this was something he could build on.
“Sawyer does,” the smith glanced toward the lumber mill next door. “We use ‘em for hunting bears mostly. Mountain lions. Slaves too, sometimes,” he said, tipping his head toward a young man who was shackled to the anvil in his forge. “Ain’t no reason we can’t track gnolls with ‘em.”
“The gnolls don’t matter so much,” Croft replied, “although some revenge might be nice. It’s the coffle he wants.” He pointed his chin in the direction of the Shadows.
Smitty nodded, accepting the point. “You want we should start today, Captain Croft?”
“May as well get to it while the scent trail’s fresh.”
“We’ll start at the river camp.”
“Milton might be better,” Croft advised. “I’m thinking you might run the dogs around that high country west of there. See what you come up with.”
Smitty pulled off his apron and laid it on his work bench as Marlow entered the conversation.
“You know the land around here, Smitty,” Marlow said, stating a fact they all knew to be beyond dispute. “Where would you hide a coffle? Fifteen to twenty bodies need a lot of space. Where would you go the first night? And where would you take them after that?”
When the first question fell from Marlow’s mouth, the blacksmith startled. A look of terror shot across his features. But as the questions continued and moved in a hypothetical direction, he regained his composure. He thought for a few moments before answering. “The old mill would be closest. There or Butcher’s Barn.”
“Meaning the barn in Milton.”
“Yep. It’s a little further from the river camp than the old mill, but it’s more private,” explained the smith. “The only other option would be to bring ‘em here, to town.”
Marlow raised his eyebrows and looked up the hill toward the church. “Any chance they’re here?”
Smitty’s face scrunched up and his head shook confidently.
“What about taking them west from Butcher’s barn,” asked the captain, “up into the high country?”
Smitty shrugged. “Not much out there, Captain. Used to be some tree demons lived up there. Witch doctors and such. No people though.”
“What if you were a druid? Would that make it easier?”
The blacksmith’s brows pinched together. “Witch doctors don’t keep slaves.”
“Forget that for a moment,’ Croft replied. Let’s just say you’re a…a witch doctor…and you want them slaves…for whatever reason. Where would you take them?”
“Hmmmm.” The blacksmith gave the question some thought. “A witch doctor’d probably take them to their camp,” he admitted. “But as far as I know, there aren’t any witch doctors left out there. You all chased ‘em all out of there after the war, Captain.”
Croft struggled with names. More so now that he was older. “There was a chief out there. I remember…” he replied, searching his memory. “It was a woman’s name.”
“Elora.”
“Right,” Croft agreed, then frowned. “We never found her, though.”
“So do you want us to go out there and look for her?” Smitty seemed eager to help.
“Would you mind?”
“You know we’re loyal friends of the Company, Captain Croft. What would you like us to do if we find her?”
“Nothing,” Croft instructed. “We’re leaving for the Shadows in a day or two. Likely won’t be back until spring. If you find her, or them, just be prepared to lead us to them when we come back.”
“Should we take ‘em into custody for you, Captain?” Excitement sparkled in Smitty’s eyes.
“Don’t do anything to harm the governor’s property,” Croft warned him. “If he gets his slaves back, I’ll see to it you’re looked after. But if any harm comes to his property on account of anything you done,” Croft warned him, “there will be unhappy consequences.”
“Best leave ‘em for us,” Marlow put in, raising his eyebrows under his white hat.
The blacksmith was clearly pleased. It was an opportunity to assist the Shadows, something that might pay dividends down the road. Before the captain and his squad had left his yard for the church, he was heading for the lumber mill next door.
While the captain’s visit with the blacksmith was primarily speculative, his interrogation of the clergyman was entirely concrete and much more satisfying, for it confirmed a theory percolating in his mind about the day the coffle went missing.
There was, testified Rev. Garret, a ginger-haired elf in Three Mills on the day the coffle arrived. He appeared in the area a few days before the coffle arrived. He had actually interacted with the coffle on his way out of town, making them some medicine.
On its face, this appeared to be on the up-and-up. With the exception of the Beard, elves lived in every forest in the land. They served as scouts, guides, hunters, and medicine men. Humans had their own healers, but there were things in this land human healers had never seen before. Every farmhouse, every village and town, every mine and every logging camp depended on elf medicine men—witch doctors—to one degree or another.
So nothing about this ginger-haired elf seemed out of place—except for one small detail. According to every account related to Captain Croft by every person he interrogated, beginning with the clergyman: the ginger elf left town in the direction of the Shadows.
“Either he’s going to the river camp or he’s going to the Shadows,” said Marlow as they walked down the church’s stone steps. “No other reason for him to go that way.”
“Unless he was going to one of the farms between Three Mills and the river camp,” Croft replied.
“Could be making a housecall, I suppose.”
“Or selling elixirs…door to door.”
As Croft’s squad worked its way back to the river camp, interviewing farmers along the way, it became clear to the ranger that the elf was not selling elixirs. Nor had he made any housecalls.
The sun was sinking toward the mountain peaks as the captain’s squad began their descent from Milton down to the river camp. When they came in sight of the stone bridge, they spotted the squad assigned to explore the river waiting for them.
“We found a body,” said the deputy leading the squad. “Bug-eyed Jim. Arrow in his back. Looks like he crawled into the old mill and died.”
“Didja bury him yet?” Croft asked.
“Go the hole dug,” the deputy replied, “but we were waiting for you.”
“Good,” said Croft. “Find anything else?”
“No,” the man admitted. “We went as far west as we could. Cliffed out eventually. You’d have to be a bird to go any further.”
“And what about the other direction?”
“Pretty much the same,” he said. “Not far from here the river turns. Gets real steep real fast. No signs of anything human. No way kids are getting through there…less they’re half goat.”
The party dismounted when they arrived at the derelict mill. The dead man had been in the water. He had tussled with something hungry. There were bite marks in several places along his legs and defensive wounds on his hands. He had survived that encounter, dragged himself in here, and gradually bled out on the floor—at which point his body became a rat feast. There was an arrow in his back, lodged in a front rib, which the captain dug out with his knife. As he expected, it was elven.
“I figured it was elves,” the squad leader said confidently.
“This don’t prove a thing,” Marlow told him. “Gnolls don’t make their own weapons. They use what they find.”
Croft agreed and considered his options. They all led to a single unpleasant conclusion. “We need to find the gnolls.”
The third squad, the squad that tracked the gnolls into the Beard didn’t have to travel very far. The pack had been gorging non-stop since the kill. Now, with their bellies over full, they were sleeping.
“They’re holded up?” Marlow asked.
“They’re in a shallow ravine,” the squad leader replied. “It’s pretty open.”
Croft squinted in thought. “I’m not an expert on gnolls. But aren’t they cavity dwellers?”
Marlow nodded. “Maybe they just got here. Recently. So they ain’t found a home yet.”
When the deputies attacked the next morning, the battle was one-sided and brief. An unexpected volley of arrows took out several and roused the rest from their sleep. Some fell to blades as they stumbled blindly into the ambush. In a span of mere heartbeats a third of the pack was dead and a third wounded. The rest were chased deeper into the Beard—where their attackers refused to follow.
The captain held a hand over his nose as he picked his way through the dead. The gnoll corpses did not bother him, but maggots, fragments of Company uniforms, and the smell of rotting human flesh did. Pulling his long knife from his scabbard, he used it to move things aside or lift them for closer examination. Eventually he found what he was looking for and called some men over.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a length of chain. “Pull on this.”
The closest deputy obliged and pulled the chain, dripping in all manner of foulness, clear of the mess. Hand over hand, empty collar after empty collar, the bloody coffle chain revealed no secrets. There was simply no way to tell what had been attached to it. If it was slaves, they were dead. If it was anything else, it was gone.
The First Ranger’s instinct was to build a bonfire and start burning body parts. He wanted to burn every piece of flesh and bone and count the heads that remained. Unfortunately, they were inside the Beard on the cusp of the autumn moon. It would be dark in a few hours which meant, if they stayed, there was a good chance that his entire company would be dead by morning. So he dared not risk it.
What he needed today were enough answers for his boss to get them through the winter. What happened to the coffle? Gnolls. Survivors? None. What about the arrowhead? Don’t mean a thing. Were the gnolls working alone? No idea yet. What about the hand print? Could be unrelated.
No answers would satisfy Governor Ducot fully. Only the coffle would do that. But he felt he could fall back on the blacksmith and the sawyer. They are going to search the area around the barn where the handprint was found, he could say. If they find anything, they’ll sit on it and we’ll deal with it in the spring.
The ginger elf seemed to be the key. Pull on that string and the whole thing might unravel. But that would have to wait. Tomorrow, they would race up through the Beard and arrive at the Shadows safely ahead of sundown. After that, the Beard would close and he’d have six months to figure things out.