Draft 28 – Updated 28 AUGUST 2026 (C001/D028)
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 toward their camp by the river.
The fugitive he was after was posing as a deputy, the youngest 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, the scout trading meat, 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 because they were locked in their seats. 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 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 could see how difficult this was for her.