Follow me on TikTok: @brentjohner
The Last Coffle is a serial novel that I started working on during the first Covid lockdown. I wrote the first 330 pages during the first and second lockdowns and then set it aside when we all went back to work. I did not return to it until December 2024.
Since then I have completed an additional 330+ pages and am currently adding ten to twenty new pages every week. When complete, the first draft will be approximately 1000 pages.
While I am an award winning scholar and a published non-fiction author — books, magazines, newspapers, and scholarly publications — this is my first foray into fiction since my undergraduate days at the University of Alberta in the 1980s.
This work is not intended to be commercial. It does not conform to the requirements of commercial epic fantasy publishers. Therefore I don’t plan even to query it. What I intend to do, instead, is to publish it here — as a serial — for the enjoyment of anybody who wants to experience epic literary fantasy.
What follows is the first draft of the first chapter. I will return to polish it once I have finished telling myself the tale, which I expect to be in September 2025.
1 – THE COFFLE (1st Narrative Draft)
The coffle slithered along the wagon trail that traversed the valley floor connecting one village to another. A dusty, shuffling column of enslaved children chained by their right ankles and guarded by soldiers on horseback filled out the body of the beast.
The head of this snake was the mounted coffle master. His whip was the snake’s flicking tongue. Behind him, ahead of the children in the column, were eight guards — each one mounted, leather-armored, and sword-armed. They were tasked not with defending the slavers from the children, but rather with protecting the investment the slaves represented.
Trailing behind the children were the lumbering supply wagons pulled by teams of four. Knockers and camp workers — trusted adult slaves with years of faithful service — followed the wagons on foot.
As they passed the terraced fields, knockers peeled off from the coffle to pound on every farmhouse door, inquiring about slaves for purchase. When the answer was affirmative, the knocker raised a flag and the whole column stopped. The slave to be sold was examined by the coffle master. A price was paid and a disobedient child, an unfaithful wife, or the progeny of a chattel slave was swallowed into the belly of the beast.
Last in the slithering coffle were the camp workers — young male slaves whose job it was to break camp in the mornings and set camp in the evenings. After breaking camp in the mornings, the camp workers in their wagons would catch up to the slow moving coffle and trail it for much of the day. At their final destination, when the slavers stopped to collect their tribute from a town, the wagons, the knockers, and the camp workers would break off and move on ahead to set camp at a prearranged spot further down the road.
Such was the history of slavery in this mountain valley that each of the camp sites was commonly known and protected by local law. The slavers stocked firewood and animal feed at each site without fear of losing any of it to theft. For with the exception of a short war fought one generation past, nobody in the valley dared challenge the Company or its army.
The coffle entering the pastoral town of Old Mill on this day was unremarkable in any way save one. It was — today and for most of the past few weeks — under continuous surveillance by three bounty hunters who were in the final stages of a plan to snatch a prize from amidst the slavers.
Of the eight armed men charged with protecting the coffle and intimidating the residents of the valley, one was a wanted man with a large price on his head. Upon this young slaver were cast the eyes of this trio of bounty hunters, the last of whom had entered Old Mill barely an hour ago.
Posing as a hunter selling his kill to a butcher, one male bounty hunter’s horse was positioned at a hitching post in such a way as to allow an unimpeded view of the church across the square. From this spot the hunter would see and hear everything that was about to transpire.
His daughter, taller than him by a foot, was engaged with their friend and accomplice, the butcher, at a table next to his smokehouse. She and the butcher appeared to be transacting business. In truth, they were keeping conversation between them to a minimum in order to allow the elder elf an opportunity to hear what was about to take place across the square in front of the church.
The third member of their party was retrieving his horse from the livery down the street from the church. He had arrived in the town a few days earlier with a plan to time his departure precisely with the arrival of the coffle. No one, the bounty hunters predicted, would assume a connection between an eladrin elf leaving the livery and a woodland elf at the butcher’s shop — for elves were common in the area and had no beef with either townspeople or slavers.
Having all pieces in place, the scene before the three bounty hunters rolled out on schedule. As the coffle moved down the town’s main street, the head of the serpent separated from its tail. The lead segment turned right toward the square and headed for the church while the trailing segment continued on past the town to set camp on a riverbank further down the road.
The segment headed for the church was led by the coffle master and his lieutenant. Trailing behind them were seven guards, the children of the coffle chain, and their adult attendants.
As they neared the square, the lieutenant signaled six of the guards to spread out and take up defensive positions. One guard remained behind them to guard the coffle master’s rear.
The first two guards cantered their horses over to the smokehouse where they circled the butcher and the hunter’s daughter, carefully checking for steel weapons.
The butcher noted their approach with a friendly nod. The nearest guard responded with stony silence and a menacing glare. The hunter’s daughter did not look up and did not acknowledge the guard as he circled them. Her attention was fully occupied with shaving a slice of cheese in order to taste what she was trading for.
As the guard expected, she had a wooden bow and a quiver of wooden arrows on her back. She held a small steel dagger in her hand, which was not unusual. While woodland elves used only wooden weapons, half-elves commonly used steel. There was a cleaver stuck in a meat-chopping block on a table outside of the smokehouse and there was an ax protruding from a wood-chopping block behind the smokehouse. The butcher’s longsword, hidden just inside the smokehouse door, was not visible to the circling guard.
Seeing no evidence of armor, steel blades, or battle preparations, the two guards backed off to a position from which he could see their boss in the square while keeping an eye on the pair at the smokehouse. Their hands rested calmly on the pommels of their steel short swords. They were not concerned about either the butcher or the half-breed.
A second guard slowly walked his horse past Hunter in a similar inspection before taking up a ready position nearby. Like his compatriot, he noted Hunter’s bow and quiver but saw no evidence suggesting the elf was prepared for a fight. As pure elves did not use steel weapons, he, too, disregarded any potential threat from the butcher or his savage acquaintances.
Seeing their men in position with no indication of trouble, the coffle master and his lieutenant approached a cluster of local dignitaries gathered in front of the church.
Inside the shop, the butcher’s wife saw their horses pass by. She wiped the blood from her hands and removed her apron. Exchanging a solemn glance with her eldest son, she smoothed her dress, checked her hairpin, and inhaled deeply. Raising her chin, she walked resolutely out the door into the square. Other members of the town council were similarly crossing the square and heading in the direction of the church.
The smith, a slave-owner himself, was already there chatting obsequiously with the still mounted coffle master. The town fletcher stood silently behind him. The collier and the millwright, who had been drinking in the tavern since mid-morning, wobbled slightly as they crossed the square to complete the delegation.
No sooner were they all gathered than the door of the church opened. A formally dressed clergyman led a ceremonial procession of children out onto the steps. The coffle master swung down from his horse to inspect their line.
His men, trained to cover their coffle master while he inspected tribute, kept their eyes on everyone. They surveyed every body, every window, every doorway, every roofline for any sign of interference.
The guard with the bounty on his head was stationed with his back to the coffle master. Surveying the square, he saw a sleepy-eyed elf hunter and his apprentice trading with the butcher. This sight was not unexpected. Elves brought fresh wild meat to butchers and traded for preserved meats and cheeses. These were then taken to the mountains where they were traded with orcs for iron ingots. The ingots were brought back to town to trade for human goods.
From his position, he could also see another elf — ginger-haired, possibly a high elf — rigging his horse in the livery.
Neither the elves nor the apprentice concerned the wanted man. Elves had not interfered with the slave trade since the ceasefire took hold twenty-five years ago. The tavern door, which was the most likely source of human trouble, was as still as a stone for the moment. He saw no sign that the transaction occurring behind him was about to be interrupted.
The coffle master, knowing exactly what he was looking for, got straight to business. The merchant for whom he worked had very specific tastes and had equipped his coffle master with sketches illustrating exactly what interested him. Satisfying his master’s desires was the coffle master’s highest priority. Beyond that, if there was nothing suitable for the boss himself, he looked 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. That was best for the market. If the buyer was a fiendling, he would need an unusually large male or a portly young lady.
For the boss himself, only females. Young, pretty with high cheekbones, a diamond-shaped face, and a small, upturned nose. The ceasefire that paused the Slavers’ War made it illegal to enslave non-human races, fiendlings included. But there was nothing in the ceasefire about human slaves who looked like fiendlings, so his boss had learned to make due with that.
“This one,” said the coffle master as he checked a girl’s teeth. “How old is she?”
“Nine-years, Master Khan,” replied the clergyman. “She is trained in kitchen service primarily. But can …”.
“Why is she so skinny?” the coffle master interrupted. “Do we not supply you with enough silver to feed these things?”
“Yes, Master Khan,” replied the clergyman. “Chairman Devall is a most generous benefactor and the town provides more than enough food. But as you know, 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. He knew the priest was right, but also understood the intimidation value of a coffle master’s visible displeasure.
Across the square, Hunter continued rummaging in his saddlebag as though arranging items within. His bow and quiver hung just inches from his hands. The clasps on his hidden hardwood blades were freed for fast retrieval.
He did not need to look toward his daughter, Scout, for he knew, without question, that she was ready too. Of the eight slavers in the square, he knew which four were his. She knew which four were hers. And the eladrin knew that he was responsible for the coffle master.
Like a calculating cougar preparing to pounce, Hunter’s ears picked up every sound. His squinting eyes caught every subtle movement. While everyone in the square was focussed on the exchange between the clergyman and the coffle master, Hunter processed many other details which, to the humans, were just background noise: a young girl coughing, three dogs barking, two men arguing inside the tavern.
His eyes caught things human eyes could not discern: the shame of the council, the overconfidence of the coffle master’s men, and, as he had observed in other transactions in other towns, the conflict brewing within his bounty.
As the eladrin stepped up into the stirrup and swung his leg over the back of the saddle, he too sensed the tension in their bounty’s posture. Clicking his horse forward at a walk, the eladrin avoided eye contact with the guards spread out around the square and cast his gaze instead upon the dusty children in the coffle.
The miles walked in bondage showed hard upon their faces. One child, a small girl with green eyes and a diamond-shaped face, was overcome with a sickly cough. As he passed near her the eladrin quietly stopped his horse.
Everyone — the clergyman, the town councillors, the slaves and the slavers themselves — stopped, too. The hand of every guard tensed on their weapons. All eyes were on the ginger. Even the children held their breath as the ginger eladrin sat silent and perfectly still on his horse looking sympathetically down at the small child with the sickly cough.
The coffle master, sensing the sudden mood change in the people around him, turned slowly to behold the eladrin: tall, thin, red-orange hair in a celtic braid, a neatly trimmed beard with a handlebar moustache. No obvious weapons. Just an elegant elf, in a brown leather jacket with a burnt umber cape seated on a horse looking down on a child that was chained to other children.
“Oh, honey,” the eladrin said gently to the child. “Are you feeling poorly?”
The 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. The lieutenant stepped forward to intervene, but the coffle master waved him off.
“Excuse me, Mr. Slave Master,” said the eladrin. “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 moment.
“You’re a healer, I suppose?” the coffle master suggested, moving slowly toward the elf, his hand resting on the handle butt of his snake whip.
“Oh, honey,” the eladrin quipped. “I’m an Autumn eladrin. Healing is about all I can do,” he confirmed, putting emphasis on the word “can”.
The coffle master paused, taking full measure of the ginger elf. Still not sure what to make of this brazen stranger, he quickly scanned the square. Was this a trick? What was the play?
“This kind of cough spreads like fire,” Autumn volunteered. “If we don’t treat it today, I promise you the rest will have it tomorrow. I can’t imagine that would make your boss very happy.”
No, thought the coffle master. It wouldn’t.
“OK, medicine man” he asked suspiciously, “How much?”
“That depends,” said Autumn. “I can cure her properly, in which case I would need a couple of hours. That would be nine silver. Or I can give her some medicine. Now the medicine may or may not cure her cough, but it would buy you a day or two to get her to wherever you are going. And would probably stop the spread — if it hasn’t already spread.”
The coffle master relaxed when he heard Autumn’s price. Medicine men in this 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.
“Do you have enough for all of these animals?” the coffle master asked the healer.
The ginger elf frowned as he counted and then nodded when he was done.
“I believe I do, Mr. Master,” he said, cheerily climbing from his horse and reaching into his saddle bags.
The lieutenant’s sword flashed from his scabbard the moment the eladrin’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 alarmed lieutenant, sword drawn, stood dumbfounded, rooted in indecision. The coffle master, however, smiled. He secretly hated this part of his job — traveling from town to town, playing a role, collecting tribute, collecting children, forcing them to march. At times, the sadness of this task was simply overwhelming.
But this was something new. This was interesting. He had heard of eladrins. But until today, until this very moment, he had never actually met one. And this one, his first eladrin, was at once fearless, oblivious, charming, and wonderfully entertaining.
For the second time, the eladrin counted the children in the coffle. For each child he drew one holly leaf from the burlap bundle and placed it into the bowl. He then recited a short incantation which caused a small flame to appear in his hands, 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 bowl with 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 language that nobody understood but everyone found funny.
“You,” the master said, nodding at Hunter’s bounty. “Keep an eye on the healer.” With that, he turned his back to the 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 yucky. The blueberries make it taste better. And the color is simply gorgeous.”
By the time the contents of the bowl were blended into a smooth paste, everyone had relaxed. The lieutenant’s sword was returned to its scabbard and the entire group was curious about what would happen next. The ill little girl was the only one who was not silent. 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 in with a pair of stiff wooden sticks. A few minutes 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 Hunter’s bounty.
The wanted man hesitated, momentarily unsure, but then extended his hand and pulled Autumn to his feet. As he rose, the healer smiled and said something the bounty did not understand.
“What?” the bounty asked, trying to unclasp his hand. The attempt was unsuccessful as Autumn held firm to his grip, smiling and speaking his unfamiliar tongue.
The slaver yanked his hand to free it once, then twice. On the second pull, the healer let go causing the bounty to stumble and nearly fall backward. The whole group, slavers, children, and onlooking townsfolk burst into laughter.
“Ooops,” the healer exclaimed, putting his hand to his chest as if to cover his pearls. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Please don’t laugh,” he asked of the children.
The guard recovered his balance and looked around blushing.
“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 some people off guard. Please forgive me.”
“Sure,” said Hunter’s bounty looking at his berry stained fingers briefly before wiping them off on his pants. “No problem.”
When the giggling subsided, Autumn 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 little 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 twelve silver pieces please, Mr. Master,” he said, turning back to the man with the whip.
For the briefest of moments, the coffle master considered the possibility of a dramatic and cruel response. He considered stiffing the medicine man, paying him nothing. He also considered taking the healer as a slave. But wisdom this day got the better of him and he pressed things no further. Acknowledging the request with a nod of his head, his lieutenant pulled a purse from his belt and paid out twelve silver pieces.
Minutes later, four more children, just selected from the church in Old Mill, were absorbed into the coffle. And by the time the head of the snake slithered out of the village toward the river camp, the Autumn eladrin, the hunter, and his female associate were nowhere to be seen.
More? Follow me on TikTok: @brentjohner