Flash Fiction

From the roughhewn parapet of our bastle I could see them. A ramshackle band of about fifteen. At their vantage, despite the cold autumn mist, they must see the black sack hanging from our boundary post.

One of the band pulled away and slow trotted his hobbler down from Spotters Rise and across the bog. Reaching the boundary mark he hoisted the sack across his sturdy pony and headed away, raising his fist in salute.

I hollered down through the trapdoor. ‘They’ve taken it, they are heading off.’ There was a palpable sense of relief. We could relax until spring.