Commander Hans stood beside the northern toll barrier, his single right hand resting lightly upon the ash haft of his spear.
Hans tested the timber trestle with the butt of his spear and marked the boards nearest the churning river for immediate repair.
His empty left sleeve was pinned neatly across his chest with a simple brass clasp, fluttering in the stiff river breeze.
Across the dirt turnpike, three supply wagons loaded with flour sacks and dried salt pork waited in an orderly queue.
The old veteran knew every timber on this span, having guarded the crossing through seasonal floods and bandit raids for fifteen years.
Hans watched the newly appointed toll keeper wave the lead wagon forward with an overly hurried, careless gesture.
"Hold that lead team where they stand!" the old commander barked, lifting his spear to block the draft horses.
The wagon driver pulled back on the leather reins, bringing the draft team to an abrupt halt ten paces from the first abutment.
