The grey morning wind whipped down the gorge of the swift river, rattling the iron guy-wires that held the timber suspension bridge steady between the granite bluffs.
Hans stood near the southern gatehouse with his right hand resting comfortably on the ash shaft of his seven-foot boar spear, his empty left sleeve pinned neatly to his breast with a bone toggle.
Across the gravel turnabout, a heavy freight wagon loaded with dried split birch and iron strap-plates waited with its team of four draft oxen stamping in the frost.
A man wearing a salt-crusted oilskin vest stepped out from the bridge toll booth, motioning with a wooden signaling baton for the driver to roll onto the timbers.
Hans watched the man's boots, noticing how his leather soles trod squarely over the fourth transverse deck plank without looking down to test its spring.
