The morning mist sitting over the East Bend Swamp was thick, carrying the familiar, bitter scent of decaying reeds and stagnant water. For generations, this exact smell signaled the beginning of a miserable, expensive negotiation for any merchant traveling the eastern flank of the valley. It was the scent of Baron Harth's monopoly.
Today, the routine was shattered.
Shortly after dawn, four riders wearing the Baron's heavy green and black livery trotted down the muddy incline toward the wooden toll booth that guarded the western edge of the mire. They did not carry fresh lockboxes for the day's coin. They carried a rolled canvas banner and a handful of iron nails.
