The swamp mist clung to the air like it had breath, around branches, hanging heavy over the stagnant water.
The cries of unseen birds echoed across the marsh, thin and slightly off in the damp stillness. Somewhere far ahead, stone rose from the mire — a rough line of walls cutting across the landscape like the spine of a long-dead beast.
Blackwater Crossing.
It was the only truly stable route through the Southfang March. Every other path led to mud pits, sinkholes, or stretches of swamp where the water could swallow a man whole.
The mercenaries who controlled it charged extortionate tolls to let traders, armies, or refugees pass. And when payment wasn't enough, they took whatever they wanted from the travelers instead.
Now their fort stood between Lan's army and the open road to Verdelane.
Lan sat astride his black warhorse on a low rise overlooking the causeway. The swamp around them breathed with faint ripples, insects skimming across pools of dark water.
