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Within ten yards of the west bank the boat stops abruptly when it runs aground in the silted shallows.

'Curse our fortunes,' grumbles Prarg, peering over the side. 'I was a'hoping we'd be lucky enough t'keep our feet dry.' Wearily he searches through the provisions and produces a heavy rope, one end of which he proceeds to tie around the bowhead while you stow away the oars. Then, together, you slip into the cold knee-deep mud and begin the laborious task of hauling the boat towards dry ground.

You encamp on a strip of frozen loam and use the upturned boat as a shelter from the elements. As night falls, so, too, does the temperature. You cast your experienced eye across the darkening skies and see banks of cloud, heavy with snow, scudding the distant horizon. They are an unwelcome sight, the precursors to a winter storm.

Prarg volunteers to sit the first watch but, mindful that his need for rest is greater than yours, you insist that he be the first to get some sleep. For four hours you sit and scan the bleak horizon, your mind filled with unanswered questions about the mission and the dangers you have yet to face. While you ponder what may await you in the future, you remain watchful and alert, for the risk of an attack by the denizens of this swamp is ever present. Fortunately, the cold dissuades them from leaving their lairs this night and your watch passes without incident. Then the time comes for you to awaken Prarg. With a distinct lack of enthusiasm he takes over whilst you settle down to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep.

Turn to 327.

Text copyright © 1991 Joe Dever.
Illustrations copyright © 1991 Brian Williams.