Grey skies overhead, a cold wind whistling his ears, and gulls crying and whirling above, as the sloop pitched east through slatey seas.

Morwella in winter. Bleak and stark, with the promise of wet snow building in those lowering clouds ahead. Feet braced on the prow; Corin watched as the sloop changed course and made for those towering bluffs. They parted, and the sloop angled into the wide inlet where the River Falahine greeted the sea. Vangaris lay twenty miles upriver. The sloop’s destination but not Corin an Fol’s.

“This will do,” Corin hinted towards the closest bank where a ramshackle dock showed flimsy through the murk. “I’ll need a good fellow to row me ashore.” The skipper nodded and bid his scowling mate lower a craft. Corin thanked the skipper and slapped some coin in his palm. Then, after slinging Clouter’s harness across his back and strapping up, Corin lowered his chilled bones into the smaller vessel.

The mate slipped in beside him and, after deftly fiddling with pulley and ropes, swiftly lowered boat to water. That done he freed the ties, took an oar in each hand, and commenced rowing rigorously shoreward, his primary objective to dispose of their passenger soonest and reach Vangaris before the taverns closed. The mate’s urgency was not lost on Corin who sat his plank despondent as those snow clouds mustered ahead. Suffice to say he wasn’t looking forward to this job.

Corin studied the bank where willows hugged the shore, their bare fingers brushing water. Beyond these, a strand of shingle and random rocks faded off into murky distance. The gap narrowed as the bank loomed close. The rowboat scraped and ground onto shingle. Corin grunted thanks to his pilot and leaped ashore, holding his cloak up to keep it dry.

He clambered onto the jetty. On closer inspection, the timbers looked half rotten. This proved to be the case as the third plank split and Corin crashed through the gap, plunging into the Falahine’s murky chill. A cloud of splinters and rusted nails bruised and grazed his arms as he slid between timbers, his trousers and boots drenched as the icy brine washed over them.

Flailing, Corin gripped a slimy post and clung on dismally as the water filled his boots. That water crept higher, inch by icy inch, as Corin’s grip on the stanchion slipped. Worse, his cloak was tugging at his neck, doing its best to strangle him as — caught by current — it threatened to pull him out to sea again. Meanwhile, his best friend Clouter was weighing him down like an anchor.

That combination of factors half drowned Corin. Mercifully he found a loose nail sticking out from the post and used this tenuous purchase to heave his soaked hide back up onto the jetty. There Corin lay for a brief time, gasping and flapping like a freshly hooked carp.

Corin checked his scrapes and bruises. No bones broken. Just dizzy, cold and wet — nothing untoward. After several soaking moments dripping and shivering, and wondering if things would ever go to plan, Corin staggered to his feet again.

Time for a walk. Corin scanned the shore. If Hagan were watching, he’d be pissing himself. At last satisfied no one had witnessed his calamity, Corin found his feet and tentatively made his way along the jetty, checking the rotten timbers one by one with the heels of his soggy boots.

He made the strand without further mishap and quickly vanished into the deep brush of thorn and bramble above. Once hidden, Corin unfastened Clouter’s harness and let the big sword drop. He freed his cloak and tugged off his boots, upending them to spill out the water squelching inside.

Boots drained, Corin rolled the cloak as tight as he could, wringing and squeezing out droplets. Once that was achieved, Corin slipped back into his boots, slung the crinkled cloak across his shoulder and pinned it with his wolf broach. He was half frozen and stiff with inactivity, but at least he was alive, which is always a good thing. You have to focus on the positive.