A demented wail brought Ishak back to the land of the living, but it was the stabbing pain in his thigh that kept him here. An incessant throbbing, that was like trying to read with someone constantly tapping you on the shoulder... With a sharp knife. Still, it was almost a relief to evade his vivid dreams of wasp pits and witches.

He hated this country. He would beg his uncle to invade Perugia all over again and let him personally oversee the sacking of Norwood. He couldn't wait to get home. He just needed a glorious story to go with his new war wound.

His brothers would be so jealous. Not right now though they wouldn't.

His nose was blocked with bloody mucous, his eye was glued shut, and many of the wasp stings had turned into weeping pustules. His gut ached and what was that smell? Oh gods. Sometime in the night he must have soiled himself. He shouldn't have drunk that water. Or eaten that deer jerky that came with the mushrooms, it must have given him the weird dreams.

Stabbing the wasp nest was not his finest hour either. Though for a moment he really thought it was. A definitive strike against the, albeit tiny, enemy. In retrospect, he should have run like the others did. Craven cowards. He had twice as many stings as most of them.

They say life was full of little regrets like this. His life certainly was. What was it Captain Ashraf called them? Learning opportunities. The others laughed but they were only stupid soldiers. Ashraf didn't laugh, as a fellow officer they were kindred spirits. All these other problems could be fixed.

Where was Ashraf anyway? He needed him to take Ishak back to Norwood to recuperate. Some protector he was, wandering off. Then he heard footsteps approaching.

"Over here," he called out. And over here he came. But it wasn't Ashraf. It was the brat. And he was wielding a bloodied sword.

"Where is Captain Serkan?" Ishak asked in Perugian.

"Serkan is dead," came the sombre reply. "They're all dead

"In that case." Ishak stalled, leveraging himself up on his log. "I surrender".

"No surrender," growled the boy.

"Wait, wait..." Ishak implored, holding his hands up defensively.

"I'm Emperor Rakkesh's nephew Ishak, spare me and I'll fetch a fine ransom."

"Emperor's nephew eh?" The feral teen leered malevolently. "Excellent! You can deliver him a message from me."

"Uh, sure," Ishak nodded. "I'll tell him the very moment I see him. What's the message?"

"Next time you see him..." The boy whispered, drifting closer. "Say hello uncle..."

Then he pounced, his sword pounding into the back of Ishak's exposed neck.

And, finally, Ishak thought he heard: "Welcome to hell!"

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Jak gagged again, then gave up and just let it all go. When the retching subsided, the tears started and wouldn't stop. He crawled away from the pasty corpse and his greyer vomit; curled into a ball in the cool mud and lay still letting his mind drift away.

Did he feel bad for killing those men? Murderers he corrected himself. He wanted to sneer "no" , but deep down yes, a part of him did. A tiny part he couldn't put his finger on or mentally corner. Yet it was big enough to summon a queasy dread every time he tried.

Logically, he had no problem killing scoundrel assassins who attacked his home and murdered his beloved grandmother, but logic didn't apply to this evasive feeling as it simply squirmed aside. It was as if a whole new world of doubt and dismay had been opened unto him. All the rules, structure and surety of his upbringing had been a fairytale... A loving fib told to keep a child safe...

He'd crossed a line into another world. One of the seven circles of hell. Opened a cage and let something loose he shouldn't have. He may not be a man yet, but his childhood was clearly over. Sucked down into a swamp.

Moving forward, he figured to lean on his good friend logic. He would make a sensible rationalisation about the deaths, something about defending his domain, and stick to it. Time would eventually erode the emotion and only the rationalisation would remain. Jak supposed that's what everyone else did in the end so he might as well get on with it. They didn't deserve mourning; only his grandmother did. He'd have to toughen up to become a soldier anyway.

As a hunter he was hands-on familiar with life and death. And that helped. He'd killed hundreds of animals for food and that gave him a natural tolerance to bloodshed, but this was definitely different. Apples and oranges different to him, not chalk and cheese like it would be for a town boy. From now on, the approach he'd take was to treat all his enemies as animals. That way he could slaughter them without second thought. Though this was easier said than done.

It was the buzzing that brought him out of his reverie. The back of Ishak's neck was getting fly blown. The front of his face had settled on his own chest still held by a flap of skin and gristle. The Sarkian looked like he was slumped in slumber, but smelled like shite.

Jak didn't care he was washed out, every sense had long since been overloaded. He fetched his arrows and felt around until he found both soldiers purses. He took their swords, scabbards and sturdy leather belts too giving him a total of three of each. Both cloaks and sets of expensive leather boots as well, even if they were too big. He had a growth spurt coming and it was going to get cold. Winter was coming. He put captain's Serkan's cloak on and lay the other one out on the ground to gather around the booty. Finally, he ripped most of Ishak's shirt off.

Now came the gruesome part he thought grimly. " Do I saw it from behind or chop at it from the front?"

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The churning, surging Wakatu had Corporal Saidah Tozfek transfixed - transported to another time and place. Another life. One never lived.

All that water under the bridge. Wasted. He scowled. If only they'd such a source in Sarkia, think of all the lives saved. His family farm flourishing. Farming for his livelihood. Aaleya as his wife. A family. Sons. Without water, crops fail. Now he was a solitary soldier, tossed overseas without a second thought by the powers that be - like a bone the Emperor was done with. Thrown to the dogs.

Ten-times bigger than the tiny swing-bridge Tarak got stuck at, the stone Fairfield Bridge spanned the river at its narrowest point for leagues, though still sixty-yards long and wide enough for two wagons to pass. Not that any ever did. Saidah saw seven wagons all day. Otherwise there was only the occasional rider on horseback. Once a flock of sheep herded by equally ovine locals on foot.

Perched astride a bridge bollard, Saidah swivelled to survey Norwood. Erected on the eastern banks, the township was surrounded south and west by the Fae Forest with the Great Swamp its northern border.

Nearby, the town's only stone structures hugged the riverbank: the mill, the squat bank, four shops, three taverns, a large grainery and the keep, balefully guarding the bridge. The remaining buildings were a hastily thrown up shanty town of shacks taking advantage of the adjacent forest.

The three thousand townspeople were mainly transient, and mostly male. The majority made up of millers, keelers, dockers and lumberjacks. Little point settling down best to dodge Duke Roth's steep taxes avidly administered by Mayor Maggard. The venal bank owner was infamous for high interest rates and impatience with overdue payments. Any problems, they'd been told, Maggard was your man. Just have your purse handy. And heavy.

It was only a hop skip and a jump from his perch to the town proper and a score of children played their afternoon games in the disembarking area known as the Fairfield Commons. It was from two of the more inquisitive imps, that Saidah gleaned his only intelligence of the day. An unexpected boon.

According to his chit chat, the only forest denizens in the direction the team had gone were a feral teen named Jak Foster and his grandmother Imelda whose hedge-witch status was surely just hayseed superstition? Though with only two obvious suspects to interrogate the squad should have returned by now? Still, he had a name at least.

The rest of their conversation had centred on his "Sarkiness" unleashing a series of gross generalisations, extreme exaggerations and complete fabrications. Thankfully, Saidah was saved from slapping a seven-year-old by the start of bullrush. The peasant game proved a pleasant distraction, with several spectacular tackles, two hissy-fits and three crying children. Best of all, it ended in a small brawl - sadly, broken up by several bigger boys. It was a shame adults had forsaken the game. Smashing pug-nosed Perugian hillbillies had real appeal.

As the shadows lengthened, his thoughts darkened too, drifting back to the witch and his absent companions.

After another hour, in his mind, his compatriots were now officially missing. With only two suspects to speak of, the witch loomed ominously. They’d not planned on magic. Tarak. Of course, he'd consult Tarak. They could come up with a plan together. It was too late now he realised, and headed for the nearest inn. First thing in the morning, before his shift he'd go see Tarak. He really should have thought of it earlier.