The mercenary surfaced, dragged a limp shape to the shore. Kyle arrived to see the thick red of heart's blood smearing the mud and the youth's chest. The Guardsman was the short veteran, Boll, whom Stoop had warned him to stay clear of. Despite this, Kyle charged in sloshing through the shallow water. He raised the boy's head – a bare youth – and dead.

‘What did you have to kill him for?’

The veteran ignored Kyle, began cleaning and re-oiling his knife blade.

‘He's just a kid. Why did you?’

‘Shut up. Orders. No spying allowed.’

‘Spying?’ Kyle couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘Spying?

Maybe he was just watching. Maybe he was just curious. Who wouldn't be?’

‘You watch your mouth. I don't play nice like that Genabackan cow, Jaris.’

Kyle almost jumped the squat knifeman – from some place called Ehrlitan, he'd heard – but Boll still held his blade while Kyle held only his ridiculous goatskin bladder. He raised the bladder. ‘You and this thing are a lot alike, Boll. You're both puffed up.’ Kyle pried at a tarred seam of the bladder until the air farted out in a stream. ‘And you both make a lot of loud noise.’

Boll slapped the bladder from Kyle's hands. ‘Don't ride me. This ain't a game.’

Other Guardsmen arrived then and waved Kyle away. He went to find a replacement bladder. The mercenaries dragged the body into the thick stands of marsh grasses.

*

The next week Kyle was kicked awake in the middle of the night. He squinted into the blackness of a moonless night barely able to make out someone standing over him.

‘Get up. Assemble at the beach. Double-time.’

It was Trench, his sergeant. ‘Aye, aye.’

He collected his armour and equipment by the dim glow of a fire's embers then stumbled down to the beach to find a mixture of recruits and veteran Guardsmen assembled in knots. Trench, wearing only pantaloons and a vest of leather, shook all of his equipment from his hands.

‘Won't be needing that.’

Trench moved on to the other recruits. Stalker appeared at Kyle's side, knelt with him to sort through his gear.

‘Take the knife,’ he whispered. ‘Keep it at your neck.’ He examined Kyle's mishmash of armour. ‘Wear the leather alone – no padding – and the skirting's OK. Go barefoot.’

‘What's going on?’

‘We're swimming out to the ships. I hear negotiations have gone sour.’

Kyle pulled on his leathers. ‘Gone sour? Looks like this has been in the works for some time.’

‘An option. Shimmer seems cunning. I'll give her that.’

Squinting out over the water, Kyle could see nothing. The Narrows were calm and smooth, not a breath of air stirred, but it was as dark as the inside of a cave. ‘I can't see a damned thing.’

‘Don't you worry. There'll be plenty of light.’

Kyle hefted his tulwar – more than a stone's weight of iron.

‘Don't take it,’ Stalker said.

‘I want to take it.’

‘Then at least get rid of the blasted sheath. Hang it on a strap over your neck. If it looks like you can't make it – cut it loose.’

‘I'll never part with this.’

A spasm of irritation crossed Stalker's brow. ‘Dark Hunter take you! It's your burial.’

The tall scout stormed away. Kyle found the bladders in baskets. Men and women were strapping them to their chests. He hung the freshly re-gripped tulwar by a leather strap at its hilts and ran the strap under one shoulder and up around his neck. Mercenaries pushed out past him into the placid, nearly motionless surf.

‘Where are we going?’ Kyle asked them.

‘Quiet,’ someone hissed.

‘Hood take your tongue.’

Kyle bit back a retort. He joined the ranks of almost naked men and women pushing out into the water.

The water was cold, terrifyingly so. Kyle felt his toes and fingers already tingling. What use might he be when he eventually reached a ship, too numb to swing a weapon? Had anyone thought of that?

He pulled up short as the water reached his waist. He turned to speak to someone – anyone – but was pushed on.

‘Let's go.’

‘Ain't got much time.’

‘Time till what?’ he hissed.

A hand like a shovel took him by his hauberk and pushed him along. He spun to see the wide shape of Greymane in the dark. Kyle had never seen him without his mail and banded armour, and out of it the man was, if anything, even more impressive. His chest was massive, covered in a pelt of grey hair plastered down by water. Black hair covered his thick arms.

‘Swim to the fourth ship,’ he rumbled to Kyle, and shook him by his hauberk.

‘Fourth?’

‘The fourth most distant, lad.’

‘Oh, right. Yes. What about the cold?’

The renegade blinked, puzzled. ‘What cold?’

Wind preserve him! ‘What ship are you heading to?’

‘Ship? Treach's teeth, I'm not going.’

‘You're not?’

‘No. Water ‘n’ me – we don't get along.’

The renegade pushed Kyle on before he could wonder whether he was being serious or not. He swam, kicked with his legs in a steady rhythm as he had been taught. He hugged the bladder to his chest, but didn't squeeze it, kept his arms and legs as loose as possible, conserving his strength. Soon he was surrounded by shapeless night. The stars shone overhead and from all around, reflecting from the bay's eerily still surface. Men kicked and splashed. Curses and gasps sounded from all sides. Squinting ahead, Kyle could see no sign of ships, the first let alone the fourth.

He kicked and kicked. The cold seeped up his legs and arms in a gathering numbness. He wondered if he was swimming in circles; how would he know? How could any of them know? Yet he lacked the strength to call out. His teeth chattered and his shoulders cramped.

From the middle distance shouting reached him. A cry for help, a plea. A recruit: the voice was a youth's. He had panicked, or was cramped. Splashing sounded followed by a sharp gasp, then, terrifyingly, a long silence. Kyle stopped kicking. He floated, listening to the night. Gods all around! What kind of a brotherhood had he entered into? Did they… could they have killed one of their own?

Someone bumped him and he flinched, the bladder almost slipped from his grasp like a greased pig and he nearly screamed, No!

‘Get a move on.’

Kyle didn't know the voice, though he recognized the accent: north Genabackan. ‘Can't see a damned thing,’ he gasped.

‘Never mind. Keep moving. Keep warm.’

Kyle couldn't argue with that. The dark form swam past. Kyle kicked himself into motion and tried to keep the Guardsman in sight.

The cold took his legs. At least that was how it felt; the water's frigid grasp had somehow cut him off at the waist. He still kicked but he could no longer feel his legs. His arms were likewise numb wrappings clasped around the bladder at his chest. The sword's weight pulling on his left threatened to swamp him. His teeth chattered continuously and so loudly he was sure he would be next to be pushed under the surface.

‘Close now,’ someone whispered behind. Kyle could only grunt an acknowledgement. ‘Right,’ the voice warned.

‘The fourth ship?’ he stammered.

‘Hood kiss that. It's a ship ain't it? Take it! Sharpish, turn. There, reach up.’

Kyle raised his numb arm, found slimy cold timbers. ‘How…?’

‘A rope ladder ahead.’

He bumped his way forward and managed to entangle his arm in the ladder and slowly, laboriously, dragged himself up the first few wood rungs. Hands from above heaved him up the rest of the way and he lay on the warm deck gasping. There's another – help him.’

The dark shape peered down over the side. ‘There's no one there,’ and the man padded off silent.

The ship had already been taken. Kyle warmed himself at coals simmering in an iron brazier at mid-deck. Two Guardsmen hurried about, clearing the ship's deck. ‘We're leaving now?’ Kyle asked of one.