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That night you make camp in a stone hut. It is little better than a hovel but at least it provides shelter from the rain, which begins to fall shortly after dark and is still falling when you set off again at dawn. The dull grey hours pass uneventfully until the wooded shoreline gradually gives way to a wilderness of slime-laden mud flats and twisted, petrified trees. Here the current is weak and you are forced to row in order to make progress through the brown, scum-flecked water. Jarel sits at the prow, his wolfskin cloak drawn close around his shoulders to keep out the chill rain. He stares fixedly ahead as he guides you through the narrow channels that bisect this evil-smelling swamp. Twice you find yourselves caught in watery culs-de-sac and have to retrace your course, but as the light begins to fade you catch sight of an island that promises firm mooring and a place to camp overnight.

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