### 101

The third day of your voyage is accompanied by a cold west wind that blows across the desolate swamp and chills you to the bone. Clumps of twisted grey foliage line the channel along which you row, releasing nauseating clouds of gas as your bow-wave laps at their rotting roots. At length, you pass by these poisoned shrubs and reach a wider waterway where the current flows against you.

‘We must be getting near the Torg estuary,’ says Jarel, now having to labour at the oars in order to make headway. He continues for a few minutes more, and then, just as you are about to take your turn at rowing, the mouth of the River Torg looms into view.

Turn to 209.