Rock bottom. Sergeant Tarak Karam had hit it, with a muddy splat .

He was actually, "guarding a stinking swamp in gods-forsaken Perugia". The exact threat he'd heard daily from dear old drill Sergeant Emil. Every day that ultimatum had pushed him on-and-on until he'd passed. Top cadet in his class. He was a sergeant himself, so this shouldn't be happening. Not to him. He was a success story. A winner. He should not be shivering his arse off in this backwater dunghill.

Technically, he was a spy on a secret mission, deep behind enemy lines. It sounded impressive said like that. So that was how they phrased it when he signed up. It was why he signed up. But the oh, so cold and harsh reality was so far from what was promised. For the last six hours he'd been the solitary sentry at a small swing bridge, over a smaller stream, leading to a massive swamp, that no moron would ever willingly visit. It was pointless, boring and basically a job Ishak could do. It was, in fact, Lieutenant Ishak's idea to post him here "in case they made a break for it". Which had begged the question...

"How would I possibly recognise him, her, them or it?" he'd asked. "Will they be waving a tiny sapphire around like you do that dagger?"

Laughing outright at Tarak's "act of gross insubordination" had gotten Corporal Saidah assigned the other - albeit bigger, busier and better - bridge back in the town. It was all fun and games until someone has to guard a Perugian swamp. Tarak shook his head ruefully, he had no-one to blame but himself - and Ishak of course. He understood Captain Ashraf couldn't directly countermand Lieutenant Ishak's idiotic orders; it would undermine the chain of command. The Captain's usual trick was to get in first with his own comprehensive and sensible orders. Normally, he got the jump on the Lieutenant Lumpy, but no-one had seen this one coming. That was the problem with second-guessing stupid...

"There's no accounting for idiots," as Sergeant Emil used to say.

Tarak had tried to leverage his sergeant status to swap shifts with Saidah... Pulling rank but to no avail. At least in Norwood there were those shameless unveiled harlots to ogle. Though he fancied most would be easier on the eye fully veiled. Pasty, no-nosed blobs the lot of them.

Tarak's daydream was broken by a din coming down the trail from the east. Soon the noise sorted itself into tuneless, yet strangely cheerful whistling. Finally, some action. Tarak's wide smile was subsumed into shadow as he tugged his hood lower to hide his plainly Sarkian features. Patting his hidden sword to keep it in place, he slouched back against one of the stone blocks anchoring the southern side of the swing bridge. He had half a mind to kill whomever it was, sight unseen, simply for something to do. Burying the body would be something else to do. Perhaps that's where the phrase "killing time" came from?

But it was only a beardless, sword-less boy who rounded the corner half a furlong away. Probably on his way to scoff swine flesh with the brazen hussies in the infidel town. But no, the boy made a beeline for the bridge. Tarak studiously ignored his approach and curiously felt the boy returning the favour. Why would he do that?

It seemed a tad suspicious. As the boy drew near, Tarak stole a second, furtive glance and got a fuller impression - an experienced soldier's estimation. Fourteen or so. Average height. Solid build. Suntanned for one of the chalk children. Lean yet healthy, though needing a good growth spurt to fill out the frame. Unruly auburn hair hung to the shoulder, half-hiding intelligent hazel eyes. Slightly feral features including the usual snub Perugian-nose and a slightly jutting chin hinting at an aggressive demeanour. Maybe this kid was worth killing after all...

Tarak considered quizzing the boy, but wasn't confident he could hold a full conversation in Perugian. Also, his accent would be a dead giveaway... For one of them at least. The boy had a bow slung over a shoulder. Clearly on a hunting foray, he'd be out of the way for hours - so not a threat.

As he passed by, the boy looked set to say something, but an icy glare from Tarak and the moment was gone. Instead he gave a stiff nod and started across the swinging walkway. Tarak cocked an ear listening carefully to the steadily retreating footfalls slapping against the slats of the bridge. Satisfied the boy hadn't stopped halfway, he settled back against his block.

"Well, that's as about as dangerous as it's going to get today," he thought. The others were already late. Naturally he wondered what Ishak had done wrong now.

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Jak came out of his crouch, having snuck back behind the northern bridge support.

He'd resolved two things in the last three minutes. One, to nod at the guard rather than make any attempt to exchange pleasantries, and two, to come back and kill him while he could.

Behind him The Great Swamp, as the name suggested, was immense. Several leagues wide and twice as long. It was as dangerous as it was large. The Ankan called it the bayou, but all locals avoided it like the plague it likely contained. For good reason too. The middle of the marshy everglades was a morass of mosquito and water-borne disease - patrolled by snakes and alligators inside, and either Ankan braves or bandits on the outer fringes.

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On the positive side, many rare plants and herbs made their homes there... he'd argued to his gran. However, his eleven year-old self had been told to "never ever venture there" - not even when he'd turned twelve. Or thirteen when he tried again. Consequently, he'd only made half as many trips as he wanted to over the years and only knew the first few furlongs from the southern edge with any certainty. Maybe he could lure and lose three or four foreigners in the sweaty fog? A big maybe. But losing five, Jak arbitrarily decided, was way too big of an ask... A bridge too far…Which brought him back here, huddled behind a bollard. He needed to thin the ranks and had been gifted a golden opportunity. Like shooting fish in a barrel, his gran would have said. Except this barrel was across a bridge. And it was a big scary fish, with a sharp sword that made it more like a shark. Nevertheless, it needed doing.

Unhooking his bow Jak notched an arrow from the quiver at his feet. It was the quiver of his hands that was the problem. He wondered how many warriors got their first kill with a bow shot. Probably a fair few, but he bet a lot less had shot their foe in the back. Fewer still would admit it. It wasn't even wartime... The circumstance were so rare that this could be one in a thousand shot!

He shook his head to shut it up. He drew a bead, but couldn't still his shaking hand or sight along the arrow shaft. He sat back on his heels, heart hammering in his chest. How could he shoot someone in the back?

Especially with this, his third best bow and that brisk cross-breeze flowing down the Torrence? The only thing likely to be shot here was his confidence.

"Snap out of it Jak! Stop finding excuses and start finding your pride," he chided himself. "You'd make a twenty-five-yard shot at a rabbit nine times out of ten."

"Eight times out of ten," he countered, "and I'm not worried about the eight. I'm worried about the two times I miss and a pissed off assassin comes charging over."

Good point. That bridge guard was no fluffy bunny either.

"Jak Bannor Foster, you'd have time to shoot again at pointe-blanc range with a secondary option to scarper," he scolded. It was getting heated. "This is a two shot, skedaddle deal that even a coward would take. And Grandmother Imelda didn't raise no cowards."

Those were the cold hard facts he required for cold hard action. Jak could do this. Jak would do this. Because this was for Gran. In one smooth motion, he stood, notched, drew and let it fly with an emphatic thwack that brought the panic fluttering back. His stinging fingers were scrabbling around his feet for a second arrow, half expecting to be skewered at any second when the silence hit him. Slowly he stood up but could see nothing. No charging Sarkian. Nothing. A good sign?

He nocked the bow, holding it pressed against his thigh as he tiptoed across the bridge. As he neared halfway and his perspective shifted, he could discern a leather booted leg sticking out from behind the far support... Why was he tiptoeing? Especially on a throbbing ankle?

Veering wider as he approached, details of the prone form became clearer with every sidling step. Soon he could make out the contorted face of the corpse. His arrowhead sticking up six or so inches out of the Sark's gullet. As he stood over his foe's body, it twitched, causing him to drop his bow, draw his knife and dive wildly at the torso stabbing desperately into the chest.

The man gave a last gurgle and seemed to shrink. Jak frantically disentangled his rubbery limbs and wobbled to his feet. He half-expected to be set upon by the guard's comrades, but the valley was eerily quiet. Deathly quiet. Bully for him, because Jak needed to sort out his next move. The others would be breathing down his neck soon. Should he roll the body into the stream to dispose of it? No, it served better as a signpost of his flight and a spur to pursue.

The sword. Take the sword. Even if he didn't know how to use it, it was an upgrade over the hunting knife and gave him two weapons. Three when you counted the bow. The bow, of course. They still didn't know he had it... That opened up possibilities. Although the arrow through the throat would have to go. He took the Sarkian's sword, scabbard and belt, fumbling with trembling hands to undo the buckle. He patted the corpse's pockets and found a small purse, which he stuffed into his leggings.

Next came the worst part, retrieving his arrow. Normally, when Jak killed something he'd try and save the arrow shaft but not today. He hunched down and used his hunting knife, sawing as close to the arrowhead and as far from the accusing face as possible, until he could twist it free. He dropped it in his quiver, then gently rolled the corpse over, before viciously yanking the headless shaft free by the fletching.

Releasing the body onto its back, he realised the hole glaring up at him looked an awful lot like an arrow wound. As it would. That was no good. This was going to be grisly. Jak threw the shaft in the stream then drew his new curved sword. He shoved the sharp end into the gory hole, working the squishy gristle around, widening the wound. Gagging, he got shakily off his knees, collected his bow and set off for the swamp. Jak noticed one of his boots was leaving bloody prints on the wooden bridge slats, but at this stage it was probably a good thing. After all, he wanted them to follow.

Regardless of what happened to him now, he'd at least struck a blow for gran. A mortal one at that. Now, the hunt was well and truly on and he was the wolf once more.

Three minutes later and the Great Swamp lay basking before him in all its boggy glory. The quagmire was a throwback to a prehistoric time and all who entered were dragged down into the primordial ooze in some way too. Centuries-old trees with sprawling limbs sheltered the darkness, blotting out any sunlight. Their bark was mottled and splotched, as if bubbling soup had been frozen in time on its surface and clumpy combs of wet moss dangled from their rotten boughs.

Jak dragged in a fetid breath of muggy air. This was the dodgy bit. It was important to maintain a straight course for as long as possible. His grand plan hinged on it. His gran's vengeance hung on it too.

He squeezed between two black-trunked cypress trees dripping with algae and stepped out onto the boggy marsh. Nothing much happened, the stifling silence broken only by a burp of trapped air breaking the surface and the croak of an absent frog.

His boot sunk an inch into the mushy, grey mud and reluctantly squelched free with his next step. He willed himself on. One foot in front of the other, as Gran always said, "was the only way to get anywhere in life". He held his bow in two hands out in front of him, adjusted his balance and began jogging ignoring the sucking sounds and sensations as best he could. On the far side, he took a deep breath - hopefully making himself lighter in the process.

"Three of these," he told himself, and he'd be there...