He doesn't know how long he's been in the river. Minutes. Hours. The current has carried him somewhere—how far, he can't tell. The sky above is a pale, bruised grey, the kind that promises more rain before nightfall.

His left shoulder screams when he tries to move. His stomach burns, a deep, wet heat that tells him something is very wrong. The back of his head throbs where it struck the rocks on the way down.

He coughs. Water spills from his lungs. It hurts. Everything hurts.

He tries to push himself up. His arms shake. His fingers dig into the cold mud of the riverbank, slick and dark, and he manages to drag himself a few inches before collapsing again, chest heaving, breath ragged.

He's alone. The army is gone. They left him for dead.

And for a moment, lying there in the freezing water, bleeding into the earth, Captain James Nicholls isn't sure they were wrong.