What to do? What to do? Rafe forced himself to be still, then threw his bag from his shoulder and pulled out the rope. Thank you, Da. He ran back to a stand of blackthorn and tied one end around the thick, twisted trunk, cutting his hands on the thorns, checked the knot, then tied the other end around his waist. He looked back to Sniffer and was horrified to see his muzzle sink out of sight; he took a run up and leaped into the bog.

He fell in with a great splash, the marsh somewhere between water and mud. It was thick, black, and it stank. He thrashed his way closer to where he thought Sniffer had been, with each move sinking deeper. He reached down, arms feeling like they were pushing through porridge, felt something solid brush his finger tips.

Fur?

He hesitated for a moment, thought about pulling himself back up onto solid ground, but the thought of Sniffer, scared and drowning, filled his mind. He took a deep breath and let the bog take him, digging his way down, doing everything that his da had told him not to do in this situation. With each move of his arms and his legs he felt the bog suck him down, deeper and deeper. His lungs started to hurt, and still he went deeper. He could hear his pulse pounding in his head, his heart thumping in his chest. His lungs burned now, and still he went deeper. Then he felt it, something solid; fur and flesh. He wrapped one arm around it, felt his fingers dig into a thicker level of mud, scrape along something hard and cold. Instinctively he gripped onto it with his fingertips, pulled his arm tight about the hound’s body, with his other hand pulling on the rope stretched taut above him.

He didn’t move. Panic surged through him, combined with the screaming in his lungs into an overwhelming urge to open his mouth and breathe. By an immense act of will he didn’t, instead just kept pulling on the rope.

He moved. Just a fraction at first, then more, half an arm’s length. The hound was a huge weight, anchoring him down, and he was tempted to let go. No. Not now, not after this. He reached higher up the rope, pulled again, this time moving easier, pulled again and now he was moving through honey, not tar. He pulled again and his head burst out of the bog, his mouth opening to suck in a huge lungfull of air. He pulled again, dragged the limp weight of the hound clear, onto his shoulder, started heaving himself towards the bank.

Scratcher was going berserk on the bank, leaping, barking and howling at them.