Rafe crawled onto solid ground, the body of Sniffer flopping beside him. He realized he was gripping something in his other hand, a handle attached to something caked in mud. He dropped it on the ground, ran his hands over Sniffer, Scratcher licking the hound, pushing him with his muzzle.

The hound wasn’t breathing; viscous mud clogged his nostrils, dripping from its mouth.

No! Rafe put his ear to the hound’s deep chest. Nothing. Hot tears came to his eyes and he shook the dog. Its head lolled drunkenly.

‘No!’ he yelled and slammed his fists onto the dog’s chest. Again, and again.

Suddenly the hound jerked, started choking, legs kicking, coughing up great clumps of black earth. Scratcher leaped about them both, barking and licking.

‘Good boy,’ Rafe said as he flopped down beside Sniffer, draping one arm over him. Sniffer lifted his head and looked at Rafe. ‘Good boy,’ Rafe said. ‘Good boy.’ Sniffer licked his face.

Rafe trudged wearily through the gates of Dun Taras, headed for his room, a barrack that he shared with a score of other warriors. People were staring at him.

Can’t blame them, I suppose. He was quite a sight, the mud of the bog drying black, caking him from head to foot. He’d tried to wash, but it didn’t seem to want to come off. Sniffer was the same, grey fur spiked with dried mud. He didn’t seem to care, though.

Why did I do that? I’m a bloody idiot, could have got myself killed. My da would’ve given me such a hiding.

As he approached the keep he saw a familiar face sitting on the steps of a fountain. Braith.

He was much recovered from his wound, just a slight stoop to his shoulder that gave away the weakness where the muscle had been cut.

‘What in the Otherworld happened to you?’ Braith asked him as he approached. Rafe thought about telling the truth, but then thought better of it. Risking death to pull a hound out of a bog. He’ll think I’m touched.

‘I fell in a bog,’ he said. ‘Scratcher pulled me out.’ A good lie is best mingled with the truth, my da always told me. He sat next to Braith, dropping his bag at his feet. It clunked and he remembered the box he’d pulled out of the bog. It had been locked so he’d put it in his bag, thought he’d have a look at it later.

‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked Braith. He liked the woodsman, respected his skill in the wild. And there was something about Braith; when you spoke he made you feel that he listened. Really listened, as if you mattered.