A half-formed plan hatches itself in my mind: once we find Harby’s home and find Mothga and make safe, then I can retrace my steps and find my home too. I smile to myself; it’s all going to be fine.

‘This is brilliant, Harby, I’ve got a plan! Listen: we get back out of Deadman’s Cave and I’ll know the way to the Spirit Stone from there, no problem. Let’s go home!’

‘Lego home!’ says Harby, as fired up as I am. He grabs his spear and we peer back down into the wolf cavern. The wolf with the torn ear is nowhere to be seen; there’s only the grey bundle of tiny wolf pups. We grin at each other: it’s time.

Carefully we lower ourselves down over the rim of the cavern. Heart thumping, I scramble with my feet to find a ridge, gripping my fingers so tight they hurt. I get steady then I lower myself again. Harby goes down faster, ahead of me, spear in teeth. I squeeze my toes on to a little ledge and rest my weight and I’m just about to let go of my handhold when the ledge at my feet gives way, crumbling to pebbles which scatter down into the dark cavern below. My toes fumble and flail aimlessly for a foothold on the impossible rock. Then I feel Harby’s tight grip on my ankle; he silently guides my foot to where it should be. And he keeps his hold, leading me foot by foot, from ledge to ledge. Until we get low enough for him to let go and leap; I hear him land with a kerrfump on the cavern floor. I’m nearly down too! But suddenly I miss my footing and my feet slip so that I slither down the last of the drop with my bare legs and arms catching painfully on sharp rocks. I land with a thud on the rocky floor. ‘Cholliemurrum?’ says Harby’s concerned voice from the dark.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, getting dizzily to my feet. My right shoulder throbs and my arms and legs are skinned and bleeding. But we’re on level ground now and we’re going to find Harby’s sister.

We stumble hastily towards the entrance to the tunnel. I know there’s no time to stop and stroke the wolf pups, but it’s so quiet I can hear their gentle breathing, soft and purr-ish. As I clamber into the tunnel behind Harby, I peek back over my shoulder: I know those pups will be OK. Wolves live in packs. They look after each other; that’s how they survive. ‘Make safe,’ I whisper to the pups. Then I scramble after Harby into the tunnel.

The damp air presses in on me and my mind conjures nightmares out of the deep deep dark. I ruffle imagined poison spiders out of my hair and brush the breath of ghosts from my neck and shifty-stare at something that could be wolf shadow in the thick blackness ahead. I crawl faster, my stomach flipping as fear chases fear chases fear.