The Lost Labyrinth

TWENTY-EIGHT
I

Morning. Gaille woke to find Iain shaking her gently by her shoulder. 'Time to get up,' he murmured.

She sat up clutching the mouth of the sleeping bag, peered past him out the flap of the tent. The sun wasn't yet risen, but the surrounding hills had turned from black outlines to muted greens and greys. 'Already?' she asked.

'We need to get into the house.'

She waited until he'd gone back out, then climbed from the sleeping bag. It was cold enough that she hurried to pull on her trousers, blouse, socks and shoes. Her ankle was sore beneath the strapping, but it wasn't as bad as it might have been.

Iain was sitting with his feet dangling over the roof's edge, a coil of rope over his shoulder, a crowbar in his hand. He put a finger to his lips, then beckoned her over and pointed out the German shepherd asleep below. 'Look at its leash,' he whispered.

She rested her weight on her hands, leaned over the edge. The morning light was so milky that she had to squint. The dog's collar was attached by a black cord several metres long to a steel spike hammered into the ground near the front door, allowing it the freedom of movement to guard it as well as the sides of the house. She retreated a little way. 'So?' she murmured.

He held up the crowbar and the rope. 'I found these in an outhouse. We can use them to neutralise it.'

'It's a guard dog!' protested Gaille. 'It's only doing its job.'

'I'm not planning to brain it,' said Iain. 'Not unless I have to. The crowbar's for the front door. But first we have to get that damned hound out of the way.'

'How?' she asked.

Iain allowed himself a smile. 'That's where you come in,' he said.