‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!’ screamed Flax.

She seemed to fall forever.

Through clouds. Past startled birds. Past butterflies and high-flying grasshoppers …

Until, with a great CRASH, the monster landed.

Flax would have hit the ground, but the monster picked itself up and kept running.

Only now they were no longer in the Floating Forest.

Now they were in the World Below, where Flax had never been. Where no one sensible had ever been. The World Below was where dragons came from, as well as witches, and humans. Who would willingly go to such a place?

Flax kept her eyes shut tight, in case she saw a witch or a human. Her hands ached, but she dared not let go of the rope. She bumped, she bounced, she squeaked with terror.

And then at last, the monster began to slow down, just a little. Flax opened one eye – and realised that it wasn’t a monster after all.

It was the Spellhound pup.

What’s that? Yes, of course Flax knew about the Spellhounds. They are the subject of an ancient minch-wiggin rhyme.

If Spellhounds stay,

the Forest can play.

If Spellhounds leave,

the Forest must grieve.

But even without the rhyme, how could creatures so big and black and fierce stay hidden from their very curious neighbours? Especially during thunderstorms.

What have thunderstorms got to do with it?

That is such an ENORMOUS secret that I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask.

When Flax recognised the monster, her fear turned to anger.

‘Stop, you great lump!’ she shouted. ‘Stop, you blithering idiot!’

The pup took no notice. His breath was ragged, and his ears were flat against his head. And although he slowed, he showed no sign of stopping.

So Flax began to drag herself up the rope. Hand over fist.

She nearly lost her grip several times, and had to hold on with her tail, as well as her hands and feet, while the satchel and sword bounced on her back.

But at last she reached the pup’s head.

Her broken web was tangled around his nose and ears – which turned out to be a good thing, because it gave Flax something to cling to.

She clambered across it, until she was right next to the pup’s left ear.

‘STOP!’ she shouted, in the common language of the Floating Forest.

He stopped so suddenly that she went flying, head over heels. She skidded along the ground and ended up in a heap with her whiskers crooked, the satchel on top of her, and the sheath of her sword digging into her ankle.

She groaned.

She removed the satchel and the sword.

She flicked her whiskers until they were straight.

The Spellhound pup was looking over his shoulder, and trembling from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail.

‘What have you done?’ snapped Flax. ‘Where have you brought us? How are we going to get home again?’

The pup spun back to her. His eyes widened. ‘Minch-wiggin? D-d-did you see the monster?’

Flax twitched her ears in disgust. ‘The monster was you.’

‘No, it was digging out our den. It growled.’ The pup whimpered at the memory. ‘My mother cried RUN. So I RAN.’

But— thought Flax.

But Spellhounds were ENORMOUS. Spellhounds were fierce and strong and brave. Spellhounds did that thing with thunderstorms.

What sort of creature would frighten a Spellhound?

She could think of only one.

She stood up so quickly her head spun. ‘Was there a smell? A terrible scorching smell?’

‘There was,’ said the pup.

That was enough for Flax. ‘The dragon,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been the dragon!’