Doglands by Tim Willocks Page B

were thrown against the bars of their cages as the truck made a sharp turn and picked up speed.
    “Blue lights!” said Skyver. “Some big bad dog is causing havoc somewhere!”
    • • •
    The truck hurtled along and took several more violent turns. The other dogs became quite frightened, even Skyver, but Furgul had a funny feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but he was exhilarated. The truck screeched to a halt. The Traps jumped out of the cab and they weren’t smiling anymore.
    Outside, beyond the doors, Furgul heard the sound of a roaring dog.
    It was a roaring such as he had never heard before—proud and defiant and enraged. It made all the hairs on his shoulders stand on end, but not with fear. It made his heart pound faster in his chest and his tail wag high in the air. The roar was savage, yet it thrilled him. It was a sound such as the last free dog in the world might make.
    Tess cowered in her cage. Zinni was full of curiosity. Skyver slunk down as close to the floor as he could get, like a pile of cowardly dead cats.
    As well as the savage roars, Furgul heard the terrified shouts of the Traps. He heard the wailing of sirens. Flashes of dim blue light winked around the inside of the truck. It sounded like a battle was being fought. Then the snarling roars were choked off and replaced by a low, monstrous growl. Something slammed into the doors of the truck, and a Trap cried out in agony. There was scuffling and shouting and groaning. And then even more shouting and more yells of pain.
    Furgul could smell the great dog that stood beyond the doors. He had never picked up this scent before—and yet he felt as if he had. There was something in the scent that he recognized, something he could not describe—as if he’d known that scent from the very first day he was born. Or even before that. Though he did not know why, the tiny flame of hope in Furgul’s chest burned brighter.
    The other dogs seemed to sense something too.
    “I don’t believe it,” said Skyver.
    “It can’t be,” whimpered Tess.
    “What do you mean?” piped Zinni.
    The doors of the truck were flung open, and Furgul blinked.
    Night had fallen outside, but the headlamps of several vehicles lit up the darkness. In the background a man lay moaning on a little bed on wheels. Two other men pushed the bed into the back of a white van with a flashing blue light on the top. Another man sat in the road, holding his head with both hands. Several other men—cops and Traps—were standing around with clubs and guns.
    In the middle of the chaos stood the biggest dog that Furgul had ever seen.
    He had the rough red coat of an Irish wolfhound, but his huge head was shaped more like a lurcher’s. Keeva had told Furgul something of the history of the wolfhounds. They had roamed the wild Doglands for thousands of years, in the old times long before masters—before fire, before the wheel,before collars and leashes and muzzles. They had fought for the ancient Celts as dogs of war. They had struck fear into the ancient Romans. They’d even fought and killed lions in the arena. They had fought against the English and dragged the knights in armor from their horses. They’d killed wolves and wild boars. In those long-gone days the wolfhound had no equal on the earth.
    The great hound outside the truck fought against three of the nooses on poles that were looped around his neck. Each pole was held by two Traps, and the dog was so strong he almost pulled all six of them off their feet. He rolled his huge shoulders and strained the muscles in his neck. His jaws gaped open, panting for air. Blood gleamed on his fangs. Behind him another man locked a chain around his ankles. Then all seven of them tried to manhandle the mighty hound into the truck. Even though he was choking, the hound dug his paws into the ground and would not move.
    “It
is
him,” gasped Skyver, with awe.
    “Who?” squeaked Zinni.
    “Is it true he’s escaped from prison a dozen