With a degree of reservation Rexus asked, ‘Are you him?'

  'Don't be ridiculous. I am the Guardian, the Seer's personal assistant. State your business.'

  'I've come to see Moldar. Fetch him.'

  The Guardian looked the caller up and down frankly. ‘And you are?'

  'Rexus.’ There was no reaction. ‘The Killjaw king,’ prompted the regent. ‘Haven't you heard of me?'

  'Nope. Can't say I have.'

  Rexus was deflated. His infamy had not preceded him. ‘Doesn't matter,’ he gruffly sulked. ‘Run along, pipsqueak, and tell the soothsayer that the Lord of Mother Forest is paying him a visit and I hate to be kept waiting.'

  The Guardian failed to move. He just stared flatly at Rexus. ‘Insulting me won't get you an audience with the seer, you know.'

  The king was affronted by the dinky lizard's boldness and lifted a taloned foot. ‘I could squish you like a beetle,’ he threatened.

  'That'll certainly lessen your chance of seeing my master.’ Rexus lowered his poised trampler. ‘Good boy,’ the Guardian snickered. ‘Don't go away now.’ Pushing himself backward with his four stubby legs, he entered the pond with scarcely a ripple.

  'Not one word,’ Rexus snarled warningly at Scarb. Humiliation did not sit comfortably on the king's haunches.

  The Guardian surfaced sooner than expected. ‘I almost forgot. You realise the Ancient Eye requires a tribute for his services.’ The irked king grunted his acknowledgement and the aquatic reptile sank beneath the blackish water, grinning impishly.

  The Death Pool returned to its disquieting stillness. Tense minutes passed and the Guardian failed to reappear. A stream of bubbles emanated from the depths of the pond to pop languidly on its calm surface. All of a sudden the waters churned into a hissing and frothing cauldron as a log erupted from its underwater resting place, snagged beneath a crevice or the like, with a gush of spray. The disturbance subsided as abruptly as it had commenced, leaving the trunk wallowing in the settling waves.

  Rexus stared dubiously at the log. Not wholly sure, it looked to him to be floating toward the shoreline where he and Scarb stood waiting. He ground his teeth nervously. The waterlogged bole looked to be nearly as long as he was. The king started. Two coals of glowing red burned from the end that was nearing.

  'Ho! Who wouldest waken me from mine slumber?'

  The monarch cringed from the thunderous enquiry. The ‘log’ was a monstrous crocodile with a six-and-a-half-foot long skull and fearsomely fanged jaws. For the first time in his life Rexus knew fear.

  The giant Watersnout rotated lazily in the pool. ‘Why art thou tacit? Mayhap a grimalkin has thy tongue.'

  With a throaty growl the ruling Killjaw found his voice. ‘Moldar, I am King Rexus.’ His customary self-importance sounded ridiculously hollow to his own ears right now.

  'I knowest of thee. Thou hast journeyed a goodly ways, cold prince, to beseech mine succour.'

  Curiosity overcame Scarb's terror. ‘Why is he talking funny, Your Highestness?'

  Rexus shot his subject a baleful glare that told him not to ask stupid questions. ‘Let's cut to the chase then, Ancient Eye,’ he said, recouping a measure of his shaky confidence. ‘We both know why I'm here. You foretell the future.'

  'Verily.'

  'For a price.'

  'Yea.'

  'Get on with it then. I'm in a bit of a hurry.'

  'Nay. Begone.'

  Rexus was not used to being told no. ‘Are you kidding me?'

  'I jest not. Wend thy way back from whence thou came forthwith, lest mine wrath visit thee.'

  'I think you've rubbed his hide the wrong way, My Lordliness,’ Scarb observed.

  'Thine familial is untoward but aright. Thy discourtesy hath displeased me.'

  The Killjaw King was in a quandary. He never had to say sorry before in his entire royal life. Swallowing his chunky pride, Rexus muttered, ‘I didn't mean to offend you, soothsayer.'

  Moldar graciously accepted the half-hearted apology. ‘Comest hither,’ he commanded.

  Rexus mindfully stepped up to the edge of the forbidding pool, the unwholesomely dark water lapping at his fidgeting claws.

  'Thou art ware.'

  'Caution never hurt anyone.'

  The huge crocodilian grimaced, flashing his crooked yellow teeth, and stopped circling. ‘Thou wouldst knowest of Gideon, Rexus prince.'

  'How can you possibly know that?’ The king's question was absurd. Moldar was after all an oracle.

  'I canst behold the starry messenger.'

  Rexus gawked at Moldar. The fortune-teller floated a half dozen feet from him, marked by the double pinpricks of fiery scarlet. The king drew a sharp intake of breath when he comprehended that those paired ruby orbs were the croc's filmy eyes. ‘You're blind,’ he growled accusingly.

  'Sightless in thy worlde, it beseems mine augury.'

  The Killjaw thought he understood. Moldar's natural blindness bettered his oracular vision. ‘Tell me what you've seen of this Gideon.'

  The seer's unseeing eyes blazed brightly. ‘He hath comest from yond.'

  Pointing his snout skyward, Rexus said dubiously, ‘Up there?'

  'Forsooth, where hid didst begat the stony curse that shalt smite this worlde.'

  Rexus cocked his head interestedly. ‘This rock supposedly falling from the sky is real then?'

  'Aye.'

  'I'd best find a hiding place,’ he decided.

  'Thy desire to be embosomed wilt be for naught, Rexus. Alack thou art doomed, as are thine kin and breed.'

  'There's no escape?'

  'Whereunto wouldst thou flee—the Life-taker?'

  Rexus fumed as he got the seer's point. The moon, like any place of safeness, was impossibly distant. ‘Then why is our freakish visitor here ... unless he does have a way out on offer! Is that what this Chosen business is about?'

  'Gideon spake true.'

  'How is it going to work?'

  Moldar rumbled discontentedly. ‘I knowest not. Mine sight doth not extend unto that morrow. I canst only saith verily that one of the contrarious trine wilt be sequestrated from Armageddon. Harken the alarum, blood-prince. Hasten, Rexus, and forgather thine kingdom's champions forthwith, lest ye tarry overlong and thy bones be smote into dust. The steed of Death comest, yet thou canst affront him with the seedling from thy loins.'

  The king mulled over the seer's obscure meaning. In an atypical gesture of deference, the tyrant-king inclined his head toward the farsighted crocodile. ‘I am beholden to thee.'

  'Thou saith olden speech well,’ complimented Moldar.

  'I had a good tutor.'

  'I am forspent. The time hath comest for exaction of thy toll.'

  'Scarb! Front and centre.'

  The Dwarf Killjaw, forgotten till now by the conversing powers, sidled up to the regent. ‘Yes, Your Fierceness?'

  'Moldar needs to be paid for services rendered.'

  Scarb glanced uncertainly at the hulking Watersnout.

  'Mine hunger doth grow, prince.'

  'Feed him, Scarb,’ commanded the king, inching backwards.

  'There's no prey round here for me to hunt for him,’ complained the Killjaw lieutenant. ‘How ... oh dear.’ Scarb realised his predicament too late.

  Moldar launched himself from the pool with the speed and fury of an erupting geyser, his one-ton bulk hurtling into Scarb and knocking the two-legged meat-eater off his feet. Landing on his belly, the killer croc turned his massively-jawed head on the side and clamped down on one of Scarb's limp legs before the stunned carnosaur could recover. The seer then proceeded to drag his hapless victim inexorably to the water's edge.

  Coming to his senses when the foaming water lapped at his tail, Scarb screamed, ‘Help meee!’ while frantically thrashing about, splashing muddy liquid in all directions. The remorseless lizard did not relinquish his grip and doggedly pulled him into his watery lair. The last King Rexus saw of his trusting servant was Scarb's bulging eyes and mouth agape in a terrified gurgle before he was forcibly submerged to drown.

  'That was impressive,’ admired the Killjaw monarch, shaking himself dry. ‘Nice talking with you, Moldar,’ he shouted nonchalantly at the pond. A slick of redness began spreading across the Death Pool's swiftly calming surface. Rexus got the hint and took off.

  As he made his way out of the putrid marshland, Rexus recounted a boring lesson from his chickhood. Rexus's sire had told his princely son there resided in the northern swamps an offbeat, indisputable source of counsel in the form of an ageless waterborne seer. All the crocodile-prophet wanted in return for sharing his visions was to be fed. It was a fable the previous king assured his heir was based in fact but purposefully kept shrouded in myth. A secret claw was to be unsheathed only when needed. He taught Rexus the old-fashioned language of the augur and bullied him never to approach Moldar except in the direst emergency, alluding that the levy charged went beyond meaty morsels.

  'Hah! I showed him,’ Rexus laughed aloud. He had scoffed at the implied danger back then, just as he sneered at it now. Had he not outsmarted that scaled devil to have his suspicions confirmed? His forested world was about to end and yet he had at his claw-tips the means to attain immortality.

  The limping Killjaw king hobbled faster through the fog. If the bog looked this deathly in the daytime, he did not want to be stuck in its decaying innards when night fell.

  * * * *

  'The king's back!'

  Ogg's cry of announcement greeted Rexus as he doddered back into Killjaw Clearing around midday after his two-day absence. Mud-spattered, footsore and famished, the king nonetheless had a purpose to his unsteady stride. ‘Captain Festur!’ he bellowed in summons.

  'Here, Sire,’ responded his aide. The Killjaw officer met his regent heading for the timber throne with a puzzled look on his snout. ‘Wasn't Scarb with you, Your Majesty?'

  'Your brother met with a tragic accident in the woods yesterday.’ Rexus planned to invent some story later on to cover Scarb's unwilling sacrifice that would be accepted on face value simply because he was king, even though all knew Rexus to be an adroit liar. Festur did not appear terribly upset by the news of his being made brother-less; he had just lost his greatest rival.

  'Orn! Get your worthless hide over to me right now.’ The Fastclaw sprinted up to his king just as Rexus reached the mossy trunk. ‘What's that in your claws?’ the irritable monarch demanded to know upon sighting the bundle of squirming fur Orn was so tightly grasping in his clawed hands.

  'Lunch, Your Smelliness.’ The gofer could not help his impertinence. Rexus reeked of swamp.

  'Not on your nelly, birdbrain,’ squeaked the foot-long critter. His bleary eyes told the tale of a sleep rudely disturbed by the hunting Fastclaw. ‘Alphred Treefur the Thirty-third will gnaw off your scaly fingers one by one before I let you make a meal of me!’ The feisty marsupial happily bit Orn to emphasise his threat.

  'Ow!’ cried the Fastclaw, squeezing his snack in retaliation. ‘That smarts.'

  'Lose the talking furball,’ commanded Rexus. ‘We've got matters to attend to.'

  'Who are you calling furball, lizard-lips?"'

  Ogg groaned and shrank back when his terrible master bent over to examine the indignant marsupial with a dissecting sniff. The possum-like midget bellyached, ‘Phew, bad breath! You might consider chewing mint leaves.'

  The king snorted insultingly. ‘Would you rather be filling my puny subject's belly right about now, rodent?'

  Alphred considered his situation. ‘Since you put it that way...'

  'Get rid of it,’ Rexus ordered Orn again.

  'Can't I just eat him quick?’ The monarch's stare of disapproval persuaded the hungry Fastclaw otherwise. He sulkily dropped Alphred and the reprieved Treefur scurried madly across the clearing to scamper up the nearest bole, marvelling over his lucky escape.

  'Oh goody, our lord and master has come back.'

  Rexus straightened and rotated to meet Tank as his hefty advisor plodded into view. ‘At least I won't have to send for you,’ he growled. ‘Now that we're all here we can get down to business.'

  'And what might that be?’ the arriving Clubtail asked. He sounded typically bored.

  'First things first. Has Shadower uncovered anything new during my time away?'

  Festur answered that. ‘He reported in a night ago. The two Thunderfeet herds continue dallying close to the forest. There seems to be some sort of merger going on.'

  'Really? That should work in our favour. Any further sign of the tail-less intruder?'

  'No, Sire.'

  The Killjaw king growled meaninglessly before clearing his throat. ‘It has come to my attention that the Thunderfeet are plotting a takeover bid for my throne.'

  There were mixed reactions to the regent's news: Festur snarled angrily, Orn looked perplexed, while Tank snorted disdainfully.

  'I wouldn't put much stock in a cripple's opinion,’ rumbled the Adviser.

  'Professional jealously doesn't become you, Tank.’ Rexus chuckled at his counsel's distress. ‘I like that, but get over it. Your keen mind is needed to plan a battle strategy.'

  Tank's analytical interest was roused. ‘For what purpose?'

  The tyrannical ruler of the Mother Forest roared gleefully. ‘To wipe out Balticea, her bloodline and her damnable herd of plant-eaters in one foul bite of course!'

  The king's disparate subjects were equally speechless.

  'Don't just stand dumbly there, you lot. There's work to be done,’ he prodded them. ‘Tank, you come up with a workable scheme of attack by nightfall.'

  'Using whom—you and Festur as an assault force of two?'

  'No, you fool, I'm going to resurrect the Killjaw Army. Captain, find me every able-bodied Killjaw within a day's walk of here and order them to this glade. If they object, tell them it's a direct command from their king and that to disobey means treason punishable by death—make that a lingering death. Go now.’ Festur loped from the glade. ‘Orn, wake my napping son. Luthos must bear witness to this. It's history in the making!'

  * * * *

  Alphred Treefur watched the animated king of the Killjaws prance about his throne in the grip of his maniacal raving, spouting promises of death to his enemies and glory to his kind while his unfeeling advisor schemed. The curious marsupial discreetly waited for Orn to leave the glade on his errand before descending the trunk of the tree he had taken refuge in. He crouched at the base of the oak among the leaf litter, his whiskered nose twitching agitatedly.

  Normally the affairs of the lumbering reptiles were not the concern of the marsupial community, who strenuously avoided any contact with the Coldbloods. The nocturnal Treefurs did in fact spend half their time trying hard not to be devoured or stomped on by the monstrous lizards for the duration of their short lives. But Alphred had overheard Rexus's crazed plot and was now undecided whether to warn the Thunderfeet or leave them to their grisly fate.

  'Father told me having a conscience would one day lead me into trouble,’ he said resignedly, giving up any hope of resuming his interrupted daytime snooze. The Treefur hustled away over the forest floor with its patchy carpet of red and gold leaves, muttering, ‘Where am I to find these blasted Thunderfeet?'

  Chapter Nine

  Balticea was troubled.

  It was the third day after the mating, by chance the very same day Rexus was journeying with his sacrificial lamb to consult Moldar, and her granddaughter's perturbation had not diminished. The Grand Matriarch had counted on the union to quiet Bronte's restlessness, but that had not happened. What could be bothering the teenager so? Intending to announce her retirement and the formation of the Thunderfoot super herd in a short while, she decided to hold off on making that dual proclamation. Her heir had to have a clear head before formally assuming the burdensome leadership responsibilities, and it would be necessary to delve into the younger cow's unshared problems and get them resolved. With nearly nine decades of sagacity behind her, plus the storehouse of racial experiences to draw upon, there was no crisis the Grand Matriarch could not find an answer to.

  Darved, spending time with his overbearing mother in an effort to smooth out Bolicia's irrational fear at ‘losing her baby', had left his new mate alone on the forest verge, glumly regarding the overcast. Balticea began to march her way over to where her grandchild brooded, unavoidably passing by Kahla.

  'Aunty, might I have a word?'

  Without even a sideward glance at her intrusive niece, Balticea crisply told her, ‘I haven't time to indulge your petty games, Kahla.'

  'Grand Matriarch, I insist,’ said the meddlesome cow, falling in beside her prestigious leader. ‘It's important.'

  Peeved at the interruption, Balticea nevertheless halted. The only surefire way to be rid of a pest was to tackle the annoyance head on and Kahla's tone did sound officious. ‘Make it quick. What's on your mind?'

  'I was only acting in my capacity as Bronte's chaperone, you understand.’ Kahla always spoke so stiffly.

  'Get to the point, niece.'

  'Two nights back I couldn't sleep, so I thought to check on my cousin.'

  'When the new couple was bonding? Spying on the two lovebirds is inappropriate behaviour, even for you,’ scolded Balticea.

  'Yet justified, if you hear me out. When I looked in on them, Bronte was curiously missing from Darved's side.'

  Balticea reared to her heir's defence. ‘She probably woke up hungry during the night and wandered off to feed. Mating gives you a mountain of an appetite, in case you didn't know.'

  The jibe was not lost on the spinster cow and she sneeringly retorted, ‘Then you won't be upset when I tell you that I spied Chappy lurking around the timberline yesterday evening. His presence hereabouts smacks of more than mere coincidence.'

  'You're seeing things. He's no doubt well on his way north by now.'

  Kahla was adamant and scathingly pointed out, ‘My eyes aren't as weak as yours, aunty. I know who I saw.'

  Affronted by the blunt reminder of her advanced age, Balticea snappishly rejoined, ‘Have you seen how many Duckbills are in the area? You must've been mistaken.'