'What do you think plants grow in?'

  The old herbisaur blinked. Alphie had him on that score. ‘Mind if I ask you something personal? Orridus said next.

  'We're not on a first date, so ask away.'

  'I was wondering your age. Treefurs are something of an enigma to me. I've known of your kind's existence, but never really paid close attention before.'

  'Why should you have? The little are constantly overlooked by the large. Bumbling biggies can't comprehend that good things do come in small packages as well.'

  'Yes, quite. So how old are you?'

  'I'm a season old. Roughly half my expected life-span.'

  The fifty-year old Shieldhorn was genuinely stunned. ‘Your race don't live terribly long, do they.'

  Alphie was unconcerned. ‘It's the quality of life that counts, not the length,’ he wisely said. ‘At least I won't end up wrinkly like you.'

  'I thought I was rather well preserved for my age,’ snorted Orridus.

  'If you're satisfied with having skin like tree bark,’ quipped the wisecracking Treefur before stalking another insect morsel.

  The company of three resumed their hike a half-hour later after the Shortfrill guide had grazed his fill upon the bushy foliage. Bronte, submerged in her world of unspoken traumatism, once more showed no inclination to feed and plodded like a fleshy robot before her usher. The seepage from her ugly wound and disinterest in food was draining the cow of precious strength, prompting Orridus to consider the wisdom of his course of action. He was impelled to prod the Thunderfoot more frequently, using firmer jabs now, just to keep her crossing level ground, stopping short of drawing blood with his goading. How was she going to manage the final leg of their trek when they commenced the taxing climb into the Uplands itself?

  Once again following the sweeping contour of the lake, the party marched their slow way through the latter half of the night. In time they reached the delta where Clearwater River emptied into Crescent Lake via a half-dozen sluggishly flowing channels branching off the main waterway. The Shieldhorn headed his entourage along the southwestern bank of the main watercourse, prudently detouring around the swampy scrub marking the transition from river to lake. To do so, however, they had to ford two of the tributaries and as Orridus waded through the shallows of the first he felt Alphie shivering on his back.

  'What's wrong with you, whiskers? It's hardly a cold night and you're sporting a fur coat.’ It was Orridus's turn to be insulting.

  There was a telltale pause from embarrassment before the Treefur meekly replied, ‘Water makes me nervous.'

  'Along with naked hills.'

  'Aw, shut your beak. It's not something I'm proud of.'

  'We all fear certain things, Alphie. We'd be foolish not to.'

  'What scares you then, or are you really this fearless, avenging hero of repute?'

  Orridus shifted uncomfortably beneath the marsupial's feet. ‘I'm afraid of dying.'

  The conversation promptly ended then and there.

  The countryside bordering the forestland began to change subtly, the straggly brush growing sparser and increasingly displaced by coarse gravel that crunched loudly underfoot. The stony shingle was a hint of things to come.

  When the pale rays of first light touched their backs, Orridus herded Bronte into the adjoining trees for what was to be their last day spent in Mother Forest before ascending to the promised refuge in the Uplands. Alphie minded the blank-faced Thunderfoot as usual, while the old Shortfrill ensured their daytime refuge was free of lurking predators or their spies. As far as Orridus could tell they had thus far eluded any presumed pursuit of the targeted cow, but that only increased his jumpiness. He had slain a high-ranking Killjaw from Rexus's court—that alone was enough for a death sentence. Compounded by whatever insanity lay behind the royal decree to exterminate every living Thunderfoot within striking range, Orridus could ill afford to relax his guard in the slightest, for as long as they sheltered in these woods the trio were in constant mortal danger.

  'Good, you're back,’ Alphie said to the returning Shieldhorn from his sentry post in the lower limbs of a nearby tree when Orridus had completed his rounds. ‘No surprise company then?'

  'The area's clear aside from a pair of dozing Stonebacks,’ the old dinosaur reported. ‘Those nitwit lazybones should be stirring by now.’ Orridus was an early riser and frowned upon morning tardiness. ‘How's the Thunderfoot?'

  'Still no change, I'm afraid. It's like she's caught up in an endless daydream.'

  'More like trapped in a terrible nightmare,’ the elderly lizard amended. ‘Tonight we'll climb into the high country and then this part of her ordeal at least will be over.'

  'Then I'll say good day, horn-face. It's about my bedtime.’ The weary Treefur gave an exaggerated yawn before snuggling down into the makeshift nest of dried leaves he had arranged in the crook of a branch overhanging Bronte.

  'Sleep well,’ Orridus wished Alphie.

  'Hardly,’ the marsupial murmured, his eyes tightly closed. ‘I'll be having bad dreams myself about entering those spooky hills.'

  'The Uplands are not haunted.'

  'Says you, lance-head. The first ghost we meet, you be sure to tell him that he doesn't exist.’ Curling his hairless tail around his whiskered muzzle, Alphie fell into the light slumber of animal kind. The melodic chirps of the birds roosting in the treetops, waking to sing in the new day, provided the sleepy Treefur with a restive lullaby.

  Completing his travel routine, Orridus gave the Thunderfoot cow a final checkup for the day and despaired even more over her listlessness. He wandered to the forest edge and took in the vista of the dawning highlands. The rounded contours of the slate-grey hills looked almost welcoming in the warming sunrise of the fresh day. A plume of smoke emanating from the bluish massif lying far to the northeast of the desolate foothills caught the observant Shortfrill's knowing eye.

  'Oh boy,’ he mouthed in concern. ‘Redmount is waking up after all this time.’ What with Killjaws hounding them from behind and a difficult climb ahead, the entourage's guide had no need for the hassles that a fire-spewing mountain posed.

  * * * *

  'Like flies around dung.'

  Gideon smiled within the anonymity of his helmet. Tank's grasp of planetary dynamics was astounding, considering he lacked the most fundamental tool of astronomy—a telescope—to confirm his newfound understanding of the universe. But it was the Clubtail's colloquial analogies that the Berranian found entertaining.

  'It's a reasonable comparison, Tank. However, planets do orbit their parent star in a more orderly fashion than the erratic buzzing of blowflies.'

  'And the Life-giver, what you term a sun, is one such star.'

  'That heats and lights this planet.'

  'Not unlike a forest fire compressed into a ball.'

  Unbeknown to the Adviser the alien smirked again. He had surprisingly found in the block-headed reptile a fellow stargazer. Perhaps not so surprising. This primal world, uncluttered by polluted skies or the glaring city lights of industrialisation, afforded the amateur astronomer an unparalleled view of the starry firmament filling this tiny grid of the mapped galaxy.

  'Can you also confirm for me that the Life-taker influences the seasons?'

  'The moon indeed regulates tides and the like. I'm impressed by your reasoning powers, Tank.'

  'Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, Gideon.'

  This was the Berranian's third day of captivity in Killjaw Clearing and already he was exhibiting the classic syndrome where a hostage begins to identify with his captor. He sat perched upon the rotten log in the glade's exposed centre, idly conversing with the stoic plant-eater lounging at his side on a day that was typically overcast with drab, unfriendly skies hanging low and foreboding. The veracity was far more practical however. Gideon sensed in Tank camaraderie and, rightly fearing for his life, decided to cultivate this strange fellowship. Alone and cut off from his ship and VAI, the Clubtail was his only ‘friend’ of the moment and a critical buffer against the demonic Killjaw king. On the plus side, small talk helped to pass the time while he worked on an escape plan.

  'You remind me of the early thinking machines of my home-world.'

  'Machines?'

  'Yes. My people constructed devices out of reworked natural elements to aid them with equation solving at first, later expanding their usefulness into many different fields. Such machines functioned with a similar logic to your own.'

  'Fascinating,’ Tank rumbled appreciatively.

  It was working. Compliments did have an affect on the deadpan Clubtail, even if he was not aware of it. Gideon had taken the liberty of slyly delving into Tank's mind on the second morning of his unplanned stay with the Killjaws and confirmed what he had initially suspected. Clubtail dispassionateness was a learned behavior, not a genetic trait. Underneath his layers of deliberate conditioning their lurked within the psyche of the unemotional herbisaur a shielded core of affectability. It was Tank's veritable Achilles Heel. That unperceived sensitivity was a weakness Gideon intended to nurture and play upon.

  'You haven't mentioned your planet before now,’ the Clubtail noted. ‘There has been reluctance on your part to speak of your home.'

  'Personal reasons,’ was all that the alien would say. Berran was a sore point for him. ‘Tell me something, Tank. You've taken everything I've shared with you about astronomics at face value, without any demand for evidence whatsoever. I would've expected a factual thinker such as you to require substantiation of my teachings.'

  'You are plainly living proof of otherworldly life and travel. That is irrefutable.'

  'That's very accepting of you.'

  'Not especially. We both know that a time limit is involved here. Why waste precious moments crisscrossing the same tracks.'

  'I'm not sure I get your meaning.'

  'Don't play me for the fool, Gideon. I'm too smart for that. You know I'm talking about this planet-killer rock coming hard on your tail-free bottom. The very same rock that will spell doom for every major lizard race.'

  This was the interrogation the Berranian had been dreading. Luckily Orn interrupted in timely fashion when he came jogging up to the throne.

  'The king wants a word,’ the Fastclaw informed Tank. ‘He's waiting for you in the trees at the head of the clearing.'

  'I'm busy,’ the Clubtail responded tartly.

  'His Majesty guessed you might say that, Adviser, and instructed me to tell you that he insists. It's a matter of life and death.'

  'Did Rexus say whose?'

  The bird-faced messenger shrugged.

  Tank considered the summons. ‘Watch over our guest,’ he told Orn before lumbering away. Intrigue had won out over annoyance.

  'What are you looking at?’ Orn wanted to know from the alien, who was blatantly staring at him with that unnerving single giant eye of his.

  'What might have been,’ Gideon cryptically replied.

  The baffled Fastclaw shuddered inexplicably.

  Tank found the Killjaw king loitering in the northern grove of oaks fencing the royal glade. The pensive regent was glaringly conspicuous amongst the leafless trunks and did not bother to turn at the crackle of dead and brittle leaves announcing his adviser's arrival.

  'I've dismissed Zmork and his flock,’ he told Tank without preamble. ‘The Lizardwings failed to find any trace of the rogue cow. That'll be partly due to the fact that half of them aren't able to get airborne now thanks to getting bloated on Thunderfoot carrion.'

  'Which comes as no shock, Rexus. I mean the part about those outsized gnats inability to locate Bronte from the air.'

  'Do you want to explain your “I told you so” attitude?'

  'That'll be my pleasure. You have a tendency to overlook the blindingly obvious. We're standing in a forest. Did you seriously expect a flier to spot any lizard on the ground through the overlying tree cover, even with leaves falling from the branches like rain spatter?'

  Rexus growled an oath over his own stupidity. ‘Festur hasn't returned yet,’ he further complained.

  'It's a fair assumption that the beastly captain has met with a suitably horrid fate.'

  'You think him dead? I thought you didn't make guesses.'

  'Just voicing my logical assessment of the facts. Festur's supposedly the best of your bunch of misfits. His being overdue is a safe bet that your Thunderfoot runaway has managed to evade, perhaps even thwart his pursuit. Logically speaking, in order to do that most effectively she would have had to kill him. Has Shadower reported in?'

  'No—and that's another bone of discontent lodged in my craw. I'm tired of waiting for an update from my spy.'

  The Adviser was unflustered. ‘It is of no consequence. The Nightclaw must by now be firmly on the trail of Balticea's progeny. I'm certain when he comes back to report her whereabouts he'll confirm coming across Festur's dead body along the way.'

  'That bitch Bronte can't be alive still,’ seethed the tyrant-king. ‘It's not good enough!'

  'This is your life and death matter?'

  'Of course it is. I want her dead!'

  'Why obsess over this lone cow, Rexus? On her own she's no threat to you.'

  'She could rally the survivors,’ he growled. ‘Not all the Thunderfeet were slain, in case you hadn't noticed. Your strategy wasn't as flawless as you predicted. I've broken Thunderfoot autonomy and I firmly intend to keep them downtrodden. At any rate, the Grand Matriarch's entire family must be put to the jaw. I have so decreed it.'

  'And your fixation has no bearing on holding Gideon prisoner.'

  The terrible king of the Killjaws spun around on his grossly muscled legs. ‘Just what are you insinuating, Adviser?'

  'Don't get your tail in a tangle, Rexus. I'm merely tasting the greenery to see what flavours come out.'

  The despot's malevolent eyes narrowed. His Clubtail ‘guessed’ more than he was letting on. ‘What info have you extracted from the outlander so far?’ he pressed Tank.

  'A great deal, actually. Our newcomer is a genuine tree of knowledge.'

  'Do stop talking in riddles, Tank. Exactly what has he told you?'

  'That stars are faraway forest fires in the night sky and this woodland kingdom of yours is but one tiny raindrop in a cosmic downpour, among many other things you haven't a hope of understanding.'

  'Logic has finally muddled your brain. You're beginning to ramble nonsensically like Luthos.'

  'How wrong you are, Rexus,’ the Adviser scoffed. ‘You're simply unable to grasp the science of nature. The fault is not entirely yours because you think like a predator. It'll stun you to know that this precious monarchy of yours is not the centre of the known lands. Life does not revolve solely around you.'

  'It does in this forest!’ Rexus exploded. ‘You continually forget yourself, Tank. I'm king here and my rule encompasses all creatures in Mother Forest—including that tail-less interloper you've stupidly befriended. If you desire proof of that just go ask the dead Thunderfeet out on Fernwalk.'

  'Another shining example of your inspirational kingship,’ critiqued Tank.

  'Go bite yourself.'

  The Clubtail actually chortled. ‘You always resort to insults when you're losing an argument. Rexus, you're so predictable.'

  'Is that right? What's my next move?'

  'You'll ask me if I've uncovered any facts regarding the falling rock.'

  The mammoth Killjaw snorted indignantly. He detested Tank being recurrently right.

  'As it happens, no I haven't,’ professed the learned lizard. ‘I'll work on Gideon, at my own pace.'

  'He is definitely what he appears to be then.'

  'And more.'

  Rexus gave a half-grunt of satisfaction. It stung him to have Bronte ranging free somewhere in the western woods, but he took consolation from the inestimable value of the prize he held in his claws. What did it matter if Balticea's favourite escaped? He had Gideon in his custody. Rexus thrived on exploitation and the alien's sheer mysteriousness was begging to be manipulated.

  'Let's return,’ the crafty king said to Tank, but the Adviser was already paving the way back to Killjaw Clearing. Rexus was further infuriated by his plain predictability and moped after the lumbering Clubtail.

  Gideon hopped off the log as Tank and Rexus hove into view, their appearance prompting his relieved Fastclaw minder to scoot away.

  'You look fit and well,’ the monarch complemented the Berranian with a measure of annoyance. ‘I see my starvation ploy isn't working out.'

  'I've been meaning to go on a crash diet. My skin's been getting a little flabby of late, now it's a tighter fit. Thanks for providing me with the opportunity.'

  'Down to business then,’ Rexus growled unsmilingly. ‘Your reason for being here is not so secret now.'

  'So you said when I was first brought here.'

  In spite of Gideon's composed manner, Rexus smelt the offworlder's natural fear of him; a stench that overpowered even the lingering stink of the spacesuit's inundated body waste recycler. That power made the tyrant-king bold. ‘When is this sky-rock you are warning about due to fall?'

  'That's going to be a surprise,’ the alienaut coyly answered.

  'You think yourself clever, Gideon.'

  'Cleverer than most.'

  Tank gave Rexus a knowing, even playful nudge with his boxy head. Hanging out with the outlander was decidedly having an unsettling affect on his pet Clubtail.

  'How smug will you be when I tell you that your precious Duckbill contact became supper for my soldiers?’ Rexus boasted. He had seen firsthand the grisly remains of Chappy's beheading prior to punishing Madcow.

  'You savage!'

  'Tut tut. Name-calling is really so childish. What are you planning to dub me when I say that Bronte is dead too?’ The deceiving king instantly muzzled his puzzled adviser with a damning look.

  Gideon made out that he was floored by the revelation. He could have probed the Killjaw's mind to dispel the claim, but had no need. Tank's reaction, fortified by his betraying thoughts, told him the truth. The sharp-eyed alien was glad he did not have to venture into the black and evil psyche of Rexus. That would be a most disturbing mental invasion.