'You really should take flying lessons, old thing,’ a cultured voice suggested haughtily. ‘Walking seems such a frightful effort.'

  Orridus lifted his sagging head. A peculiar looking waterfowl was eyeing him critically. The leggy bird was an unhappy mismatch of early swan and flamingo features with a dash of stork thrown in for good measure, and modelled the unfinished look of being designed by a committee. His overall plumage was lily white, offset by blue wingtips and finished off by pink, long toed mud-walking feet. His tall, slenderly curved jade neck supported a regal head painted the same glossy green and sporting a broad, serrated red bill rounded elegantly at the tip which sieved algae from brackish lake shallows. The whole absurd conglomeration was completed by a pair of beady black eyes seemingly slapped one either side of the head as an afterthought.

  'That's easy for you to say, Fitzy. You were hatched a bird.'

  'Luck of the draw, old boy.’ Fitzfeather puffed up his feathers, luxuriating in the rain. ‘Lovely weather for Honkers, eh what?'

  'What brings you to this neck of the woods unannounced? You know how much your dropping in without notice irritates Cragg.'

  The waterbird feigned ignorance. ‘It does? How inconvenient for the old coot.'

  'Stop it. I wish the two of you could just get along.'

  'It's breeding, Orridus. Cragg has absolutely none.'

  'Fitzy, you're such a snob.'

  The priggish Honker actually sounded injured by the insult. ‘Poppycock! I can hardly be blamed for my parentage. We avians are naturally superior to any and all ground plodders.'

  Orridus held his tongue. Fitzfeather was insufferable most of the time, but he was a loyal friend and the hermit had precious few of those. Plus he had his uses.

  'What are you doing here?’ repeated the Shieldhorn.

  'You entreated me to keep an eye on those beastly Killjaws for you, old chap. Do you not recall?'

  So much had happened recently, Orridus had completely forgotten bumping into the wading bird on the marshy shore of Crescent Lake several mornings ago and asking that favour of him. He wanted to keep precise track of Killjaw movements during Bronte's run for safety in case of surprise attack. ‘To be forewarned is to be forehorned', so the Shieldhorn axiom went.

  'What is King Rexus up to these days?'

  'That blighter is no more sovereign than I am a Lizardwing. Speaking of those unconscionable flying reptiles, there were whole squadrons of them befouling the air over Mother Forest. I had a devil of a time winging my way through those uncouth bird mimics. Such language! I can't tell you of my relief when they suddenly flew all away.'

  'Fitzfeather!’ The Honker often got annoyingly sidetracked.

  'Sorry, old boy. Where was I? I'd forget my bill if it weren't attached to my head. Oh yes. The Killjaws are migrating.'

  'Most usually do at the time of the Bloodletting.'

  'Of course they do, you silly thing. What they don't do is shift lock, stock and offal deeper into the woods.'

  That was unexpected. Orridus was confounded. Why would the dwarf meat-eaters first off resist their natural impulse to shadow the migratory herbisaurs north, and then relocate in conjunction with their bullying, forest-staying cousins? Such aberrant behaviour made no sense. A bad feeling rose from the robust Shieldhorn's gut.

  'Personally, I put it down to the strange chappie with them. They're probably showing him the forest. Though why for the life of me he'd choose the company of those savage louts over more likable folk is positively baffling.'

  'This stranger, Fitzy—no tail, huge single eye, white skin?'

  'That ‘s him to a tee. His plumage was immaculate, if a trifle austere.'

  The hermit's sense of dread changed to acute interest. ‘Did you notice which way the Killjaws were heading?'

  'I first glimpsed the entourage only briefly. Trees really are a blasted nuisance during a reconnaissance sortie, old boy.'

  'In which direction were they going?’ Orridus persisted.

  'After circling for ages in local airspace I spied them anew. Being buffeted by those wretched crosswinds is no picnic either, let me tell you.'

  'Fitzfeather, where did they wind up?'

  'No need for shouting, old chap. I'm not deaf. Rexus and his chums are at the base of the Uplands.'

  * * * *

  'Drop him there.'

  The Dwarf Killjaw cow carrying Gideon in her arms did as commanded, depositing him unceremoniously on a clump of horsetails at the forest edge. He groaned upon hitting the ground, but remained flaccid.

  'Join the others on patrol,’ Rexus further ordered the female.

  She backed up and returned to the deep woods with a servile growl.

  Carefully stepping over the prostrate alien, the Killjaw king viewed the steeply rising landscape from the scrubby bushes hedging the timberline. The drenching afternoon rain wetted hill and forest country alike, the bare rocks turning dark and slick, the foliage glistening from the restorative coating of moisture. He studied the stony Uplands with a curious mix of revulsion and hope. A rustling of the underbrush announced Tank's arrival and the tyrant-king turned to greet the Adviser.

  'So nice of you to join us,’ he snarled sardonically.

  The Clubtail regarded him with hostile eyes: he was sandwiched between two hulking she-Killjaws. ‘As if you gave me much option,’ he replied, caustically referring to his escort.

  Rexus dismissed Tank's guard with a curt nod. ‘You could have refused to come if you'd really wanted to. Admit it, Tank. You can't live without One-eye's company.'

  'No. Luthos cannot.'

  The monarch's smugness lessened, blunted by the logician's indomitably dry wit.

  Tank gave his damp surroundings a disdainful sniff and snorted, ‘Why did you drag me cross-country to this delightful spot?'

  'I thought a change of scenery might improve your temperament.'

  'You were wrong.’ The Adviser suddenly broke out laughing, that same mocking laughter that derided everyone within hearing range. A shrewd look passed over his armoured countenance. ‘Why, Rexus, I do believe you're trying to shelter from the planet-killer by hiding out in the hills. How naïve of you.'

  The Killjaw king fumed in silence. He was fast tiring of the Clubtail's infuriating condescension. That, and feeling sheepish over Tank's damn perceptiveness. He was indeed running for cover like a day-old hatchling frightened by its own shadow. That is not to say he would give Tank cause to gloat by admitting to his fear.

  'Mountain air is supposed to be good for gout,’ he lied.

  Gideon uttered a soft moan and began to stir. The alien's revival was impeccably timed.

  'Tend to your pet,’ Rexus urged Tank.

  The Clubtail nuzzled the prone Berranian in an almost touching display of affection and he came to.

  'This doesn't mean we're engaged,’ Gideon groggily told the slobbery herbisaur. ‘What happened?’ he groused. His body ached all over from helmet to boots and when he tried sitting up it pained him greatly to breathe. He had plainly suffered a few cracked or even broken ribs. ‘I feel like I've been run over by a hover bus.'

  'If that's comparable to the size and weight of a dopey Killjaw by the name of Luthos, then you were.'

  Gideon contemplated Tank's explanation. ‘How long was I out for?'

  'Long enough to be transported here,’ growled a hateful voice.

  The offworlder shrank from the tyrant-king striding menacingly past him as his pounding head groped to make sense of the change in scenery behind Rexus. Gone was the clearing with its log throne, replaced by a thinning of the forest and a line of straggly shrubs coursing away to a row of barren foothills.

  'Where's here?’ he asked in a shaky voice.

  'My holiday retreat,’ Rexus said cuttingly.

  Gideon gingerly rolled on to his good side away from the snappish Killjaw. What he saw rated scarier than this world's biggest walking meat grinder. Redmount loomed above the ridgeline as a bluish conical haze belching smudgy steam in the far distance like the proverbial ticking time bomb.

  Muttering, ‘This just gets better,’ the alien reviewed his position—alone, imprisoned and now lost with a simmering volcano for a neighbour. He concluded that he was unalterably screwed and retreated into himself.

  Rexus turned from the depressed offworlder to confront Tank. ‘Is One-eye in any danger of dying now?'

  'Only if you turn your stupid son loose on him again,’ the Clubtail returned. ‘Where have you stashed Luthos anyhow?'

  'Out of range of your clubbed tail.'

  Tank swished his mace. ‘I can swing this thing pretty far.'

  'Care to put your hide where your mouth is?’ challenged Rexus.

  Tank graciously considered the dare, but declined. ‘My logic tells me that things are going to get heated very soon. We'll make time to play afterwards.’ His tone frosted over. ‘You have my word on that.'

  Disappointment and relief warred in Rexus. He wanted so badly to teach his counsel a lesson in respect, yet there was a pressing dilemma to resolve. Still, Tank did promise. Rexus started pacing. Why was Orn taking so long to return with One-eye's body part? He was anxious to get on with his master plan.

  The fretting king ought to have felt safer. His heir Luthos was safely tucked away in a nearby copse with a pair of Killjaw bull bodyguards. The leftover troops of his army, totalling eight, had secured and were patrolling the area, despite their infernal bickering. A horde of Killjaws subjected to extended close quarters contact invariably resulted in bouts of infighting. That aside, all that remained was for his tame Fastclaw to deliver the means by which Killjaw domination was to be guaranteed for the future. Considering recent ups and downs, things were progressing fairly well.

  One thing could make it perfect, amended Rexus. It was a pity neither of the two Killjaw cows was in heat. A session of roughhouse sex always soothed his frayed nerves.

  * * * *

  'You look radiant as ever, my dear.'

  Orridus braced himself. Hettinor would welcome Fiztfeather's flattery with the same enthusiasm she held for a bad dose of ticks.

  She was true to form. ‘Don't try charming me, you flying scallywag,’ Hetti barked, stepping from out of the rainy night into the grotto she and Cragg called home. The wind had picked up and was howling outside the cave mouth like a banshee. Her shrill castigation outdid that racket. ‘Whenever you land, trouble is hot on your tail-feathers.'

  'Good lady, you offend me.'

  'Water off a Honker's back.'

  'Simmer down the pair of you,’ chastised Orridus.

  'Don't go poking your nose-horn in places where you don't want it broken off, Orry,’ lashed out the sharp-tongued healer. The conceited bird really got under her knobbly skin.

  Cragg ducked for cover. When Hetti was in one of her moods everyone suffered.

  'Fitzy's visitation does concern me actually,’ Orridus bravely continued. ‘He's come on an errand for me.'

  Hettinor froze the hermit with a withering look of reproof before glancing sternly in turn at Cragg, Fitzfeather and the furry bundle hunched down in the corner that was Alphie Treefur. ‘My cave's getting crowded. What plot are you boys hatching?'

  'Nothing much,’ said Orridus.

  'Cragg?'

  'There's something major in the wind, my lass,’ confided her mate. He never could lie to her.

  Despite the Bonehead matron coming in on the tail-end of their discussion, she guessed with female intuitiveness that the two bulls, cock and marsupial were debating something other than the hot topic for the day, the Deciders’ drastic sentencing of the lowland giant.

  'How is the Thunderfoot lassie?’ Cragg politely asked his cow. He remembered Hettinor was returning from a final bed check of her titanic patient for the night. She was without a doubt a dedicated healer.

  'Her flank is scabbing over well enough, but I'm worried about her state of mind. Losing her family, her herd and then her freedom has been quite a blow to Bronnie. All this emotional upheaval is eating her up inside.'

  'Or maybe it's just a secret gnawing at her,’ Orridus contradicted.

  'What's going on, Orry?'

  'I'm not sure. When I figure it all out, Hettinor, I'll let you know. That should hopefully be fairly soon.’ The Shieldhorn addressed his fellow conspirators. ‘We know now that the Killjaws are no longer hunting the Thunderfoot stray, that Rexus and his goons have in fact got in their custody a mysterious Two-leg connected somehow to our refugee cow.'

  'According to you, fern-breath.'

  The hermit sighed. Why was the Treefur always so mulish? ‘I wasn't mistaken in what I saw.'

  'What did you see again, oh knower of all things?’ wheedled Alphie.

  'For the benefit of those hearing impaired among us,’ Orridus said with open acerbity, ‘I witnessed Bronte conversing with this strange beast and a Duckbill—the very same duckbilled bull killed out on Fernwalk alongside the rest of the cow Thunderfoot's kind by the murderous Killjaws. Coincidence you might say? I think not.'

  Alphie pursued his doubts. ‘How do you know it was the same Duckbill? I can't tell one flat-nose from the next.'

  Orridus delivered his proof with gusto. ‘He bore a distinguishing naevus on his forehead.'

  The addled Treefur looked to Cragg for a translation. The Bonehead chief readily complied. ‘A birthmark, Alphred.'

  'Identical to the one borne by Bronte, in fact,’ the horned hermit established.

  Putting two and two together and coming up with five, the standard animal notion of four feet plus a tail, Alphie exclaimed, ‘What are we hanging about here for? Let's go talk with the longneck and get to the bottom of this.'

  Fitzfeather agreed and bubbled, ‘I say, what a jolly good idea,’ striding to the cave mouth and preparing to launch.

  Hettinor had a severe word for Cragg traipsing after the impulsive lowlanders following the Honker's prompt. ‘You'd better not let Orry and that bird lead you astray. Sheltering a waif is well and good, but I don't want you getting involved in any of the Shortfrill's madcap crusades. They only lead to trouble.'

  'Yes dear.'

  'Do not expect me to nurse you back to health if you catch your death out there.'

  'No dear.'

  'Cragg, old fellow, you're definitely henpecked,’ Fitzy chortled before flapping noisily up and away into the blustery night.

  'Don't let yourself be seen, birdie!’ Cragg pleaded, but the Honker was already powering out of earshot.

  Orridus, risking a glance at his friend's commanding mate while proceeding out of the cave at a fast shuffle, did a fair parody of a Killjaw. ‘Cows. Can't live with ‘em, can't eat ‘em.'

  They found Bronte expecting them. Her stand of fir was sodden from treetop to roots by the downpour, but luckily was sited in the lee of the Settlement and protected from the biting wind by the tower of weathered granite. A blur of white and a warning honk announced Fitzfeather's ungraceful arrival in the glade as he dropped from the windy skies in an uncontrolled descent. Nearly colliding with the colossal Thunderfoot, the Honker alighted at her feet belly first with a loud squelch on the soggy mat of underbrush.

  'Any landing you can walk away from is a good one, eh what?’ he quickly said to cover his embarrassment while regaining his splayed feet, his spotlessly white breast plumage muddied from the sludgy ground. ‘Dashed cross-winds make for a tricky touch down.'

  Bronte examined the new arrival. ‘You're awfully gangly to be a Lizardwing,’ she noted.

  'Madam, I bathe!’ protested the slurred Honker. With a flourish of his wings he introduced himself. ‘Flight Leader Fitzfeather at your service, milady.'

  The amused Thunderfoot studied Orridus and company, making the observation, ‘You certainly do have a strange circle of friends.'

  The hermit's repartee was swift and stinging. ‘So do you, Bronte. Who's your big-headed acquaintance in Mother Forest?'

  'You don't chew words.'

  'I'm old. Time is a luxury I haven't got.'

  'He calls himself Gideon.'

  'That answers the question of who he is. Now what is he?'

  'The bearer of bad tidings,’ Bronte said cryptically.

  'Confession is good for the soul,’ pestered Orridus.

  She paused, mulling over the Shieldhorn's truism. She had kept the secret of Chappy all her young life and look how tragically that ended. Perhaps it was best to come clean over Gideon.

  'He's a beast from the stars come to earth in a flying egg with a prophecy of doom and a promise of deliverance,’ Bronte hurriedly blurted before she changed her mind.

  The feedback was predictable. Alphie chittered from astonishment. Fitzfeather's bill gaped wide. Cragg arched his brows curiously. Only Orridus reacted surprisingly. He simply stood in the heavy rain and locked gazes with the cow Thunderfoot, his worldly eyes boring deep into hers to fathom the pluck of her character and the truthfulness of her startling claim.

  'I believe her,’ the hermit quietly said.

  'I'm inclined to as well,’ echoed Cragg.

  'Are the pair of you nuts? I can't believe you're each that gullible.'

  'No, whiskers, my wits haven't left me,’ responded Orridus. ‘I've roamed forest, hills and plains long enough to see and believe anything. For example, Fernwalk extends farther than the eye can see and the nose can smell, and supports a variety of life in the far north not found here. Whose to say the skies aren't the same and that clouds aren't just heavenly hills?'

  'Pretty screwy rationale,’ slated the Treefur. ‘What's your reason, stone-face?’ he asked Cragg.

  'Simply this, Alphred: you had no knowledge of Bonehead existence prior to coming to this valley, did you?'

  Alphie could see where this was heading. ‘No, but...'

  'The same could be true of Bronnie's friend. His clans might be secreted in a faraway place, his kind unknown and unseen till now. Admittedly, hiding out in the heavens stretches the imagination to its limits, but anything's possible in this day and age.'

  While the marsupial's call for sane thinking was wasted, he felt compelled to solicit the Honker's viewpoint. Fitzfeather's response cemented his loss. ‘A fellow flier—what a spiffing disclosure! Pity he's fallen in with the wrong crowd.'