'Curb your excitement, Fitzy,’ chided Orridus. ‘I have a feeling this is a “good news / bad news” situation. Bronte, what is Gideon's tale?'

  'He reckons he's some sort of liberator.'

  'From what?'

  'The end of all life as we know it.'

  'That's about as bad as it can get,’ moaned Alphie. Ever since he became entwined in lizard affairs, his uncomplicated life had been beset by peril and intrigue. What was a trivial doomsday event thrown into the mix?

  Orridus was the first to pose the obvious question. ‘What form will this annihilation take?'

  'A giant rock falling from the skies.'

  Cragg took a keener interest. Rocks were his hobby. ‘It must be a fair sized chunk of the sky that'll fall, lass.'

  Bronte recalled the hologram image rendered to scale and shuddered. ‘Big enough.'

  'Destruction is going to be total?’ delved the Shieldhorn.

  'Inescapable,’ Bronte confirmed in a pessimistic tone.

  That answered the hermit's follow-on query. The chances of survival were nil to zero. He was left with a final, gloomy question for the cow. ‘When?'

  She could not help but look up at the starless black overhead, the driving rain making her blink furiously. ‘Any time soon.'

  It was Cragg's turn next. ‘So how will this laddie save us?'

  'Not us, old friend—her.'

  The Thunderfoot was knocked for six by the Shieldhorn correctly answering the Bonehead's poser for her. Bronte's eyes hardened and her voice took on an edge of suspicion. Her secret was not so secret after all. ‘Orridus, just how much do you know about all of this?'

  'Very little actually, until you began filling in the blanks.'

  'Then how'd you guess Gideon has come solely for me?'

  The old sage gave a beaky Shortfrill smile. ‘Clubtails aren't alone in analytical thinking, my girl. They just take it to the extreme. It wasn't hard for me to figure out that this Gideon creature singled out you and your Duckbill pal because of your shared birthmarks. The flat-nose is now dead, making you the alien's prime candidate for whatever he has in store.'

  'That doesn't explain you concluding that Gideon intends to save me alone.'

  'Pure common sense. Had his intent been to save us all he would have done so by now and not involved you or the Duckbill.’ The old timer was sharper than he looked.

  Cragg amended his previous inquiry. ‘Bronnie, exactly how will he save you?'

  She started. Orridus has summed up perfectly. With Chappy gone to the Spirit Forest, everything Gideon wanted from the Chosen rested squarely on her back. ‘He's supposedly going to change me into something else.'

  'What?'

  'He didn't say.'

  'You don't sound terribly convinced,’ accused the hermit.

  'I'm not,’ retorted the cow. ‘And neither would you be if you were in my feet.'

  'Here, here!’ Alphie squeaked in agreement.

  'You have an opinion?’ Orridus dryly asked the Treefur.

  'Sure do, horn-head. I think myself and the longneck are the only members of this group thinking clearly. Don't the rest of you find this tall tale of catastrophe and a weird rescuer incredibly far-fetched?'

  The gathering of reptiles, bird and marsupial lapsed into a pensive silence accentuated by an abrupt change in the weather. The rain eased off and the wind died down, leaving the oddly soothing plopping of moisture dripping from waterlogged branches onto the forest floor the focal sound in the unlit grove.

  'The Treefur's right,’ Orridus decided in an unexpected turnaround.

  'I am? Oh, yes. Damn straight I'm right!'

  Orridus pursued his train of thought. ‘We need confirmation, and the only source for that is directly from the utterer's snout.'

  Something Fitzfeather had said earlier came back to prick Bronte's curiosity. ‘What did the bird mean by saying that Gideon is with the “wrong crowd"?'

  The aged Shortfrill's snouted face darkened. ‘He was sighted being pally with the Killjaws.'

  Bronte was subjected to a sickening realisation. She had thought the slaughter of her herd was the continuation of the age-old rivalry between the Thunderfoot matriarchy and the Killjaw kingship, as divulged by her grandmother, which had gotten horribly out of claw. What if the attack had been staged solely to eliminate her and Chappy, the Chosen Ones? Her mind boggled. Had her initial distrust of the alien been bang on? Was he indeed some bizarre form of star predator in league with his cousins on this, their home-egg? Could all this be part of an elaborate plot for a world take-over by the meat-eating fraternity?

  She had no time to formulate any conclusions before Orridus proclaimed, ‘There's only one way to sort out this mess.'

  Alphie groaned. ‘He's going to suggest something insane.'

  'Crazy, yes, but needful.’ The hermit eyed each of the assembly carefully in the drip-dry dark, his stare dangerously rational. ‘If you can't bring the tree to the forest, then take the forest to the tree. We'll go and get this Gideon for ourselves.'

  Chapter Twenty

  They said their good-byes.

  Ostensibly Orridus was transporting Alphie home. In reality, the Shieldhorn was putting into action the first phase of the plan formulated the previous night to abduct Bronte's alien. It just so happened that both events coincided.

  'I'll see you at the rendezvous point, Cragg,’ the hermit said, tactfully keeping his voice lowered. Sentries allied to Highrock from Clan Weatherstone were on station at the mouth of Thunder Passage this dingy morn. That is not to say Malp's spies were not listening in from the rock surrounds. ‘Fitzy will advise you where.'

  Cragg nodded. The Honker had gone aloft in the predawn darkness to undertake a recce of the Killjaw stronghold and to provide aerial support for Orridus. His arrival in, and departure from, Bonehead airspace had thankfully gone undetected.

  'It's not too late to change your mind, old pal. This isn't your fight.'

  'Nay, Orridus, we're both do-gooders. We can't help getting ourselves involved.’ Cragg gave the Shieldhorn an accusing look. ‘However, I don't think your motives are entirely selfless.'

  Orridus ignored the dig. ‘Hettinor's not going to like this,’ he clacked.

  'She doesn't have to. She has only to prepare for casualties.'

  'Are you sure your bulls are up to the challenge? They've never come up against predators of any sort, let alone Killjaws. They don't realise what to expect.'

  'They will be ready,’ assured the Bonehead chief. ‘You'll have your backup.’ He clapped a forehand on the Shieldhorn's back, causing the Treefur jockey to jump back. ‘Quit being such a worrywart, my friend. If all goes according to plan we'll secure this Gideon laddie without any bloodshed.'

  Orridus did not share his optimism. ‘You can't possibly know the Killjaws like I do. They won't allow him to be taken easily.'

  'Horn-head's not kidding, stone-face,’ chimed in Alphie. ‘Meat-eaters play for keeps.'

  'We Boneheads are no pushover,’ Cragg confidently said. He yawned. ‘Besides, didn't we stay up half the night planning for every contingency?'

  'Things can and do go wrong,’ the Treefur gloomed.

  'No more of this defeatist talk.’ Orridus had had enough. ‘We'd better get underway, whiskers.'

  'You still haven't disclosed where it is we're going, spike-nose.'

  The hermit had made the announcement during last night's brainstorming session of his intent to recruit muscle from the lowlands for the rescue attempt. He failed to specify from whom.

  With a rumbly sigh of discontent Orridus revealed, ‘Into the past.'

  Bronte, quiet and unobtrusive in the background, approached the Shieldhorn and his rider along the canyon floor. The tunnel guards stiffened. Though loyal to Cragg's standpoint, they, like him, were bound by law to uphold the council decree. The Thunderfoot was not to be freed.

  Cragg instantly calmed them. ‘Relax, laddies. She's not going make a break for it.'

  'Why are you putting your lives at risk for this silliness?’ The cow put the question to Orridus while directing it to all three. ‘You don't even know me.'

  'Oh, but I do,’ rejoined the hermit. ‘Maybe not personally, I nonetheless know your type—the downtrodden persecuted by evilness. I've spent the latter part of my life defending the underdog. It's what I do best and I'm not planning on retiring from my calling any time soon.'

  'And I help Orridus fight the good fight whenever I can,’ added Cragg. ‘We all do our bit to make our territories a safer place.'

  Alphie was less chivalrous. ‘I'm only along for the ride,’ he said.

  All concerned knew different though. Beating in the Treefur's puny chest was a generous heart the size of a Thunderfoot's.

  'We shall be back with the newcomer before you can rumble “salt lick",’ vowed Orridus.

  A point of worry nagged at Bronte. ‘If successful, how do you plan to get Gideon past the Regressionists?'

  'Leave that to me, lass,’ said Cragg. ‘With a little help from Clift and Revasse, I'm certain we can sneak him in. His smallness should make him a darn sight less conspicuous than you, Bronnie.'

  For the benefit of the hidden watchers, Orridus raised his voice. ‘Time's wasting and this little beggar is anxious to get home. Farewell, my friends.'

  Alphie put a kibosh on their departure. ‘Hang about, lance-brow. You owe the Thunderfoot an apology before we go.'

  'What are you squeaking about?'

  'Back along the riverbank on our trip up, remember. You passed an unflattering remark about a certain longneck's backside.'

  'I don't recall,’ Orridus mumbled, rolling his eyes guiltily.

  'How convenient. I'll refresh your memory.’ Alphie ran along the hermit's back to perch atop his frill. ‘You promised to apologise to our big friend here once she became lucid again. Guess what time it is.'

  'I'll get you for this, you interfering hair-ball.'

  'I look forward to it. Meantime, honour your word.'

  Orridus pulled himself together and faced Bronte squarely. ‘Girlie, I'm sorry for saying your rump is enormous.'

  The stupefied cow was unconcerned. ‘Don't be. I'm a Thunderfoot. My hindquarters are supposed to be wide.'

  The acutely embarrassed Shieldhorn turned away with his small, furry payload and hastened down the passageway linking Concealed Valley to the world beyond, the Treefur's hysterical giggling echoing maddeningly off the tunnel walls.

  They emerged from the divide splitting Starlight Falls around evening and made their tortuous way down the boulder-strewn river canyon, not stopping until the craggy Uplands receded into a series of shrinking hillocks and the threshold of Mother Forest appeared out of the midnight darkness as a dark wall in the near distance. Alphie eagerly slid off his mount to hunt the woods for his favourite bug snacks.

  'Make it quick,’ urged the old bull, cropping the paltry leaves clinging steadfastly to the nearest bush. ‘We have to get back on the trail as soon as possible.'

  'It's good to be back on home turf,’ proclaimed the Treefur, burrowing through the mouldy leaf litter.

  'The valley of the Boneheads isn't that bad. A little ashy, maybe, but a pleasant enough hideaway.'

  'Says you. I wasn't dry once up there.'

  Orridus munched in silence after that brief exchange. Alphie was buried out of sight, but the intermittent rustling of leaves told of his active pursuit of his insect treats. Dinnertime came to an end half an hour later when the Treefur's steed called for him to remount. The pair left the riverside, the hermit plunging through the woods in a southwesterly direction until daybreak. The seemingly indefatigable Shieldhorn slowed his march and came to a weary halt outside a stand of skeletal oaks as the dawning sun peeped through the bare-limbed trees.

  'I have to rest for a bit,’ he told Alphie, ‘before we press on.'

  'To where?'

  Orridus gestured to the sorry looking boles with a flick of his nose horn. ‘Deeper into this basin,’ he said with an air of reluctance. ‘The Uplands sweep inward east from the falls in a broad curve that forms a pocket of dense forest between the hills and Crescent Lake.'

  'Just who are you hoping to find out there, horn-head?'

  The aged Shieldhorn's answer to Alphie's query was unexpected and unenthusiastic. ‘My old herd.'

  * * * *

  Bronte had spent the day alone. She sorely missed her fellow lowlanders following their departure that same day, which was surprising considering she barely knew either of them. It was more likely a case of the Thunderfoot's visible links to her old life having been completely severed, leading to feelings of isolation and loneliness. Having been left on her own by her busy hosts in the tiny grove of half-stripped firs she was rooming in only added to the cow's sense of abandonment. She was glad that the next day was turning out differently. Today Cragg was setting aside his chieftaining duties to conduct the tour of the dale he promised Bronte on the day of her judgement.

  'We're completely self-sufficient,’ explained the Highrock chief. He and Bronte were ambling through the southern pine groves of the vale with the waters of the Oasis glistening prettily through the trees. The day was overcast, with occasional sunny patches reflecting off the placid lake. The Bonehead picked up a pinecone, dusted off the volcanic residue from the morning drizzle of ash, and began absently nibbling on the snack to prove his point. ‘Food and water is plentiful season round, so we've no reason to migrate. The climate is cool and windy, just the way we like it. The valley walls are steep and unscaleable, shielding us from racial harassment, and there are rocks aplenty to satisfy our wants.'

  Bronte was unimpressed. She was still in her dour mood. ‘It's alright I suppose, if you like life in a cage.'

  'Granted, to outside eyes it would appear we are trapped,’ Cragg acknowledged, ‘but to us this vale is a haven.'

  Their stroll continued through the sweetly fragrant conifers, and for a blissful while Bronte felt carefree in the hidden world of the Boneheads. Turning a bend in the meandering trail they came upon a patch of cleared forest occupied by ten or so upright megaliths arranged in a precise circle. Some of the freestanding menhirs rose alone eighteen feet into the air from out of the bare earth, while others were arranged in pairs with a capstone positioned on top. The wheel of monoliths was an outstanding accomplishment, for each slab weighed dozens of tons and must have been incredibly awkward to drag into place.

  'What is this spot?’ wondered the Thunderfoot.

  Cragg put down the half-eaten cone. ‘Ah, the Standing Stones. It is a monument to the sturdiness of rock.'

  'They're only stones.'

  'I beg to differ, lassie. My race has an affinity with rocks, probably because we resemble them so much. We choose to express this closeness through sculpture.'

  Bronte honestly did not know what to think. Boneheads were as foreign to her as that intrusive alien. Were these the baby steps of reptilian civilisation?

  They resumed their leisurely walk, engaging in idle talk about the weather and other trivial matters. Invariably the conversation turned to Orridus, the subject being broached by Bronte. ‘What did you mean yesterday when you accused Orridus of being selfish?'

  'Just words.'

  The cow stopped, compelling Cragg to halt also. ‘The Shieldhorn saved my life. I need to know who exactly he is.'

  'He's a very private bull, Bronnie.'

  'You're his closest friend and presumably know him better than most.'

  Cragg chuckled. ‘I doubt any lizard really knows the old recluse. But I'll share what little he has revealed about himself to me—stuff not even Hetti is privy to. For starters, Orridus is not even his real name.'

  'I didn't think so,’ Bronte mused. ‘What silly parent would call their calf after a legend? It's so corny. So what is his name then?'

  'I dunno, lass. He hasn't told me and I won't pry.'

  'Alright,’ she said. ‘Let's try his herd. What of them?'

  'Your guess is better than mine on that score. I don't get out much.'

  The cow thought solidly for a moment. She knew of Shieldhorns, not about them. Thunderfeet, although sharing their range with those horned reptiles, never fraternised. They were pointedly kept at tail's-length. The lasting impression she had of her frilled competitors was passing observations of ornery beasts constantly bickering. That was no help. She was exasperated and told Cragg so. ‘Admit it. You don't know anything about Orridus!'

  'Hermits are notoriously hard to get close to.'

  Bronte appreciated that statement more than most. Her father had invented the lonely concept of hermitage.

  'However, I did piece together something else from what tidbits Orridus has let slip about his past,’ confided Cragg. ‘He's a runaway from his old life...'

  No surprise there, thought Bronte. Orridus and Sorrin could have been egg brothers.

  ’ ... spurred on by an unspoken tragedy involving his mate...'

  Make that twins.

  ’ ... that drove him to adopt a do-goodly persona and way of life he hopes will redeem his cowardice.'

  Oops. Big difference. Then again maybe not. A recluse takes up the hermitic life due to an inability to deal with the world in general. Being utterly alone is preferable to facing and surmounting one's problems. Orridus and Sorrin had that in common. Bronte's father was not sufficiently expert to cope with his widowing or the prospect of being a solo parent. The tragic old Shieldhorn must have been subjected to a similar misfortune, for only the heartbroken would ever consider exchanging the advantages of herd life for an existence of perilous solitude. Perhaps the lonesome bulls shared more than that. Orridus was some kind of horned avenger, forever trying to make up for an unforgivable mistake in his secretive past. Sorrin had not quite gone to that extreme, but he did keep a background watch on his growing daughter to make amends for his failings as a father. Her guilty sire had also redeemed himself by stepping beyond his selfish grief long enough to defend Bronte when she most needed protection.

  She remained critical. ‘That's not very much to go on.'

  Cragg was stung by the rebuff. It had taken him ten seasons of painstaking attentiveness to glean that little amount. Orridus was about as forthcoming as a tree stump.