Shooting stars were hardly uncommon. The nightly firmament often played host to meteor showers that fell like glowing rain against the sable backdrop. Such aerial displays, however, were seldom spotted during daylight hours, making today's spectacle that much more ominous. Rexus caught his breath. Time had grown dangerously short. The world-changing asteroid was clearly on the brink of its destructive arrival and he was missing his ride to immortality.

  Putting the finishing touches to his abusive diatribe, Rexus faced the mocking forest with its many hiding places and belted out at the top of his lungs, ‘GET MEEE GIDEON!'

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The waiting was over.

  Thauron was forging ahead with his band of Longfrill hotheads and Orridus despaired of having any semblance of an organised attack. Unable to exercise patience any longer, the Shieldhorn now reduced to the rank of Rhyna's second was boldly plunging into the looming fray bolstered by his impetuous cohorts. While he had officially lost his title and position of Dominator to Orridus, Thauron was in the adulated eyes of his fellow Longfrills still their leader. That was a stumbling block the hermit had not counted on. He had won the duel but not the hearts of his people, and in the afterglow of beating Thauron their fervour had cooled. ‘At least I control my lot,’ he reassured himself.

  Perched atop the old recluse's bouncing back, Alphie looked quickly back at the mature Shortfrills plodding briskly through the autumn forest behind. All fifteen of them were wheezing and coughing terribly from the strain of the unforgiving pace set by their herd master.

  'What a fine bunch they look too,’ the Treefur commented nastily. ‘If you walked them any faster they'd keel over from heart attacks.'

  'They aren't as sprightly as me,’ boasted Orridus, increasing speed.

  He was hurrying to catch up to the trotting Longfrills after Thauron and friends had taken off like a Lizardwing out of hell. They had not even slowed when Orridus shouted out to them that the impetus for the assault on the Killjaws was no longer in the vicinity. How could Gideon be freed if he was nowhere to be found? The eagerness of his Shieldhorn cousins to go sparring with the predators resulted in caution being thrown to the wind. Their aggression was backfiring on Orridus.

  The swaying haunch of a straggler from Thauron's party appeared around a bend on the forest trail ahead. Orridus lengthened his stride and overtook the puffing bull. With a savage twist of his head he asserted his dominance by poking the Longfrill out of the rode with his nose horn.

  'That's gotta hurt.’ Alphie winced, watching the prodded bull stumble bellowing off the beaten track to crash headfirst into the brush.

  Orridus barged past a second and a third, each reacting by giving their cantering Dominator a wide berth and sheepish look of guilt. Both belatedly knew which Shieldhorn they should be following. Unfortunately the reinstated leader never had time to overtake the rest and intercept Thauron before the Killjaws were gained. The hermit was beginning to feel the pinch of his extended run. The hasty descent from the Uplands, the usurping of Thauron, and now this chase with the inevitability of further fighting at the end of it was taking a toll on the oldster. His strength was not inexhaustible and he tired fast. Orridus pushed hard to catch up with the remaining renegades but failed to do so before the sounds of fighting broke out.

  'I hope Cragg's in place,’ he panted anxiously.

  'What if he's not?’ asked Alphie.

  'Then this might well be the shortest uprising in lizard history.'

  Gathering in his ragged breath, Orridus commanded the trailing Shortfrills to spread out.

  His formula for attack was marvellously simple: contain the Killjaws first in a cordon of horns, before backing them against the hillside to completely restrict their movements. The topography and the meat-eaters own careless choice of locale lent itself to such a basic plan. After that, the Shieldhorns were free to handle the penned meat-eaters any way they saw fit. That should have included divesting them of their alien captive, had Gideon still been in Killjaw custody.

  Orridus and Alphie worked their way through the disturbed woodland as all about them the clamour of warring reptiles assailed their ears. Bellows of challenge were met with roars betraying surprise, then indignation, and finally retaliation. Flashes of contesting lizards could be glimpsed between the orderly trunks. The hermit hated the deafening noise of large-scale battle. The pair stepped from the outlying trees into the glade housing the relocated Killjaw Court and came to a standstill in the middle of a scene of utter confusion.

  Every Killjaw this side of Crescent Lake, in fact very nearly the whole of Mother Forest, had been brought to bay by the sweeping Longfrills. They were snarling and growling as their horned tormentors steadily forced them back from the treeline through the brush picket before an echelon of spikes fronted by Thauron. Not all were breathing. Two of the four Dwarf Killjaws already lay dead back in the woods after being horribly gored, while one of their bigger brethren was hobbling around on bleeding legs speared repeatedly by Shieldhorn lances. All that had been achieved for the loss of only one rash Longfrill who ventured too close to those snapping jaws and suffered the consequences by having his spine ripped out.

  Taking charge of the chaotic situation, Orridus bellowed out, ‘Shortfrills to the fore! Encircle those Killjaws—quickly now. Thauron, pull your Longfrills back.'

  The hermit's winded kin pushed resolutely through the ranks of their big-frilled cousins to form a barricade of horns behind which the disbelieving Killjaws stayed secured. Thauron, blood dripping from the points of his brow horns, strode jauntily over to the commanding Shieldhorn and his Treefur jockey. ‘What's the idea, Rhyna? I've got the bastards pinned.'

  'Make certain there are no gaps!’ Orridus curtly instructed his fellows. He transferred his attention onto the irked Longfrill. ‘Don't get complacent, Thauron. Killjaws are not to be trusted. They are notoriously quick to exploit any weaknesses in their opponents. You should know that.'

  'We do have them surrounded.'

  'Your boys served their purpose well. Their wild, mass charge disorganised Killjaw defences nicely. Cool heads are needed now to keep our toothy foes hemmed in.'

  Thauron disagreed. ‘They don't appear to have much fight in them.’ He actually sounded disappointed.

  'That makes them even more dangerous.'

  'You expecting trouble from them?'

  'Killjaws are the epitome of trouble.'

  'Ain't that the truth,’ echoed Alphie.

  Orridus oversaw the herding of the once mighty Killjaws into a short, dead-end canyon fronting the craggy foothills of the desolate Uplands. He searched the ridgeline above with anxious eyes, found it empty and cursed. Lowering his gaze he barked, ‘Whiskers! Point out Rexus to me.'

  'You don't know what the king of the butchers looks like?'

  'I know him by reputation only. It's a trifle risky getting up close and personal to any lizard whose gut reaction is to try and bite your head off.'

  The Treefur scrambled over the top and down the hermit's frill, inching his way along Orridus's horned snout to get a better look at the captive predators.

  'Well?’ pressured Orridus.

  'Well what, spike-nose. I only met Rexus once...'

  'That's one time more than me.'

  ’ ... and that meeting was less than cordial.'

  'All the more reason for you not to forget his ugly mug.'

  Alphie contemplated the morose faces of the cowed Killjaws. ‘There ... at the back, on the left,’ he concluded.

  Orridus stared hard at the grouped predators with his weak eyes. ‘The big one covered with battle scars cringing behind those two cows in front?'

  'That's him.'

  The hermit called for Thauron to join him. His junior was busy keeping his disorderly Longfrills in check, and hesitant to leave them unattended.

  'What's up now?’ he clacked irritably after dawdling over. Manners were never a strong suit with Shieldhorns and Thauron was miffed at being informed his boys were hired thugs, not bodyguards.

  'Take your mob and cut that scarred giant loitering at the rear out of the Killjaw horde,’ ordered Orridus.

  'Are you sure my goons and I can handle such a delicate job?’ Thauron said crossly.

  'Think of it as a test.'

  The leading Longfrill responded with one of his customary grunts before sizing up the targeted Killjaw bull. ‘What's so special about that one, other than his ugly size?'

  'We're old acquaintances.'

  'Who wouldn't happen to be the king you want to dethrone?’ Thauron was not as dense as he looked. He remembered this rescue mission was also the pretence to commit regicide. Thauron had no problem with that. Masterless Killjaws were much more manageable.

  Orridus watched with his heart in his mouth as Thauron headed for the Killjaw pack with a half-dozen of his spry bulls in tow. If the predators were going to make trouble, the time for it was now. He held his raspy breath as a section of the Shortfrill cordon parted ranks to admit the Longfrills and could see the agitated Killjaws tense. Sure enough the carnosaurs saw their chance and took it.

  'Rush that wall!’ Rexus exhorted his subjects in a deafening roar. ‘Break free. Chomp to death all these insurgents!'

  The Killjaws surged upon the ring of bristling horns in a terrible wave of fangs and claws. Sandwiched between friends and foes, Thauron and his colleagues disappeared in a sea of heaving reptilian bodies.

  'Thauron, get out of there!’ implored Orridus. He was briskly making a move toward the barrier, compelling Alphie to make a mad dash back up the hermit's waggling snout and over the crest of the frill to his usual riding position, when silhouettes appeared on the skyline, wraithlike black shapes backlit by the overcast.

  One of the Killjaw cows looked up at the same time and screamed, ‘The Upland ghosts!'

  A deluge of rocks promptly rained down on the battling lizards. The missiles, hurled with unerring accuracy, targeted only the revolting Killjaws. Jabbed by horns and pelted by stones, the flesh-strippers were speedily subdued, more so when their tyrant-king was brained by a small boulder and, dazed and wobbly, shepherded from the field of battle wedged between a pair of stout Longfrills. Beaten, confused and kingless, the broken Killjaw army sought the only refuge possible and retreated to the back wall of the defile where they huddled dejected and whimpering.

  'Cease fire, laddies!’ rang out a burred voice, the command bouncing off the canyon walls.

  Thauron approached Orridus. He was bitten and bloody, but alive. ‘Mission accomplished,’ he blandly grunted. ‘With a little help from the spirits.'

  Cragg waved at Orridus before making his way down from the ridge.

  The hermit considered the stunned Killjaw king supported by his Shieldhorn crutches. ‘Chuck him in the middle of the clearing,’ he told the Longfrills. ‘I want him conscious before he meets his maker.’ The lolling predator was bustled away. ‘You've done a grand job, Thauron,’ complemented the Dominator. ‘I bestow on you the honour of guarding Rexus himself.'

  Puffing up from the gesture, Thauron proceeded to bully his riotous mob into being credible sentries, his showcasing frill blushing with conceit. Moaning like crazy, they nevertheless fell over their hoofs to obey. He remained an authority figure despite the demotion.

  'Watch him like a Lizardwing,’ cautioned Orridus. Thauron acknowledged with a grunt and a nod, and the elderly Shieldhorn gave a smug rumble. He saw a little of his younger self in the pugnacious Longfrill. The sight of the restrained Killjaws filled Orridus with pride. As he waited for Cragg to finish his descent and take his first step on lowland soil, he remarked to Alphie, ‘Casualties are light. All things considered, whiskers, the battle went rather smoothly, don't you think?'

  'We were lucky. Big-head and his reckless buddies could have blown the whole raid if they had been cut off and the Killjaw army reinforced.'

  'Must you always put a downer on everything?'

  'Horn-head, you know I'm the rain to your sunshine,’ the Treefur hummed.

  'It's no fun for me getting wet,’ complained the hermit. He shifted about to greet Cragg. ‘You showed up barely in the nick of time, old friend.'

  'I got lost,’ confessed the Highrock Chieftain. His response to the strange looks from Orridus and Alphie was one of injured pride. ‘It is my first outing beyond the valley.'

  'You're a highlander,’ mocked the Treefur. ‘Those are the highlands,’ he argued, pointing to the nearby hills with his prehensile tail. ‘How can you possibly lose your way?'

  'Alphred, you are at home in the trees. Does that mean you know every foot, or in your case paw, of Mother Forest?'

  'I hadn't thought of it like that.'

  Glancing about the clearing, Cragg saw the outsider lizards and nobody else. ‘Where's the bonnie lad we're meant to be rescuing?'

  'That's a good question,’ Alphie mused.

  'One I wish we had the answer to,’ the hermit glumly added.

  * * * *

  Bronte slogged on.

  The passage was an unlit corridor of cobwebbed darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. Its innards were uncomfortably dank, the air heavy with the musty thickness of age which threatened to suffocate every breath drawn by the claustrophobic cow. She forced herself to take another plodding step forward. There was no choice. Bronte did not have the room in the poky tunnel to do a turnaround and even if she could there was no point. Malp had blocked the entranceway with that hefty cover stone, and the Thunderfoot was not entirely sure she could budge the tight-fitting boulder.

  At any rate, returning to the vale of the Boneheads where civil unrest raged did not appeal to her. It saddened Bronte to consider the descendants of those responsible for this stupendous feat of reptilian engineering were tarnishing the accomplishments of their industrious forebears by conducting open rebellion. It must have taken a huge collaborative effort on the part of the Bonehead tunnellers to burrow through solid rock. She imagined relay teams of diggers tirelessly scratching away at the stubborn stone around the clock with their stubby hands, only to be replaced after their blunt claws had been worn down. The sacrifice, both on a personal and herd level, surely must have been enormous. To think the unity that was the foundation of highland society was even now being undermined by Malp and his misfit radicals rankled her.

  The only sound in the corridor that bored through the belly of the Uplands, apart from the rhythmic padding of Bronte's elephantine feet on the dusty rock floor in soft cadence to her laboured breathing, was an occasional muted rumble that shuddered through the volcanic stone. There was no sense of time in the pitch-black shaft, so the gigantic plodder had no way of knowing how long she walked for—one day, two? All Bronte knew for certain was that she had grown tired, thirsty and sore. Malp's assurance that the tunnel was wide enough to accommodate her girth was not entirely truthful. In places the tube narrowed considerably and Bronte had a devil of a job squeezing through those bottlenecks. She struck one such difficulty now.

  'Not another section dug out by midgets,’ Bronte complained, sucking in her immense gut while she forced her bulk into the slim space between the rough stone walls either side.

  Her flanks had long since been rubbed raw from scraping along the abrasive rock of earlier squeezes, making Bronte blasé about the pain. Having endured Shrok's stoning, this was just another discomfort. The Thunderfoot strained against the unyielding rock and the persistent fear of entombment came flooding over her.

  'You can do this,’ she persuaded herself. ‘It's just like pushing over a tree.’ Working her columnar legs like pistons she popped out of the chute to carry on, leaving a scraping of shredded hide behind on the blood-smeared rock to mark her tortured passage.

  A sticky wetness dribbled down her rump. The scab over Festur's bite mark had been knocked off by her travels in the dark confines, and the healing wound, angrily reopened, bled profusely. The bloody pain did not deter Bronte. In many ways her exit from Concealed Valley was much like her entry into it—a circuitous, endless walk along a gloomy, unused corridor through the core of the hill country. There were subtle differences however. For one, Bronte was fully alert on this trip and not some giant zombie. For another, the tunnel floor on this side of the vale slanted downwards, not up, and ran in an unerring straight line as opposed to a disorienting spiral. Plus, she was intolerably alone. Solitude for a herding animal commonly meant lonely death. She quickly dismissed any thought of dying in this tomb.

  At last a faint, almost imperceptible brightening of the oppressive darkness up ahead gave Bronte renewed hope of ending her ordeal. It suddenly occurred to her that she had failed to ask Malp two poignant questions concerning the tunnel's end—where exactly it came out in the lowlands and how the exit was blocked up. The weary, dehydrated Thunderfoot doubted she had enough strength left in her to push aside a pebble let alone a cover stone matching the size of the one masking the doorway in. Her fears were luckily unfounded.

  As the milky light gradually intensified and Bronte was pulled towards it in a stumbling gait, she abruptly burst through a dense screen of overgrown scrub and bushes that had long ago sprouted up naturally to cleverly camouflage the secret link connecting two worlds. Standing shakily in front of the oppressive aperture in the dark basaltic rock, blinded by the harsh daylight, Bronte for the moment had no care where the tunnel regurgitated her. All that mattered was that she was outside at last and the relieved cow soaked up the pine scent and chirpy birdcalls of the forestland beyond with the quivering intensity of a newborn hatchling.

  Gradually, as her eyes adjusted to the glaring brightness of day, reality seeped back into her life with the same awakening slowness. Bronte was powerfully hungry, but the dryness in her throat demanded attention first. She craned her neck and tasted the slight breeze wafting through the spruce trees. A hint of water was evident on that zephyr and she lumbered eagerly away from the tunnel exit through the evergreens, tracing the moisture back to its source. Pretty soon it led her to Clearwater River and the massive cow plunged into the pristine watercourse. The current was cold, but oh so refreshing, and Bronte waded knee-high out into the shallows, delighting in having running water gurgling about her tree-trunk legs. She slaked her thirst and began cavorting in the river like a calf, splashing about frivolously while enjoying the sensation of just being alive and free.