A floating log bumped into the gallivanting Thunderfoot and she stopped playing. The sodden trunk should not have bothered her, except for the fact that it was drifting upstream against the flow. After studying the oddly tapering stump with a curious stare, Bronte hauled herself from the river to stand on the tree-lined embankment opposite, shaking with fright. Not long after the ‘log’ followed suit, waddling up onto the flat top of the riverbank to flop on its belly before the shivering cow.

  Bronte gazed wild-eyed at the gargantuan crocodile, wondering why the waterborne killer had not seized her while she was frolicking oblivious to danger in his domain. Perhaps it had something to do with the miniscule reptile carcass dangling from those horrific jaws. She hoped that was its lunch, not her.

  Moldar deposited the Guardian's limp form beneath the drooping boughs of one of the ancient willows lining the riverbank with gentleness unbecoming of such a monster. His unseeing eyes of scarlet fire blazed at the alarmed cow.

  'Ho, Bronte of the Thunderfeet!’ the Watersnout greeted in a voice as frigid as the winter wind.

  Her mouth dropped. ‘Do I know you?'

  'By repute, perchance. Mine name is Moldar.'

  Bronte returned a blank stare.

  Moldar flashed a toothy smile bereft of warmth. ‘Tis naught to affront mine sensibilities,’ he said. ‘I knowest thee. That shalt be enough.'

  The Thunderfoot came on the defensive. Hungry or not, Moldar was a fearsome beast. ‘Are you going to try and eat me?'

  He snickered. ‘Nay, damsel, thou art the morrow of this worlde and wilt be untouched by mine fang and claw.'

  'Pity the same can't be said for your takeaway.'

  Moldar sadly regarded his lifeless assistant. ‘This wretch is not mine fare. I didst slay mine familial to spare him Armageddon, lest he suffer.'

  Bronte shot the croc a frank, questioning look.

  'Yea, I knowest of thy cursed stone that shalt flail this olde worlde anew. The stars begat the doom that comest to smite all.'

  She was completely thrown. This interloper not only knew who she was, but seemed aware of the asteroid and the calamity it was bringing with it. Perhaps he even guessed her so-called importance as the Chosen One. ‘What are you, Moldar?'

  'Seer, shaper ... thou canst decide which appellation befits me.'

  'Weirdo is appropriate.'

  'Thou art sharp-tongued, wench.'

  'You ain't heard nothing yet.’ Bronte had taken an instant dislike to the aquatic predator with his aura of undiluted evilness.

  The oracle was uncaring. ‘Thou hath been misled,’ he revealed to her.

  Despite his unwholesomeness she felt compelled to listen to the strange talking crocodilian. ‘How so?'

  'Gideon beshrewed this sphere, condemning it to flame and gale by his wantonness.'

  Bronte solemnly digested the news, working hard to translate the archaic speech into everyday language. ‘Let me get this straight. You're telling me that Gideon has somehow caused the end of the world.'

  'Ay, forsooth.'

  'I knew he wasn't to be trusted,’ she said venomously. ‘Why destroy us, then come all this way to fix it?'

  'Providence moveth pawns in strange ways.'

  'Speaking of strange...’ Bronte muttered to herself.

  Just who Moldar was came to her in a frighteningly vivid recollection. Back when Bronte was a calf, Aunt Flo had visited the nursery one bedtime to conduct her nightly bout of storytelling and told her foster daughter a scary tale about a swamp-living, blind foreteller who cruelly devoured his petitioners after falsely divining their fortunes. The terrified, but enthralled, hatchling had scarcely slept a wink that night. In latter seasons she had thought it nothing more than a dark fable and forgotten it.

  'What do you want with me?’ she demanded of the soothsayer with a churlish catch in her voice, edging away from him.

  'To set thee aright on thine proper path.'

  'I wasn't aware I had strayed.'

  'Thou hast wandered afar from thy calling.'

  'My what?'

  'Art thou not the second of the pair named changeling?'

  That clinched it. Moldar knew everything about her. ‘What of it?’ Bronte said guardedly.

  'Thou hast yet to confront thine opposite in the moment of choosing.'

  'What are you talking about? Chappy is dead. There is no choice to be made. I'm it.’ She was far from happy about that prospect.

  'Nay. I bespake thee not of thy mouldering calfhood compatriot, for thereto a third contender hath arisen to lay claim to the titular Chosen One.'

  Bronte gasped. ‘There's another member of the Chosen club? Tell me who it is.'

  Moldar refused. ‘Methinks thou shalt knowest of thy rival in a more beseeming setting than this riverside.’ At the completion of the croc's sentence the sky began to dramatically darken and the churning river slowed almost to a standstill.

  The Thunderfoot gaped as tendrils of mist formed over the surface of the sluggish water to snake upwards and outwards like living entities. ‘Is this your doing, Moldar?'

  His sightless pupils burning like binary suns, the seer conceded, ‘I hath powers of mine own that doth equal thine offworlder's.'

  She did not dispute that boast. The wispy mist was rapidly coalescing into a more substantial fog bank that rolled off Clearwater River in groping arms with alarming speed to envelop the conversing reptiles. Bronte found herself immersed in a soundless world of featureless white, her only grasp on reality being the pinpricks of red denoting Moldar's farseeing blindness.

  'Henecewith, Thunderfoot! I beseech thee hasten away to thy confrontation. Twain spheres do await the outcome.'

  'How can I? I can't even see my foot in front of my snout.'

  'I wilt show thee the way.’ The mist mysteriously parted in a corridor of clear air tunnelling away from Bronte through the thickening fog. ‘Vale Bronte,’ sounded the soothsayer's farewell.

  The cow peered back and saw the intense glow fading from his reddish eyes. ‘Wait, Moldar!’ she cried out shrilly. ‘You can't go yet. Who am I to face? What will I choose?'

  'Thy time draweth near and I must away to mine place of final rest. The depths of yonder moon-shaped lake call to me. But hearken! A lesser familial shalt arise from mine bones in a far-flung desert clime and he wilt be named Ensodius and counsel shalt he the progeny of thine outcome, mayest they be for good or ill.'

  The telltale redness faded out completely. Moldar was gone.

  Bronte considered her situation. She had gone from a tunnel in the dark to a tunnel through blanketing whiteness—not a great improvement. The mist swirled in dense folds in front of the unaccompanied Thunderfoot. She backed up and turned about to face the unnatural passage through the fog, feeling manipulated. When would her life ever be her own? With a sigh of resignation she plodded down the ethereal avenue.

  She had not gone far when an immense shadow appeared farther down the cylindrical opening in the soup. It looked to be Thunderfoot in shape. ‘Father?’ Bronte whispered hopefully.

  'Bronte, is that you?'

  That bullish rumble, though welcomingly familiar, did not belong to Sorrin. ‘Darved!’ Bronte cried out joyously, rushing down the corridor as fast as her sluggish gait allowed.

  'Bronte, that is you!’ Darved responded with like gladness, hurrying to greet her. The reunited couple met and entwined their necks in a classic Thunderfoot embrace, nuzzling one another ardently with desire. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes, girl. I thought you dead out on Fernwalk.'

  'And I you.'

  'I very nearly was. After the Killjaws attacked, Mother and I found we were cut off from our herd and encircled. I had to fight my way clear of those murdering scum.'

  Bronte pulled away and looked her mate over. He bore plenty of scratch and bite marks to validate his ordeal. Thankfully they were superficial, meaning Darved had given better than he got. ‘It must have been terrible,’ she gently said. ‘What of Bodiah?'

  'She didn't make it.'

  'I'm sorry, my darling.'

  Darved took the condolence in his stride. ‘Thanks. I know there was no love lost between you two.’ It was his turn to appraise the battered condition of his cow. ‘You've had your own adventures I see.'

  'I must look a mess.'

  'You look lovely to me.'

  'You're just saying that.'

  Darved moved close again. ‘No, I'm not.’ A guilty look clouded his snout. ‘I would never have left you had your grandmother not insisted.'

  'Balticea was a forceful old cow.'

  'Was?'

  'I don't think she made it. I doubt any of my kinfolk did.'

  'I truly am sorry. The loss of the Grand Matriarch is a bitter blow.’ He heaved a weary sigh. ‘My band fared only marginally better than yours. I hooked up with a couple of survivors after my escape and we fled north. Later on I veered into the forest and doubled back looking for you, while they carried on running scared.’ He leant over and tenderly rubbed his snout on her outstretched neck. ‘I couldn't just leave you, Bronte. I've been searching for you ever since, until I became lost in this fog.'

  Bronte sidled up to her beau. ‘That was very brave of you,’ she murmured adoringly, ‘but dangerous. Right now Mother Forest is crawling with Killjaws hunting the last of us.'

  'You're worth the risk,’ he returned, avowing, ‘I'd die for you, Bronte.'

  She hoped things would never come to that. ‘Let's run away, Darved,’ his cow implored. ‘Leave here and start over again. We're the last paired Thunderfeet in this forest. It's our duty to create a brand new herd elsewhere.'

  'That's a tall order for just the two of us,’ Darved considered. He then rumbled heartily, ‘I like a challenge though.'

  Bronte could have jumped for joy, had the weighty Thunderfoot cow been able to get all four feet off the ground at once. She wanted no further part of the alien or his asteroid and transformation. Having had enough of interfering lizards, whether freaky well-wishers or dastardly killers, all the cow desired was to be now left alone with her bull to raise a brood and grow old with him. It was a dreamy, unrealistic fancy. ‘What are we waiting for then?’ Bronte gushed, keen to be off.

  Darved glanced about unhappily. ‘For this fog to lift, for starters.'

  'We'll walk our way clear of it. I wish to be out of Mother Forest and safely back on Fernwalk as fast as possible. After that we'll head south, away from the migration, to fresher pastures.'

  Her bull was impressed. ‘You've got this all worked out.'

  'I've had time on my tail to do some serious thinking about our future.'

  'Just where have you been since the Killjaw strike, Bronte?'

  'Hiding out. That's all behind us now. We have the rest of our lives to look forward to.'

  'Can't argue with that.'

  Together, Bronte and Darved headed off down the mist-shrouded avenue into an aftertime already in the making.

  * * * *

  Rexus came to.

  This was all a bad dream. It had to be. How else could he, the exalted king of the Killjaws, be in this humiliating predicament? A painful jab in his rump brought home the reality. This was no nightmare. His crown had been taken from him by a ragtag band of stinking leaf-munchers and he was their prisoner.

  'Ow, quit that!’ Rexus growled as he was rudely prodded again by one of his circling Longfrill jailers. He was lying belly down suffering from the granddaddy of all headaches.

  'You're in no position to make demands,’ Thauron rumbled from the background. With a sudden holler he announced, ‘Rhyna, he's awake!'

  'Get him up!’ a shouted order came back.

  Rexus winced. ‘Must you lot bellow so loudly. I think my head's going to drop off.’ He received another horny prod for his complaint. The ousted tyrant-king struggled to his feet and stood swaying, his pounding head swimming. He lurched about at the approach of an aged Shortfrill in the company of a grotesque two-legged lizard whose breed was unfamiliar to him.

  'Prince Rexus,’ declared Orridus, halting outside the protective cordon of Shieldhorns.

  The reeling Killjaw disputed that. ‘That's King Rexus, peasant.'

  'You weren't when first I heard of you.'

  Rexus held Orridus in his fuzzy eyes before giving him a cursory sniff. ‘I never forget a scent and I don't know yours,’ he stated unequivocally.

  'Is that so? I can't really blame you for not knowing me. After all, we've never actually met.'

  The tyrant-king became irritated. ‘I really don't care who you are, old-timer, but I strongly recommend that you release me immediately or we'll get to know one another intimately.’ He gnashed his teeth warningly.

  'Thauron, if you please.'

  'Certainly, Rhyna.’ The captaining Longfrill came at Rexus from behind and stabbed him pointedly in his gout-ridden leg. The Killjaw howled in pain and limped after his tormentor, only to be stopped by that unbreakable ring of horns fencing him in.

  'Not so tough now, Your Majesty,’ Orridus mocked in a spiteful voice.

  'Is torturing him absolutely necessary?’ interjected Cragg. His Shortfrill friend's cold, wordless stare answered that question most eloquently.

  'What do you want from me?’ Rexus asked through clenched teeth.

  'For you to remember,’ said the hermit. ‘Cast your mind back to when you were a youngling, barely out of the egg and still wet behind the tail.'

  Rexus grimaced. He preferred to be poked again than take a trip down memory lane. Killjaws were not big on sentiment. ‘Be more specific,’ he grouched to Orridus.

  'Let me refresh your memory then. You took part in a raid on my Shieldhorn herd out on the verge of Fernwalk quite a few seasons ago and killed a number of calves.'

  The despotic regent thought back, saying, ‘Oh, that little outing.’ He cackled. ‘That was quite a run. My sire thought it'd be a good learning experience and a valid test of my bravery. I recall I passed with flying colours and gained my very first battle scars. Thanks for the good time.'

  Orridus rejoined with matching sarcasm. ‘You're most unwelcome, you butcher.'

  'Don't be so touchy. I was only following my natural instinct. I do prey on your kind, after all.'

  'You slew babies!’ The hermit was getting hot under the frill.

  'The weak, young and old make obvious targets. Don't get your horns in a twist. You lot breed faster than midges in a swamp. Why fuss over one lost brood?'

  'Perhaps because the playgroup you slew had my sons in it.'

  Rexus looked coolly at the seething Shortfrill, the drumming in his head lessening. ‘Aw, shucks. Couldn't you father any replacements? Shame. I hear impotency is rampant among Shieldhorn bulls—all bravado and no substance.'

  Orridus gave an indignant snort and started forward.

  'Time for me to bail out,’ Alphie muttered, turning tail to scurry down off his mount. Not wanting to get caught between battling titans the Treefur hit the ground scampering, only to wonder about the wisdom of his action as he began weaving through a forest of stamping lizard legs in search of a safe place from which to watch his horned companion's retribution. The worried marsupial frantically made for the closest tree trunk.

  Cragg hurriedly stepped between his incensed pal and the taunting Killjaw before the recluse crossed the line of guards and the boundary of sensibility.

  'Get out of my way,’ rumbled Orridus.

  'He's deliberately baiting you,’ the Bonehead chieftain warned, ‘and it's working a treat. He wants you to react foolishly, so that any fight will be enacted on his terms. You taught me that Killjaws like playing mind games and to watch out for them. Take your own advice.'

  'Shouldn't you be back on the ridge top minding your boys?’ Orridus clacked peevishly.

  'Bollda's perfectly capable of running the clan warriors for the moment. I'm obviously needed here more to keep you out of trouble.'

  'Hide behind your mutant bodyguard,’ cut in Rexus. ‘You're plainly too old and feeble-minded to be my match.'

  Orridus strained against the unmoving Bonehead. ‘I'll show you just how feeble I am.'

  'Oh goody. Can you manage it by yourself, or do you require help from your little playmates?'

  'Let me have another go at him, Rhyna,’ requested Thauron. ‘You don't need to soil your horns with his foul blood.’ He had changed his disrespectful attitude towards the oldster and was now actively defending his slighted Dominator.

  'This is my fight alone,’ declared the vengeful hermit. ‘Respect that, all of you.'

  Cragg refused to step aside. ‘I've never seen you this riled up before, Orridus. You are no cold-blooded murderer.'

  'Bull!’ repudiated Rexus. ‘The old boy has that certain hunger in his eyes. I'd recognise it in any lizard, even a decrepit dirt-grubber like him. He yearns to kill me, positively lusting for revenge.'

  'Don't listen to him,’ pleaded Cragg. ‘He is wrong. You are a better than that.'

  Orridus stopped struggling against the stalwart highlander and confessed in a low voice, ‘No, he's right.'

  Rexus sniggered under his breath. This was his chance. He would slay the ringleader of these presumptuous plant-eaters then, in the ensuing confusion, free his overfed minions—who had been too bloated with Thunderfoot meat to put up much of a resistance—before retaking his lost kingdom by force. Afterwards, he planned to hunt down the renegade Clubtail and apprehend the alien before the asteroid hit. Rexus still had a claw or two up his proverbial sleeve.