The Bonehead inhabitants of the sunken vale were not the last of their breed to perish. That ignominious distinction fell to Cragg and the remnants of his party 200 miles away. A tremendous landslide set off by the moving ground took care of them with the lethality of a Killjaw's snapping biters. In one foul stroke the destructive volcano had, in a roundabout way, rendered the Boneheads extinct.

  * * * *

  'We're out of time.'

  'You're telling me, Gideon,’ bemoaned Orridus. ‘You hear those cries out there? We've got trouble headed our way that's running on two legs with a head crowned full of sharp teeth.'

  'I was referring to the dull boom we all just heard.'

  'Has the sky-rock hit?’ Alphie nervously asked from the comfort of the Berranian's cupped hands.

  'Then it's too late and you won't be needing me,’ Bronte said hastily, making to leave the poplar grove.

  The Shieldhorn hermit barred her way. ‘You're not going anywhere, girlie. Haven't you heard a word I've been rumbling? Listen.’ A tumult of roars echoed through the trees, intermingled with plaintive screams that rose in pitch before trailing off. ‘If I'm not mistaken, the Killjaws are in the very act of getting loose. Rexus is a crafty swine and I'll bet my nose horn he's already escaped and is on his way here.'

  'All the more reason for me to find Darved,’ the Thunderfoot coolly replied, stepping around the old dinosaur.

  'I'm not letting you go,’ Orridus avowed, backing up to block the cow again. ‘It's far too risky and you have an issue that needs resolving, one way or the other.'

  'You can't make me do something I don't want to do,’ she rumbled through her clenched, peg-like teeth.

  'Actually, he can,’ contended Alphie. ‘I myself watched spike-nose prod you all the way from Mother Forest, through the Uplands and into the vale of the Boneheads. Those horns of his are very persuasive.’ The blunt spoken Treefur talked to Gideon next. ‘So bug-eye, what was that big bang?'

  'Not the Annihilator falling,’ Gideon confidently predicted. ‘It was too early and nowhere near loud enough.'

  'That's one less immediate problem to worry about,’ muttered Orridus.

  'On the contrary,’ the alien pointed out. The garbled end of Vai's transmission now made terrible sense. ‘I've got a nagging suspicion that the volcano in this region has just erupted.'

  Orridus was unsurprised by the bad news. ‘Tank, is the Killjaw king likely to come at us in force?’ he asked, tackling the more urgent of the mounting setbacks.

  'You are assuming he has escaped,’ questioned the Clubtail.

  'And you're not?'

  'You think rationally, for a Shieldhorn.'

  'Gee, thanks for the compliment.'

  The ex-Adviser approached the query judiciously. ‘Logically speaking then, his subordinates will be tied up handling your bullyboys. That'll mean we're facing a father and son tag team.'

  Orridus considered deployments. ‘Righto. I'll take on Rexus while you...'

  'Rexus belongs to me,’ asserted Tank. ‘It is our time of reckoning.'

  'Fine. You handle him while I take care of Luthos.’ There was a note of anticipation in the hermit's amendment. ‘Actually, that will work out rather nicely. The tyrant-king can watch me gore his idiot son to death.'

  'What about me?’ Bronte asked.

  'You stay out of the fight altogether,’ ordered the Shortfrill.

  'Moldar explicitly said that I'm going to confront my rival. I guess that'd be the Killjaw prince.'

  'Out of the question! I'll not expose you to that kind of danger. Somebody needs to protect Gideon. Since the two of you need to finish your discussion, you're volunteering to bodyguard him.'

  'I wonder what it's like to have free will?’ she sniped.

  'Where do you want me, horn-head?'

  Orridus regarded his Treefur buddy nestled snugly in the Berranian's gloves. ‘How do you feel about continuing as the alien's comforter?’ The look he got back from Alphie could have withered the stoutest oak. ‘Just stay out of harm's way,’ he instructed.

  Tank swung his blunt head from side to side, his eyes roving. ‘Shortfrill, this grove is not ideally defensible. The closeness of the trees will hamper any tussle.'

  Scuffing with a hoofed forefoot the yellowing triangular leaves constituting the decaying carpet beneath the naked boughs of the regimented poplars, the hermit was forced to agree with the Clubtail's appraisal of their fighting arena. ‘There's hardly room to swing your tail,’ he said critically of the grove. Glancing keenly about he proposed, ‘What about further back, where the trees thin out?'

  Tank grunted his approval. ‘There's adequate space to fight and our backs will be protected by the density of the outlying forest.'

  They shifted position, the stumbling Berranian hanging onto Tank's spiky body during the changeover while Alphie wove through the boles ahead of Bronte. Orridus warily plodded after, frequently casting his expectant gaze backwards. There was no sign of any Killjaw activity—yet.

  'This'll do,’ Gideon told his crutch, sinking to the leafy ground with a cottonwood trunk stiffening his sagging back. The Treefur scampered promptly onto his lap as the sulky Thunderfoot circled behind. The horned and armoured defenders took up station either side of the alien's position ready for what lay in store.

  'I detest the waiting,’ Tank confided to Orridus. ‘It's so illogical to delay the inevitable.'

  'I don't mind it,’ replied the hermit. ‘In fact, I find the wait adds to the feel of the moment. I react better when my nerves are taut.'

  'You sound nauseatingly like Rexus.'

  The Clubtail's mordant observation only fuelled Orridus's hatred of the Killjaw royals.

  A sudden flapping noise started the edgy dinosaurs and Fitzfeather crashed downward through the overhead branches to thump heavily on the ground before them, amid a shower of twigs and leaves. ‘Dashed poor two-point landing,’ he admonished himself, shaking the debris from his feathers and flexing every joint in his winged body to make sure nothing was broken.

  'Where have you been, you fool bird?’ Orridus asked grumpily, recovering from the scare.

  'Following orders and maintaining aerial surveillance. I say, old boy, your manners leave something to be desired.'

  'Sorry, Fitzy, but I'm a little nervy. We're expecting company and I thought you were a Killjaw.'

  'Are your eyes failing you, dear chum? I am greatly offended. I do not bear the faintest resemblance to one of those uncouth layabouts. My bill is much more refined in shape.'

  'Is there something specific that you wanted?’ the Shortfrill demanded. ‘I am sort of busy here. Any moment now I'm betting a Killjaw or two will come breaking through those trees at your rear.'

  'That is precisely what I've come to report,’ declared the Honker. ‘The ground war has resumed. The enemy is busy engaged in recapturing lost positions. A suicide squad of two of the blighters is even now making a beeline for your woody fort while their despicable comrades fight a rearguard action.'

  'Does this pile of down always talk so pompously?’ Tank enquired of Orridus.

  Fitzfeather looked down his beak at the insulting Clubtail. ‘Pray tell, who are you sir?'

  'An informant,’ the hermit said brusquely. This was not the best time for the cultured bird to be lured into a slanging match. ‘Can the Shieldhorns hold off the Killjaws back in the clearing?'

  'They appeared to be fighting a successful holding action against the enemy when last I circled over them.'

  'At least one thing's going our way,’ mumbled Orridus.

  'Don't hold your breath, old boy. Redmount's finally lost its cool and is expelling an horrendous amount of smoke and fire.'

  'Told you so,’ said Gideon waspishly.

  'Is that the alien chappie?’ the haughty waterbird exclaimed, craning his long neck to better see Gideon tucked away behind the defensive herbisaurs. ‘I'll just waddle over and introduce myself. Courtesy to a fellow aviator and all that.'

  Orridus stepped up to head off his feathered friend, gruffly desperate to know the effects of the eruption. ‘What about Concealed Valley?'

  Fitzfeather halted, postulating, ‘Quite likely obliterated, dear boy. The Rockhead stronghold was in fairly close proximity to the mount. From what I could tell from the air at this considerable range, I'd have to hazard a guess and say that the northernmost Uplands has not fared terribly well, judging by the humungous ash cloud staining the horizon.'

  The hermit's heart sank. The pioneering Boneheads were, in all probability, no more. He idly speculated on the fate of Cragg's party on their homeward trek.

  Gideon coughed. ‘That is just a small taste of the horror to come.'

  Orridus turned about to stare down the seemingly heartless alien with misty eyes.

  'I'm not trying to be cruel,’ the Berranian said, ‘just realistic.'

  The dry sound of snapping branches filled the tense air and the aged Shieldhorn whirled around, swearing over his lapse in attention. The Killjaw king and prince appeared at the far end of the poplar grove and began making their brisk way through the obstructing trees snarling eagerly as they came, uncaring at having lost the element of surprise.

  'Ready?’ Orridus prompted Tank in a pointless whisper, moving out to take the fight to the advancing predators.

  'I was hatched ready,’ the arrogant Clubtail replied, falling in alongside the hermit. Personal animosity was shelved, for the two robust plant-eaters shared a common purpose.

  'Chocks away!’ Fitzfeather honked with gusto, running at full tilt across the narrow divide of open ground fronting the treed battlefield in order to reach take-off speed.

  'Fitzy, what are you up to?’ Orridus bellowed after the sprinting waterfowl.

  'Close air support!’ the breathless Honker answered, as his extended wings got a measure of lift and he flapped his way madly into the air inches above the fern cover.

  Somehow the bird missed crashing into the trees leaning out into his flight path. Jinking and slewing wildly, the aerobatic waterbird avoided plastering himself all over the last of the obstructing boles and astonishingly steered for the nearest Killjaw. As luck would have it that turned out to be Luthos, the Killjaw prince having an edge in speed over his gout-ridden sire which saw him exit the confining trees first. The plucky avian flew at the bull's snout and browbeat Luthos with his wings.

  'Get away from me, featherbrain!’ the simpleton barked, snapping at his goosey tormentor.

  Fitzfeather managed to keep out of reach of those lunging jaws long enough to bank hard to the right and smack into a poplar which had somehow jumped out to hit him from behind. He tumbled earthwards and miraculously dodged being trodden on by the dancing Killjaw.

  Rexus overtook his heir and growled, ‘Stop messing about and kill something. You are a slayer, act like one.'

  Luthos promptly forgot about the downed bird, leered at the oncoming Clubtail and cut across Rexus, bumping into his father. The tyrant-king irately shoved him away with his snout, propelling the clumsy Killjaw prince toward Orridus.

  'You wanted to meet my boy, Shortfrill,’ he growled loudly. ‘Knock yourself out.'

  'You're gonna regret introducing us,’ the hermit pledged.

  While Luthos squared off against Orridus, so too did Rexus pair up with Tank. ‘The game is afoot,’ he snarled at his sacked adviser.

  Tank emitted a hearty rumble. There was no need for words.

  Bronte, Gideon and Alphie watched the two sets of duellists sparring. Despite the differences in natural weaponry, predator and prey were pretty much evenly matched. They each circled their counterparts, sizing up his strengths and weaknesses with noisy exaggerated feints before daring to commit themselves to battle proper. During this phoney war Orridus exhorted the Thunderfoot and the alien to patch up their differences. ‘Get your business sorted, or all of this will be for naught,’ he entreated.

  'Your friend's right,’ wheezed Gideon. ‘The time for you to choose has finally come.'

  'Haven't you already made up my mind for me?’ Bronte argued while stepping out from behind the bole the alien leant on to hover imposingly before him.

  'Not true, Bronte. I cannot force you to undergo the Transformation. You must be a willing participant.'

  'Then go transform the Killjaw king's brat. His sire is endorsing him for the position of Chosen One strongly enough. Luthos must be eager for it.'

  'The heir apparent to the Killjaw throne is hardly the brain of Berran. He does whatever Rexus tells him to. His dumbness alone makes him an undesirable candidate.'

  'Deep down he wears the stigma of your Chosen,’ Bronte contended, referring to the star-like naevus they shared, hers visible, his masked by scarring.

  'That doesn't make Luthos the ideal recipient for the mutation.'

  'It qualifies me for the change you're advocating.'

  'There is a fundamental variance between the two of you that marks you special and my first choice.'

  'What's that?’ Bronte sounded largely indifferent.

  'Luthos is pure evil, you're not.'

  The growling and bellowing of the posturing contestants reached a mutual crescendo. Their bluffing was coming to an end. Soon the real action would begin.

  'I think the show's about to start,’ Alphie relayed to the others. He was entranced by the spectacle of the clashing lizards. ‘This is way cooler than any beetle fight.’ He glowered at the bulky Thunderfoot lounging in front. ‘You're blocking my view, longneck. Shift your big rump, will you.'

  Gideon absently stroked the straight-talking Treefur squatting on his knees. This was a gesture the wild marsupial not only accommodated, but actually seemed to enjoy, if the look of contentment warming his whiskered face was any indication.

  Bronte looked on bemused at the bonding pair from the sideline. A strange compulsion came over her and she spoke to Gideon in a soft voice. ‘You said before that everything eventually grows into something better. What'll become of the Chosen One after the change? Will it stay like that?’ The querying cow stared fixedly at the blissful Treefur.

  'I'm banking you won't.'

  'Stop pushing, Gideon.'

  'Sorry. Habit.’ He folded his hands into a steeple and pressed them against the curve of his visor thoughtfully. ‘It's pretty complicated. I think it'd be better if I showed you.'

  Unfolding his hands, Gideon reached for the rim of his helmet and sprung four hidden catches, one each at the front, back and on either side of the visored panel of his outsized headgear. The sudden soft hiss of escaping gases startled Alphie and he scurried off the alien's lap, turning about to gaze dumbstruck as the stranger from the stars seemingly lifted off his own head amid a dissipating cloud of white vapour.

  The unmasked Berranian was no spring chicken. He had an apish face with thinning white hair slicked back over a sloping forehead, and an unkempt beard of grey that framed a chinless jaw. Eyes brimming with intelligence and unbearable sadness looked sharply out from beneath overhanging brow ridges topped by bushy eyebrows whitened with age. His tanned skin was wrinkled by Time's ravaging touch and set off the whiteness of his ‘pelt’ admirably, even though the sheen of fever-induced sweat lent his complexion a wan look. Perhaps the facial feature of that offworld cast which most caught the attention of Alphie and Bronte was the flattened nose perched above a permanently downturned mouth bearing traces of blood-flecked spittle around the thin lips. Noses were unheard of in a world full of snouts and beaks, and clearly fascinated the marvelling Treefur and Thunderfoot.

  'You're no lizard,’ she accused in a strangled whisper, staring openly at his browned, unscaled hide.

  'I never claimed to be reptilian,’ Gideon said simply, placing his helmet at his side and breathing in the decaying freshness of the autumn forest.

  The sonorous sounds that came from his cracked lips were naturally in his native alien tongue, but the Berranian remained intelligible thanks to the metallic translations of his Linguistic Decoder. The exobiologist's technologically ‘smart’ headset continued to process his vocalisations into animal talk and relay the reciprocal speech into comprehendible noise despite the removal of his helmet. This feat was due to the neural implant in his brain, a surgical procedure every spacefarer from Berran underwent as a matter of precaution against the day he or she met a fellow galactic sentience. After all, the motto of the Stellar Corps was appropriately, ‘Ready for anything'. So long as the helmet remained in close proximity to his person, Gideon could be understood and in turn understand.

  The offworlder shut his eyes momentarily to better sample the woody fragrances, savouring even the musky odours of the animals he was keeping company with. ‘I can't tell you how good it is not to breathe recycled air,’ he sighed after inhaling, ‘and to again feel the wind on my face. It has been too long since I enjoyed those simple pleasures and now there's no time left to indulge myself.'

  'What manner of beast are you?’ Bronte asked, putting voice to the question on Alphie's whiskers as well.

  'I am a human being.'

  'Hu-man,’ the Treefur repeated with deliberate slowness, as if mouthing the new word would grant him comprehension.

  Bronte blinked owlishly from the alien to the marsupial and back to Gideon again. ‘Your breed hatched from a creature similar to the likes of him?’ she scoffed.

  'You're oversimplifying the process, but figuratively speaking, yes.'

  The Thunderfoot understandably had trouble grasping the staggering evolutionary transition from proto-simian into fully-fledged hominid. It was a mind-bogglingly convoluted concept for even the pinnacle of sauropod development to come to terms with. Gideon decided to try and ease her difficulty.

  'If you are fretting over losing your vaunted saurian pedigree, don't,’ he soothed. ‘We mammals do in fact come from reptilian stock, so your lizard genes, although heavily diluted, will be intact.'