'Okay, he may not be a Killjaw himself,’ Bronte conceded. ‘That doesn't rule out his being in league with them. I hear the Killjaws sometimes use other races to do their bidding. He could be one of their servants.'

  'Those are just rumours.'

  'I wouldn't be so quick to scoff. Where there's smoke there's fire.'

  The Duckbill shuddered. Fire was a natural killer and rightly feared. ‘Okay, suppose you're right. Why would they bother with the two of us?'

  'Me, not you,’ corrected the Thunderfoot cow.

  Chappy was thoroughly bewildered. ‘You've never been egotistical before.'

  'I'm not, dunderhead. Grandmother let me in on a few family secrets, one of them being I'm a probable target of the Killjaw king himself.'

  'You're that important Bron? You should be flattered.'

  'A death mark is every girl's dream come true,’ she quipped.

  'If I might interpose.'

  The herbisaurs looked down to regard Gideon.

  'We haven't finished talking,’ Bronte coolly said to the humanoid.

  Gideon ignored her. ‘I couldn't help but overhear. Let me allay your fears. I am in no way associated with that predator I chased off. If I had been in cahoots with the hunter, as Bronte alludes I am, would either of you be alive now?'

  'Good point,’ observed Chappy.

  'Besides, my people gave up eating red meat generations ago,’ continued Gideon. ‘I'm an avowed vegetarian.'

  'See, I told you Bron. He's one of us.'

  The Thunderfoot rumbled threateningly at the smug Duckbill. ‘My concerns are not groundless. Tail-less reptiles don't exist.'

  'Not here,’ responded Gideon.

  'Then where?’ pressed the cow.

  The foreigner pointed a finger up at the starry heavens. The dinosaurs each turned a quizzical face skywards to gaze upon the dusting of stars twinkling against the sable firmament.

  'Sweet cheeks, we need to get aloft to check computations,’ cut in Vai.

  'Can't you do that from the ground?’ You are supposed to be hi-tech hardware.’ Annoyance laced Gideon's reply.

  'There's too much magnetic clutter groundside. I need to be back in orbit for a clearer scan.'

  'Take off then. I'm busy getting acquainted with my new friends.'

  'You know my program prevents me from automatically piloting an unoccupied ship.'

  Gideon could not fault Vai's logic on that score. It was a failsafe system designed to prevent a sentient computer gone haywire from hijacking its own starsphere. To his knowledge such a farfetched scenario had never been realised, but the redundant software was installed in current generation VAIs.

  'Gotta go, kids,’ the alien announced. ‘It was nice meeting you two, but you heard the lady. I've got to fly.'

  'You can't leave now!’ exclaimed the Duckbill.

  'Chappy's right,’ chimed in Bronte. ‘You can't dig a nesting trench and then simply not lay any eggs. Gideon, you've given us questions that beg answers.'

  'And we'll chat again soon,’ he promised, clambering inside the grounded half of his ship, ‘only now I have pressing business upon high. Don't fret. I'll be back. I journeyed a long way to find the pair of you.’ The starsphere quickly became whole and vertically shot off into the star-clustered night sky with a resounding hum.

  Bronte and Chappy were left staring bewilderingly up at the limitless heavens. Both were reluctant to break the palpable silence left in the wake of Gideon's abrupt departure as they ingested the peculiar happenings of the night. The thud of footfalls brought them back to reality. Fearful that the beaten Dwarf Killjaw was returning with company to renew his interrupted hunt, the pair hurried from the glade and melted into the concealing dark of the shadowy forest.

  A lone Stoneback cow wandered into the lunar-lit clearing and came to an uneasy halt. She smelt the disturbed night air and glanced about nervously. Thunderfoot and Duckbill scents lingered, mingling with an unfamiliar smell she did not and could not possibly recognise. She also tasted the pungency of Killjaw aroma and that set her firmly on edge.

  The dinosaur equivalent of deer, this graceful two-legged plant-eater was dressed in the familiar shades of green, brown and yellow common to forest dwellers. Measuring a paltry twelve feet in length, she lived a solitary existence, seeking out others of her kind only to mate. Shy and inoffensive, these three-foot high reptiles had neither size nor horns or the security of herd life for defence. They relied upon several rows of bony projections running the length of their slender back and flanks—a somewhat inadequate protective offering to discourage hungry Killjaws.

  Put off by the conflagration of scents, the flighty Stoneback prudently decided to browse elsewhere and wandered from the clearing headed for the quiet sanctity of the deep forest. By the time she stilled her nervousness and was safely feeding in the inner sanctum of Mother Forest, Bronte and Chappy had regained the open expanse of Fernwalk.

  The Thunderfoot felt a refreshingly stiff northerly caress her snout with its blustery touch and the adjoining trees rustled accordingly. She was downwind of her herd and had a few precious moments to discuss the bizarre occurrences of the evening with her Duckbill pal before having to rejoin her band.

  'Well, you're the great thinker. Let's hear your opinion about exactly who Gideon is.’ It was Chappy who started the boulder rolling. ‘And don't bother calling him some kind of unknown Killjaw. I believed him when he said he wasn't part of that hunter's attack.'

  Bronte was stupefied. ‘I honestly don't know what to make of Gideon,’ she professed. ‘Something he said when he was leaving bothers me.'

  'What was that?'

  'He reckoned he came a long way to find us.'

  'Your point being?'

  'Tonight's encounter, his side of it at any rate, did not happen by chance. I think Gideon set out from wherever he comes from to purposefully track us down.'

  Chappy's head ached from the complexity of his friend's reasoning. Duckbill brains were not meant to cope with more than a single thought at any one time. Even so, he persevered with his own fathoming. ‘If that's true, what does he want from us then?'

  'If I knew his purpose we wouldn't be having this brainstorming session,’ Bronte retorted peevishly. At times like this she hated thickheaded friends almost as much as mysteries.

  'There is no need to be snappy, Bron. Your trouble is you over-think things. Approach this problem from the standpoint of a Duckbill. We go with our gut instincts.'

  'Okay, smart guy, what's your explanation for our bizarre friend?'

  Chappy took a deep breath to steady his whirling thoughts. ‘Gideon looks like no reptile either of us has seen or heard of before.'

  'Quit stating the obvious.'

  'Shush, I'm concentrating.'

  Bronte did not know whether to laugh or take offence at the deliberating clown.

  'He travels in a flying, talking egg,’ the Duckbill slowly said, asserting his second point.

  The Thunderfoot knew her pal was struggling with the enormity of such in-depth reasoning. She silently applauded his effort. Chappy was listing the newcomer's peculiarities one by one in order to better gauge the common points and so reach a hypothesis. It was a standard formula of deduction for Bronte's kind. Her ways had amazingly rubbed off on her otherwise scatterbrained chum.

  'Add to those oddities his admission that he comes from up there,’ finished Chappy, lifting his snout heavenward. ‘Well, that about sums up what we know of Gideon. Oh, I almost forgot. He plainly dislikes meat-eaters, feeds only on green stuff and is not hostile toward us.'

  Bronte levelled an unfriendly stare at the bull.

  'Me at least,’ he amended.

  'Let's hear your conclusion then,’ prompted the cow.

  Chappy puffed up his chest, inflated his nose sac and rather proudly honked, ‘We were just visited by the Originator.'

  Bronte choked on the assumption. ‘You've never been religious in your life!’ she accused him.

  'Not devoutly, but I retain a basic belief.'

  Most herbisaurs did. In a world filled with natural hardships and the cruelties of predation the peaceable plant-eaters expressed varying degrees of faith in their one God. All life, whether good or evil, originated from that almighty being and the browsers believed that their suffering was an intricate part of His divine purpose. They endured drought, firestorms, cyclones and hunters, so as to enter the restful glory of the Spirit Forest when death claimed them.

  'I'm no expert on doctrine,’ ventured Bronte, ‘but shouldn't he be in the likeness of a Thunderfoot.'

  Chappy gave a puzzled hoot. ‘I myself was thinking he should look like a Duckbill.'

  It was a popular misconception. Each race of plant-eating reptiles thought of themselves formed in the image of the Originator.

  'He must be incognito,’ surmised the Duckbill.

  'Yeah, it must be that,’ Bronte said dubiously.

  'You don't think I'm right about who Gideon might be?'

  Bronte did not want to hurt Chappy's feelings as he had worked so hard on his postulation. ‘I didn't say that. I just prefer to keep an open mind, that's all.'

  'Suspicious as ever, Bron.'

  'You said it yourself, Chap. It's my nature.'

  He laughed. ‘What do we do now?'

  'We wait for Gideon's return. Only I've got to do it with my herd.'

  'What do you think the Originator wants with us?’ Once Chappy latched onto an idea he was as single-minded as a Killjaw chomping on a carcass.

  'I have no idea. Make no mistake though, I intend finding out,’ the Thunderfoot resolved. ‘I have to be heading off. Remember I'm plodding south with the others come morning. Will you be staying close?'

  'I'll do my best.’ The migratory urge was already tugging fiercely at the bull. In a week or so the compulsion to head north would prove irresistible. A reptile of deep-seated instinct, Chappy was set to lose all willpower entirely to the overriding drive. But for now he could still act of his own accord.

  'I think it wise not to tell anyone what happened here tonight, Chap,’ cautioned the cow. ‘We'll keep it just between us.'

  'Nobody will believe this whopper of a tale anyway.'

  'Not only that, Grandmother would spit fangs if she learnt I'd been exposed to the danger we faced tonight.’ Bronte turned to amble away. ‘I'll keep in touch,’ she said. ‘It won't be easy with the Grand Matriarch breathing down my neck and my impending mating, but I'll give it my best shot.'

  'How will Gideon find us after we head off?'

  'If he's omnipotent like you believe he'll have no trouble.’ The lumbering cow began to pace upwind towards her sleeping herd.

  'Bron,’ Chappy called softly after her.

  The Thunderfoot paused. ‘Yes?'

  'Thanks.'

  'Whatever for?'

  'Stepping in when that Killjaw attacked.'

  Bronte pivoted her small head to look back at the grateful Duckbill. ‘Friends do that for one another, Chappy.'

  He gave a defiant nasal hoot. ‘I could have handled him, you know.'

  'I know,’ she rumbled indulgently. Male pride was so easily bruised.

  Chapter Six

  King Rexus lightly dozed.

  It was midmorning in Killjaw Clearing and a warming sun streamed onto the basking monarch. Intermittent wisps of high cloud were the only breakage in an otherwise bland sky of intense blue. A fitful wind with a biting edge blew down from the western uplands, portending the coming of winter. This was a rare autumn day, a teasing reminder of the halcyon summer gone.

  The monstrous ruler lay in a prone position, sprawled unceremoniously upon his belly. His fearsome head was pillowed by a clump of the ferns carpeting the floor of his ancestral home. Splintered and cracked bones, bleached white by the elements, were scattered in jumbled piles about him, giving the greenery of the glade the look of being infected with some terrible malignancy.

  An itch bothered the huge Killjaw monarch and he absently rubbed his rump against the rotting tree trunk beside him. The formally majestic redwood had once been the centerpiece of the wide clearing before being toppled by an intense electrical storm over half a dozen seasons ago. It had since lain on the ground like a vast wooden headstone. Rexus thought of the wind-blown tree in a different light. As reigning king of Mother Forest, the downed bole now served him as a symbolic throne and he had taken to languidly resting alongside his timbered seat of power much like a hatchling seeks comfort from sleeping with a favourite bone or twig. The only thing he missed was the shade the sequoia had provided on those unbearably hot and sticky summer days.

  The lazing regent toyed with the notion of rising to feed and dismissed the idea. Not feeling particularly hungry, he was content to nap and luxuriate in the warm sun. His small entourage of subjects was subsequently forced to curb its daytime activities, lest they waken their moody king and put him in an even fouler temper than he normally demonstrated. Rexus snarled wolfishly at the thought of inflicting a measure of terror in the dull lives of his fearful minions. Now there was a good reason for getting up!

  'Your Majesty?’ a whiny, nasal voice chirped hesitantly.

  Rexus ignored the interruption.

  'Sire, are you awake?'

  The intrusive plea had a note of urgency the Killjaw king found irritating. He showed his displeasure by yawning with exaggerated slowness, showing off his gaping, teeth-filled maw to good effect. Opening a slitted eye, he glowered coldly at the nervous speaker. ‘Whatever it is had better be vitally important, Orn, or so help me I'll dismember you for disturbing my snooze.'

  A lithe, two-legged dinosaur stood quaking beside the prostrate monarch desperately trying to stem his fear. He failed miserably and remained a wretched picture of cowering subservience.

  'Well, spit it out, or do I have to rip it from your throat?'

  The Fastclaw swallowed nervously. Weighing a measly 120 lbs, the six-foot long ostrich-imitating reptile was no match physically for his out-sized king. But what the small, lightly built omnivore lacked in presence he more than made up for in other ways. Big brained with large eyes, Orn possessed acute sight backed by intellect and dexterous three-fingered hands. He was also blessed with sharp reflexes and a phenomenal turn of speed, attributes that served his master well.

  'It's Festur, Majesty. He has finally returned from his nightly hunt.'

  'What's so damn special about that, unless he's brought me a meaty treat?'

  Orn's bird-like head bobbed atop his long s-shaped neck and he clacked his toothless beak in apprehension. ‘The Captain was hurt last night, Your Malevolence.'

  Injuries were not uncommon to active hunters, so Rexus expressed only mild, scornful interest. ‘Did he trip over a log when chasing supper?'

  'He won't say.'

  The king's glaring eyeball stayed fixed on the fidgeting Fastclaw. ‘Then don't bother me with such trivial stuff,’ he warned with a snarl, his limited patience thinning. ‘I've got more important things to do than worry about someone's failed hunt.’ Rexus closed his eye and prepared to resume his napping.

  'Captain Festur insisted that he talk only with you,’ Orn persisted, risking his dashing black and white striped hide in doing so. ‘He told me to mention that his run-in was with Bronte of the Thunderfeet.'

  The king of the Killjaws came fully alert, angling his squarish head to stare icily at the slight messenger. Healed wounds of past battles with rivals and prey scarred his brutish snout, lending the despotic regent a thoroughly unwholesome look. ‘Balticea's brat? That does interest me. Usher Festur in.'

  Rexus watched Orn scurry away. The Fastclaw was an anomaly in his court. Aside from his pathetic smallness, his kind's garish livery was in stark contrast to the drab colouration of bigger reptiles. On top of that, Orn exhibited intelligence at times equal to that of his superiors. Only largeness and bullying kept the fleet-footed, lesser lizard in his proper place. Killjaws rightfully held the monopoly on the predatory tools of cunning, stealth and terror. In no way could any inferior reptile be permitted to usurp their eminence, which is why Orn would never rise beyond his station as the king's general dogsbody.

  Moments later the captaining Dwarf Killjaw began thudding across the bone-studded glade to present himself to his liege, shepherded by Orn. Rexus eyed the approaching hunter and opted to meet him standing. He always looked more intimidating on two legs. With a tremendous heave Rexus levered himself off the ground with his ridiculously tiny forelimbs and struggled to his clawed feet, wincing frightfully. His gout was particularly troublesome today. The pair arrived and he dismissed Orn with a growl. The Fastclaw obediently withdrew out of earshot but within sight of the king should he be summoned.

  'Have a little trouble dining out last night, Festur?’ mocked Rexus, seeing the other's bruised muzzle. ‘They look suspiciously like the whip marks inflicted by a Thunderfoot tail.'

  Festur grimaced sourly. ‘Nothing I couldn't have handled if it had been a normal hunt.'

  'Really? Then explain why you were whipped by one of Balticea's infernal followers.’ The despot maneuvered his five-ton, fifty-foot long bulk menacingly over his half-sized minion. Rexus was fearsomely huge even by Killjaw reckoning. ‘Your ineptitude reflects badly on me, you realise.'

  'There were extenuating circumstances, my king.'

  'I can hardly wait to hear them.'

  Festur related the fantastic story of his thwarted attack on the Grand Matriarch's feisty granddaughter and her impudent Duckbilled pal, stressing the frightening appearance of the flying silver ball. Throughout the telling King Rexus remained dangerously expressionless until Festur had finished his tale of woe. Only then did his blank countenance contort into disbelieving ire.

  'I ought to bite out your tongue for inventing such an outrageous lie to cover the fact that your were beaten by a pair of plant-munchers—and juveniles at that!’ he roared contemptuously.

  'They were both nearly adults,’ Festur offered in his defence.

  'Couldn't you come up with anything more fanciful than a flapping egg to cover your sorry tail?'