'It didn't have wings, Sire.'

  'What?'

  'The egg flew without wings.'

  'You dare bother me with semantics after concocting such an outlandish fib?'

  Festur squirmed beneath the rebuke but held his ground. ‘I swear on my father's gnawed bones I'm telling the truth to you.'

  Rexus considered his trusted captain. Festur was not easily frightened, so whatever had dissuaded him from pursuing last night's hunt had to have been monumental. And the oath just given was not to be taken lightly. Festur had killed his own sire and picked his bones clean in a murderously successful takeover as the leading Dwarf Killjaw at court. Then there was the intriguing matter of Bronte. The king could not discount his captain's claim out of claw.

  'I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt,’ he gruffly decided.

  Festur blinked in amazement. Leniency was not one of his unforgiving king's strong points.

  Rexus was done with this conversation and barked, ‘Get out of my sight before I change my mind.’ The thankful Killjaw captain backed away and scuttled for the forest when a safe distance separated himself from his hulking master.

  'Orn!'

  The Fastclaw raced in answer to the summons and stood before the foul colossus, his head cocked enquiringly.

  'Fetch me Tank,’ commanded Rexus.

  'The Adviser left the clearing shortly after sunrise, Your Evilness,’ Orn reported. ‘He never said where he was going.'

  The regent was irked by the news and muttered obscenities about one day having his consultant torn limb from limb as punishment for his frequent absenteeism. The Fastclaw cringed from listening to his king's graphic ramblings.

  'Find me Shadower then,’ Rexus said with abrupt coherency.

  Orn glanced dubiously at the noonday sun. ‘He'll be asleep, King Rexus.'

  'Then wake him!’ the tyrant Killjaw shouted in a deafening roar.

  The Fastclaw took off with the speed of a lava bomb shot out of the cone of a volcano.

  King Rexus shook his head bewilderingly. ‘Why am I surrounded by incompetents?'

  * * * *

  The sun was setting behind the barren, stony outcrops of the western highlands by the time Orn returned to Killjaw Clearing. Rexus scented his runner's arrival and reluctantly stirred from his catnap, rising with a grunt of displeasure. He was lethargic after eating his fill of a Duckbill haunch brought by Festur mid-afternoon to appease him. The king peered through the dusky light and spotted the Fastclaw's striped coat nearing. Orn halted at a respectable distance from his terrifying sovereign behind the fly-ridden remains of the regent's snack. He appeared alone, but Rexus's nose told him otherwise.

  'Yesss, my massster?'

  Rexus nearly jumped out of his hide. A shadow had seemingly sprung to life out of the gloom before him. The startled monarch fought to maintain his composure. ‘Y-You're as stealthy as ever I see, Shadower. That's good. Very good.'

  The Nightclaw stood unmoving, barely distinguishable from the murk he had silently emerged from. Ogg sidled up to the Chief Spy of the Killjaw Court, making their kinship instantly apparent.

  Shadower was half again as large as his Fastclaw cousin and shared the same build: the bird-shaped head, sinuous neck, elongated arms ending in grasping hands, sprinter's legs and a stiff tail for balance. He was dressed more reservedly though, his lean muscular body an undercoat of deep blue dappled with irregular splotches of darker blue graduating into near black. His muted colouration was ideal camouflage for his role of nocturnal hunter, as were his huge unblinking eyes. Gifted with unequalled night vision, this sharp-minded speedster was in his element during the shadowed hours of darkness.

  'You sssummoned me, King Rexusss,’ prompted the Nightclaw.

  A shiver ran the length of the regent's back. Shadower's voice was like the eerie rasp of pebbles cascading down a mountain slope.

  'I have a task for you,’ he asserted.

  The Fastclaw's two orbs of luminous yellow stared coolly from beneath heavy brow ridges and Rexus shuddered again. They were the largest sight organs relative to size of any reptile and Shadower missed nothing he gazed upon. No detail, however minute, was overlooked by that penetrative stare. That is what made him such an exceptional spy. It was also what unnerved the Killjaw king the most. Whenever those haunting wells of scrutiny fell upon him, Rexus felt his soulless psyche stripped bare.

  'Your wisssh isss my command, my massster,’ Shadower said perfunctorily.

  Rexus growled reflexively. The Nightclaw's loyalty to him was unquestionable, yet he wondered just how far his control over the compassionless spy actually extended. ‘There was trouble in the forest last night.'

  'I am aware of a disssturbance, yesss.’ Nothing escaped Shadower's attention.

  'Good. I won't have to waste time by going into detail. What do you know about the origins of this aerial egg?'

  'Asss much asss you.'

  'That little,’ the tyrant muttered. The Nightclaw's economy with words was so damn annoying! ‘Find out then. There's some sort of connection between that shiny egg and a Thunderfoot cow by the name of Bronte.'

  'Balticea'sss ssspawn,’ confirmed the spy.

  'That's the bitch. Uncover what her link is and report back. Be discreet in your observations.'

  'Sssecrecy is alwaysss utmossst,’ Shadower hissed coldly, his chilling promise caressing Rexus with its clammy touch.

  Satisfied, the king offered directions. ‘My enemy's herd should be positioned about...'

  'I know where ssshe walksss. Bronte ssshall not elude me.’ The Fastclaw promptly vanished, melting into the darkening night as effortlessly as a stream flows into a lake.

  Rexus was left with the unsettling notion that he had been conversing with a phantom. He shook off his disquiet and bellowed for Orn to approach.

  'You roared, Your Horridness.'

  'Has Tank returned yet?'

  The Fastclaw ducked his head in readiness and meekly replied, ‘No.'

  The Killjaw king swore profusely. The Adviser was supposed to be at his beck and call, day and night. If it were not for Tank's faultless logic, Rexus would have had him slain seasons ago for his slackness. ‘You had better start looking for him,’ Rexus said to his dogsbody.

  'But, Sire, it's getting dark,’ protested the Fastclaw.

  'That's usually what happens when night falls, Orn.'

  'I haven't fed yet.’ Orn was ravenous and he eyed the scraps of the gluttonous regent's leftovers hungrily. Wasting most of the afternoon scouring the immense woodland for Shadower's current daytime lair, he had only found the Nightclaw by chance snoozing lightly in a magnolia bush an hour beforehand. The pair had then raced for Killjaw Clearing, leaving Orn no time whatsoever to hunt.

  'I don't care about your petty discomforts,’ snarled Rexus. ‘Do as I command.'

  The starving Fastclaw stifled any further protest and bowed to his unfeeling sovereign's wish. Hunger was preferable to having his tail chewed for disobedience. He stalked sulkily off into the nighttime forest.

  Rexus cast his malevolent gaze skywards as the first stars of the evening peeped through the ebony curtain of night. He was in an oddly contemplative frame of mind.

  The monster royal had of late been feeling increasingly dissatisfied with life. To be sure his retinue of servants catered to his every need and whim. But his pampered, mundane existence lacked the adventure that distinguished the kingships of his forebears. He was bored!

  The bull king, when newly crowned, had once been idealistic, his scaly head brimming with grandiose schemes. He long entertained the idea of assassinating the figurehead of the Thunderfoot herds. With Balticea off the scene, the behemoths would be a step nearer to falling under the totalitarian influence of the Killjaw regency. That too had been the unfulfilled dream of his brutish sire before his ignominious death from old age. Rexus had perpetuated that shared, immoral cause. The Grand Matriarch proved a wily opponent though. The resourceful old cow consistently escaped his craftily laid ambushes and orchestrated that unbreakable unified resistance of her kind. How dare she upset the natural order of things! Thunderfeet were prey and had no right to band together to deny the Killjaws their butchering privileges. Where was Balticea's sense of propriety? Rexus's planned domination had as a result stalled and withered.

  A cold glimmer of icy hope brightened the despot's melancholy. The precious heir of his archenemy was involved in something untoward, and that excited him. His boredom was beginning to be alleviated. Rexus felt in his bones that the flying manifestation was the brink of some life-changing upheaval that, if capitalised on, could jumpstart the downfall of his geriatric nemesis. That was not the only thing his joints were telling him as he shifted his weight from his inflamed leg onto his good one. His gout was worsening.

  Chapter Seven

  Balticea walked the fernland alone.

  It was shortly after dawn on her herd's fourth day of travel out from their home range and they were close to meeting their southern neighbours. So close in fact that the leading cow was pressing on ahead of her charges to pave the way for the much anticipated get-together. The footsore Thunderfeet were now thankfully going to enjoy a pleasantly restful day awaiting her return and the signal to carry on.

  The oldster was troubled. Bronte had been unusually reticent these past few days. Something was weighing heavily upon her granddaughter's mind and the teen would not disclose what. She did not even confide in Florella when Balticea had purposefully placed her honorary aunt near the preoccupied youngster to find out what was vexing her. Aware that her heir was sleeping badly as well, Balticea guessed that the mounting anxiety of Bronte's path into adulthood was taking its toll. Which is why she had confined the distracted adolescent to the herd under Kahla's supervision. Her detestable niece made an excellent watchdog and Bronte did not need the added complication of Chappy to befuddle her.

  She pushed her concerns aside. There were more pressing issues to deal with. For one, this trek south was not free of risk. Every step taken past the growing streams of Duckbills and Shieldhorns flowing in the opposite direction took the northern Thunderfeet dangerously deeper into the feared realm of the Killjaws. With their staple prey migrating from the area, the bloodthirsty hunters would soon be turning their hungry attention to the sedentary sauropods. The Bloodletting was just about upon them and Balticea was bringing the adjoining Thunderfoot bands together in a fifteen hundred ton smorgasbord. Sheer madness.

  Balticea had no excuse for her poor timing other than circumstance. Events had conspired to lead her to this moment, so she resolved to make the best of a bad situation—meet up with Bodiah's group, have Bronte mated before putting her master plan into action, and return to their northerly grounds with all possible haste.

  With these ends in mind, the Grand Matriarch quickened her pace as much as her restrictive gait allowed and forged ahead. An angry wind blew across the prairie at her back, seemingly urging the plodding cow to hurry faster. Balticea was already feeling the strain of the 200-mile trek but she ignored her protesting, rheumatic limbs. This would be the final undertaking in her lengthy and eventful life. Her own journey was nearing completion.

  She encountered a sentry bull around mid-morning. Due to their proximity to the Killjaw King's abode, the southern Thunderfeet were especially guarded. The suspicious male was openly hostile to Balticea until she revealed her identity, whereupon he underwent a radical change. Almost tripping over his tail to accommodate the highest ranked Thunderfoot in the region, he welcomed the respected senior cow as she fell in beside him while they made their way to his herd.

  Bodiah was cropping a succulent horsetail when she happened to look over. She dropped her mouthful of greenery and gaped upon spying the visitor. ‘Balticea, is that you?’ she exclaimed.

  'Is that any way to greet a fellow leader?’ the elder cow sternly observed after her escort had delivered her to his own matriarch and retired.

  With an oath of self-recrimination, Balticea's opposite recited the ritual greeting. ‘I bid you welcome, Sister Leader.'

  'I accept your hospitality, Sister Leader,’ came back the traditional response. ‘Now that formalities have been observed, how are you Bodiah?'

  'Flustered. Forgive my overlooking protocol a moment ago. The shock of seeing you scattered my wits.'

  'That's perfectly understandable. We've not seen one another in a long time. You're looking well.’ That was a barefaced lie on Balticea's part. Bodiah was half her age but had the wrinkled hide of a 200 year-old. Managing a Thunderfoot herd so near to the Killjaw throne was unbelievably stressful and had prematurely aged her friend and colleague.

  'You look the same as always,’ Bodiah said jokingly, ‘big and severe. Hungry?'

  'Famished, actually.'

  Bodiah ambled over to a poplar grove fencing this region of the Mother Forest. Rearing up on her hind legs, she effortlessly pushed over the nearest bole and offered her guest first choice of the fernery sprouting at its base. ‘Tuck in then.'

  Balticea looked around as she browsed. Stands of deciduous trees were steadily ousting the familiar conifers farther north. ‘Your trees are changing more and more, Bodiah.'

  The fellow matriarch studied the copses of maple, oak and sycamore dotting the shrinking pine and fir timberland dispassionately. ‘I hadn't really noticed,’ she commented. ‘Balticea, what brings you down to my neck of the woods? I doubt you came all this way just to discuss trees.'

  Swallowing a clump of ferns, Balticea gazed squarely at her slightly smaller peer. ‘I've been following the movements of your herd for a while. I did a rough head count just now on the way in. Numbers appear down since my last visit, Bodiah.'

  'That is to be expected when Killjaws are our next-door neighbours.'

  'Certainly, but I judge your herd to have sunk to an unrecoverable point.'

  Bodiah bristled at the summation. ‘That's a matter of opinion. I say we're holding our own.'

  'How long for? You'll stand a better chance with a thriving nursery. Have you one?'

  The junior leader averted her telltale eyes from Balticea's enquiring stare. ‘Not one of this season's hatchlings survived,’ she sadly divulged.

  'That settles it. I must act now.'

  'And do what exactly?'

  'Put into effect a design I had hoped never to use.'

  Bodiah grew alarmed. ‘Are you talking to me as a friend or as my superior?'

  Balticea's grim countenance hardened and her counterpart's heart fluttered. Bad news invariably followed on those rare instances when a Grand Matriarch exercised her mastery.

  Outwardly all Thunderfoot matriarchs were empowered with equal status. The reality was somewhat different. Balticea was a direct descendant of the Thunderfoot cow who had led the original settlement of the plains surrounding the Mother Forest. She accordingly enjoyed the deference of others due to her prestigious bloodline. Her higher ranking was reflected not only in the honoured title she bore but the influence that position exerted. She was more often than not looked upon as the wisest of the Thunderfeet. It was an exalted dominion Bronte was set to inherit.

  With a sigh of resignation, Bodiah said, ‘Give it to me straight.'

  Balticea complied. ‘I will be dissolving your herd.'

  'You haven't the authority!’ the lesser leader blurted out. She was instantly shamefaced. Balticea had the necessary preponderance.

  'Don't take it personally, Bodiah. It's not a condemnation of your leadership. Times are changing and if the Thunderfeet are to survive we must adapt. My own band dwindles and I fear that unless steps are taken we may both lose our herds before too long.'

  'What do you propose?'

  'A rather radical course of action—our bands must merge into one.'

  'That's preposterous. It'll never work.'

  'It has to. I believe that a super herd will be able to weather the adversities facing it far better than two fragile bands.’ Balticea proceeded to outline her plan. ‘Fresh bloodlines will mix to hopefully produce more fertile eggs and healthier, stronger young.'

  Inbreeding had always been a weakening agent afflicting the isolated Thunderfoot communities.

  'We'll have to abandon the concept of hatchling nurseries, of course. The old ways are simply not coping with the stresses of modern life. I suggest we keep the newborns within the herd structure from the moment they hatch and allow them to browse, as we do, at the forest edge. We are losing far too many younglings to the hazards of the deep woods. Also, I want to tighten herd defence. The bulls can protect the hatchlings full-time, while the cows maintain the perimeter. Our bigger size is a more dependable deterrent than male bravado.'

  Bodiah tried hard to get her head around the alien concept. ‘A united front...’ she pondered aloud, mulling over the notion that the Thunderfeet had come full circle from their inventive forebears by wanting to revert back to the giant herds of yesteryear. ‘In a strange way it does make sense,’ she carefully admitted. ‘But who gets to lead this super herd?’ Balticea's proposal was self-explanatory. ‘The Grand Matriarch, naturally,’ said Bodiah, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. Glaring challengingly at the older cow, she stated, ‘I've always been Matriarch, Balticea ... and a good one at that. I won't know how to be anything else.'

  'I'm not disputing that, Bodiah. Your personal experience in combating the Killjaws will prove invaluable in your role as deputy leader.'

  'I'm not being displaced entirely?'

  'Don't be silly. We need to consolidate our strengths, not cast them away like dung. Your credentials as leader of the South Thunderfeet are impeccable. My successor will need every measure of your wisdom to rule judiciously.'

  Bodiah was dumbfounded. Balticea had been Grand Matriarch since before her hatching. It was impossible for the junior leader to imagine the steadfast old cow stepping down.

  'That brings me to my next topic,’ spoke Balticea. ‘Do you recall when we last saw one another?'

  'Vaguely. Our herds bumped into each other when our feeding ranges overlapped.'