'I didn't think it important,’ said his cow.

  'Your closest friend unimportant? I don't believe that, Bronte.'

  'I was afraid how you'd react to news of me consorting with a Duckbill. By the tone of your voice I had good cause to fret.'

  Darved disagreed. ‘You keeping company with a flat-nose doesn't bother me in the least. It's certainly avant-garde, but if it makes you happy I can learn to live with it. What I do have a problem with is your reluctance to confide in me. Keeping secrets is not a great trunk from which a lasting relationship branches off.'

  'Grandmother said a similar thing herself.’ Bronte was genuinely sorry. ‘I should have told you about Chappy sooner, only I've had so much on my mind lately. This closeness with you is still so new to me and most of the time I feel ... awkward.'

  'I can sympathise with that, my love. It's equally strange to be unremittingly sharing my life with somebody else. Yet, if we are to enjoy a long and happy pairing we must trust enough to be completely honest with each other.'

  Guilt pricked at Bronte's conscience like a thousand stabbing thorns. ‘Darved, I have something to confess. Chappy's not the only odd acquaintance of mine.’ Her bull directed a questioning stare her way, but before Bronte could share the burden of Gideon and his damning prophecy with her soul mate a commotion in front put an end to her admission before it had begun.

  'How much farther is it, Kahla? At this rate we'll be strolling straight into Rexus's glade itself!'

  That complaint unmistakably came from Darved's grouchy dam herself, who had stopped and was stubbornly refusing to go on.

  'Calm yourself, Bodiah. I'm sure my niece knows what she's doing.’ Balticea sounded doubtful too but kept her ire in check. ‘Just to refresh my memory, Kahla, how did you come by Chappy's exact whereabouts this fine morn?'

  Bronte caught up to her cousin just as Kahla began repeating what she had related to her powerful aunt before daybreak. ‘I came across Bronte's weird friend last night cavorting with some of his bullish buddies and managed to eavesdrop unnoticed. They were playing some childish ‘truth or dare’ game and Chappy was challenged to go into the Swamp of Despair. He declined, at least until first light when he could see better.'

  Bodiah glowered at her unwanted daughter-in-law. ‘You know your friend's mind. Will he be so boldly stupid as to actually venture into the bog?'

  'Chappy is a reckless sort. I guess he'd give it a go.'

  'That swamp's a pretty big, ugly place,’ Bodiah remarked to Kahla. ‘I gather you sussed out roughly where this suicidal Duckbill will be making his entry.'

  'I overheard when and where, Matriarch. The dare specified he remain in there till midmorning. We'll be waiting for him when he comes out.'

  'Providing he survives the gamble.'

  Bronte was alarmed. ‘What's that supposed to mean, Bodiah?'

  'The marsh is not called the Swamp of Despair for nothing,’ Darved informed his concerned mate. ‘It's a hellish region filled with mud-holes and quicksand. Dangerous turf for any unschooled northerner to be wandering through.'

  'Don't forget the ghoul with the glowing eyes who reportedly inhabits its centre,’ added Bodiah. ‘He supposedly lurks in wait to feed on the souls of trespassers.’ Balticea looked quizzically at her matriarchal compatriot. ‘I'm only repeating local legend, Grand Matriarch. I'm not saying I actually believe it myself.'

  'It sounds like a fun outing,’ Bronte said bleakly. ‘Mud and monsters.'

  'Poppycock!’ scoffed Balticea.

  'You have a different opinion?’ Darved asked the Grand Matriarch.

  'The physical dangers of the swampland are real enough, but this talk of a local evil spirit is ridiculous. Your fiend is most likely a wretched Killjaw playing a prank. I've lived long enough to realise that unearthly apparitions don't exist.'

  Bronte knew otherwise and said so. ‘Grandmother, you could be wrong.'

  Darved concurred with his cow. ‘No disrespect intended, but this is our home range, Grand Matriarch. I think my mother and I are better versed in regional lore than you to make this assessment. Whether or not the swamp's inhabitant is real or imagined, fleshly or ghostly, something nasty has been prowling in there for countless generations preying on the unwary.'

  Balticea scowled. If Killjaws were not enough to contend with, she had also to deal with local superstition. Catching a whiff of the infamous fen lying just around the next bend in the undulating timberline, she tartly rumbled, ‘Bodiah, since you're so familiar with the lay of the land hereabouts, you lead.'

  'We're wasting our time and endangering the herds needlessly,’ muttered the subordinate matriarch as she plodded past her superior. ‘The crazy Duckbill's probably already worm food by now.'

  Kahla trailed after the southern leader.

  'You had better not be leading us on a wild Honker chase,’ Balticea whispered as her niece passed her by.

  'Relax, aunty. It'll all be over soon enough.'

  The old cow sighed and trudged behind Kahla. Bronte and Darved did likewise.

  'I'm sure Chappy will be just fine,’ the bull said in a comforting voice.

  'Yeah, sure.’ Bronte did not sound convinced.

  Getting her mind off the Duckbill's folly, Darved returned to their earlier discussion by asking, ‘Who's this other friend of yours?'

  'What?'

  'This second oddball you said you've befriended.'

  Bronte frowned and cryptically said, ‘He's either an angel or a devil, and I'm fast running out of time to figure out which.'

  * * * *

  Noon came and went. The Thunderfeet stood uncomfortably outside the southernmost border of the Swamp of Despair, waiting for a Duckbill that had not shown and in all probability never would, while his brethren continued in an endless, noisome stream northward at their rear. Orn took a final look at the paired matriarchs stamping about impatiently alongside their kinfolk from his vantage point on the shrubby verge fencing Fernwalk from the wood before sprinting back into the forest proper. He skidded to a halt before his fear-inspiring master and the pack of hulking Killjaws lurking back amongst the boles. Multicoloured leaves wafted lazily on the autumn breeze about the Killjaw army as the woodland canopy shed its mantle in shades of red, gold and amber, lending the occasion an absurd festive air.

  'Report,’ commanded King Rexus.

  'No change yet, Your Gruesomeness. The Thunderfeet are just milling about like beetles around a dung heap.'

  'And Kahla—how's she bearing up?'

  'The betrayer looks fit to burst.'

  The Killjaw king's fanged mouth split wide in a positively evil grin. ‘Good. We'll let them bubble like a hot pool a little longer.'

  Tank, standing at the monarch's side at the forefront of the attack party, commented, ‘I've no objection to lateness, Rexus, but aren't you carrying this waiting game a trifle too far? Your army is going to disband from boredom if you don't give the order to charge soon.'

  'Why, Tank, if I didn't know better I'd swear you were expressing concern.'

  'Don't mistake interest for caring. I only came along on this jaunt to see firsthand how well my tactics fare.'

  'You doubt your own judgement now?'

  The Adviser pointedly ignored that jibe.

  Rexus looked to his left, where Festur and Prince Luthos were concealed in the trees with their squad, before glancing to the right into the copse where Madcow and her warriors hid. She was visibly straining at the halter from the delay, whereas his captain was the calm professional Rexus trained him to be. Perhaps a little too relaxed—Festur almost looked comatose. ‘Orn, wake the captain and politely tell him not to sleep on the job. Then inform Madcow to be patient. Tell her to wait for my signal and that I'll not tolerate any pre-emption on her part whatsoever.'

  The Fastclaw clacked his beak nervously. ‘Ah, she looks ready to munch whomever is silly enough to talk to her, Your Horribleness.'

  'Then you had best be careful,’ Rexus said with a fearful growl that sent his apprehensive messenger scurrying on his way.

  'This hesitation is illogical,’ decided Tank.

  The tyrant-king glared coldly at the Adviser. ‘Being the emotionless bag of bones that you are, I don't expect you to understand the reasoning behind my inaction. I want Balticea and her infernal followers to wallow in their own fear and anxiety. To that end, I'm cultivating an atmosphere of terror that'll make the final bloodbath taste all the more sweeter.'

  The Clubtail tossed his armoured head and declared, ‘I'll never grasp the convoluted thinking of you imprecise meat-eaters. Logical thought is so much clearer.'

  Festur hesitantly made his way over to King Rexus.

  'You're supposed to be with your squad,’ censured the monarch. ‘Did you finish your nap?'

  'I'm troubled, Sire.'

  'The only trouble with you, Captain, is that you think too much.’ Rexus nevertheless relented. ‘Speak your mind, Festur, and keep it brief. I've got a slaughter to conduct shortly.'

  'Majesty, it's the time of the Bloodletting.'

  'I'm glad you noticed. What gave you the hint—the falling leaves or the departing bush-swallowers?'

  Festur ignored his king's sarcasm. Rexus always demonstrated his scathing wit when irritable. ‘That means the Thunderfeet will be the only herding plant-eaters of any noteworthy size left behind out on Fernwalk.'

  'Another obvious truth. Get to the point.'

  'If we eliminate every single Thunderfoot in the area, King Rexus, what will be left for us to prey on?'

  A hard cackle emanated from Tank. ‘He's got you there, oh brainy king.'

  Rexus scrabbled for an answer to that poignant query. ‘There are other edibles round here. Stonebacks, for example.'

  'Impractical,’ considered the Adviser. ‘Their numbers are few and scattered. It'd be like trying to snare the wind.''

  'What do you suggest then, Tank?’ Rexus barked snappishly. He abhorred being wrong.

  The Clubtail gave an uncaring snort. ‘It's your oversight. You fix it.'

  'Why do I put up with a flat-footed, insulting lump of unfeeling rock like you?'

  'Solely because I am superior in every way and don't eat my petitioners.’ Tank imparted a condescending look the king's way. ‘The answer is as plain as the scar on your snout.’ A look of utter incomprehension marred Rexus's already unlovely countenance. ‘Must I create a track for you, Rexus? It's plain logic. If one's food source moves, one trails after it.'

  'See. Your concern has been addressed,’ Rexus said gruffly to his aide. ‘We'll butcher the Thunderfeet, gorge on their corpses and then follow the Duckbills north.'

  'Leave Mother Forest?’ Festur murmured incredulously. To be sure the Dwarf Killjaws seasonally tailed the migrating herbisaurs when late autumn rolled around, but the captaining predator had always stayed behind in the home wood alongside the sedentary king and his biggish brethren.

  'Times change, Captain. Return to your pack. We'll pick up this topic again after the battle.'

  'Will that be before or after your Originator has finished throwing stones?’ the Adviser innocently probed.

  Baffled by Tank's remark, Festur withdrew without further enquiry.

  Turning on his Clubtail counsel, Rexus grouched, ‘Watch your tongue, fool. This business about the starry interloper and descending sky-rock is confidential and not to be bandied about. Are you clear on that?'

  'Verily, mine liege,’ Tank said with a damnably straight face.

  Rexus did not have the time to contemplate the Adviser's familiarity with archaic speech or the ways of Moldar, as he had a more pressing issue to raise.'Do me a favor and don't show me up in front of my subjects again,’ he admonished Tank.

  'I've no need,’ rejoined the Clubtail. ‘Your more than capable of making a fool of yourself without my assistance.'

  * * * *

  'What are you doing here?'

  Bronte turned about in utter amazement. She had wandered apart from the others and was viewing the repulsive tract of eastern swampland with a censorious eye when an instantly recognisable bull detached himself from the Duckbill exodus to tentatively approach her.

  'What am I doing, Chap? Looking for you, dummy. You're supposed to be somewhere in there.’ The Thunderfoot gestured distastefully at the bog with the tip of her tail.

  Chappy regarded the swamp with a contradictory expression on his snout. ‘Why would I want to be in there? Ick!'

  'Duckbills love water and mud.'

  'Whatever gave you that stupid notion?'

  'Not what, but who. Kahla came up with that idea on the basis that your flattened snout is shaped like the bills of the Honkers, and they're waterfowl. Hence the association.’ Bronte's cousin formulated her ingenious theory during their wait to allay fears that the Duckbill they had journeyed out of their way to find would indeed fail to emerge from the muddy, waterlogged fen.

  'And you believed her?'

  Bronte suddenly felt very sheepish. ‘It sounded rational. Where have you been then?’ she hurriedly asked, glossing over her own gullibility.

  'Nearby. After Gideon took off speaking that funny talk and you went back to your herd, I set about doing some serious thinking on what he had said.'

  'I bet that hurt.'

  Chappy gave her a wounded look. ‘Don't be snippy.'

  'Sorry. So what conclusion did you reach?'

  'Bronte, I'm not like you. I haven't the brainpower to dissect problems all that well. Any decisions I make are purely the result of instinct—what I'm feeling at the time. Take our relationship. I felt from the moment I blundered into your nursery that you and I would be firm friends forever.'

  'I'm not going to like this,’ the Thunderfoot rumbled.

  'Probably not,’ averred Chappy. ‘Like I said, I rely on my gut and it's telling me to trust Gideon. Don't laugh at me, but I believe he is the Originator's messenger.'

  His friend was surprisingly accommodating. ‘Everyone is entitled to his or her beliefs,’ she said graciously.

  'You've certainly changed your rumble. When we last spoke you were dead set against trusting him.'

  'I haven't changed my opinion of Gideon, but I can't exactly belittle your faith in him, can I?'

  'I'm glad to hear that, Bron. It'll make what I have to say next a lot easier.'

  'Here comes the punch line,’ muttered Bronte.

  Chappy took a deep breath and blurted, ‘I'm going to let Gideon change me into whatever saviour he wants.'

  Bronte's reaction was predictable. ‘Are you nuts? We know next to nothing about Gideon, he's shamelessly manipulated you and you're actually contemplating giving in to his crazy demand for an obscure rescuer. I won't allow it.'

  'You can't stop me,’ the Duckbill huffed.

  The titanic cow drew herself up, her immensity dwarfing him.

  'Actually, you can,’ he conceded, ‘except you won't dare interfere this time.'

  'Why not?'

  'This is my destiny, Bron.'

  She was thrown by Chappy's sincerity. ‘You're serious, aren't you?'

  'You know me—life of the herd and all that. Only this time I'm not joking.'

  'There's no guarantee that Gideon's warning about that giant rock will hold up under close scrutiny,’ argued the cow. Bronte did not actually believe that. Her recurrent nightmare had returned and was growing more vivid and intense with each passing night, indicating that the asteroid and destruction of the Earth were both drawing near. Idly wondering if Chappy was experiencing the same haunting dream, she thought better of it. Broaching that subject might only stiffen the Duckbill's resolve.

  'If he's wrong then nothing bad is going to happen and you and your bull can grow old together,’ Chappy reasoned. ‘But what if he's right?'

  'Then I'll be the last Grand Matriarch ever,’ avowed Bronte. ‘At least I'll die a Thunderfoot. You don't even know what you'll be.'

  'Maybe not. What I do know is that you're going to become chief of your herd and hatch dozens of eggs. I've got nothing of distinction to look forward to. This is my one chance to be somebody. I don't want our home-egg to be cracked, but if Mother Forest needs a Nightclaw in shining scales then I'm gladly volunteering.'

  'We don't even know how Gideon's rescue plan is going to work, Chap—if at all. He hasn't shown himself again to explain it fully.'

  'My mind's made up.'

  Bronte's determining eyes bored deep into her pal and the Duckbill winced. At that precise moment the fathoming cow seemed a younger copy of Balticea. ‘Alright, you've got my support,’ she quietly said.

  The Duckbill was floored by her reversal. ‘Do you mean it?'

  'When have I ever lied to you? I'll back your choice, even though I think it's wrong. However, it is your mistake to make.'

  Chappy dropped to all fours and honked in glee. In truth, Bronte was profoundly relieved. With Darved at her side, she felt her life unalterably on track toward motherhood and matriarchship. She wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything that would sway that tree, even at the expense of her existence. Love was making Bronte selfish.

  'Just don't involve me anymore than you have to,’ she added conditionally. ‘I've got my own life to get on with and, frankly, I don't like Gideon. I just want this outlandish business of his to be over with, whatever the outcome.'

  'Fair enough,’ said Chappy. He abruptly came back up on his hind legs and began fidgeting with his forefeet. ‘I sure hope Gideon reappears soon. Fighting my instinct to migrate is more taxing than I thought. I'm going to have to really tough it out to stay around here.'

  Bronte actually laughed outright.

  'Did I say something funny?'

  'Private joke.’ Gesturing with a dismissive nod to the party of Thunderfeet cows intently watching their exchange from afar wearing mixed expressions, Bronte explained, ‘I was pressured by Grandmother and her cohorts to plod here to bid you farewell on your journey north. It was meant to be our final, everlasting goodbye. She's going to spit rocks once she finds out you're not leaving.'

 

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