Chosen One, page 18
'Bite faster,’ was all that the blunt spoken Adviser had to offer.
The bulk of an escaping Thunderfoot plodded within chomping reach of the fuming tyrant-king, only to be masked by a covey of flurried Duckbills fleeing in the same direction. ‘Which one's that?’ Rexus wondered with a peevish growl. ‘Stumpy, stop that one from getting away!'
One-Claw backtracked and scrambled to go after the escapee his monarch had nosed out. He only managed to trip over a startled flat-nose that blundered into his path.
'Bungler,’ muttered the king as the Killjaw cripple crashed to the ground and was trodden on by dozens of uncaring feet. Hollering at the cloudless sky, Rexus wailed, ‘All I want is Balticea. Is that too much to ask for?'
Fortune must indeed favour the bold, for at that exact instant a parting of the mob of Duckbills opened up before the bemoaning monarch like a breath of wind through fog, and at its end rose the bulwark of the Thunderfeet. Only the Grand Matriarch was not alone.
* * * *
Rosade pressed on.
Somewhere up ahead amongst the stampeding rabble of frenzied two-legs she caught a peep of Balticea courageously doing battle with a hideous Killjaw cow. Her matriarch was in dire trouble, urgently requiring to be helped. Rosade needed to reach Balticea before it was too late for the oldster.
The healer shoved her way into a cluster of the hysterical flat-noses and cracked a few Duckbill tailbones in the process as she unconscionably trod on rear appendages. Her southern duplicate had already joined the swelling number of Thunderfeet journeying to the Spirit Forest, and was but one of the many Rosade was powerless to administer to. Bodiah's personal physician had had her long neck snapped like a dry and brittle twig in front of Rosade's very eyes, and the healer fled trumpeting from the cruel and wanton killing. Shortly after that, after dodging marauding Killjaws and those of her shocked brethren either fatally wounded or like her trying to escape the carnage unharmed, she had stumbled across the wretched carcass of Florella sprawled on the green plain atop a widening stain of vivid red. Disembowelled and dying from unstoppable blood loss, Bronte's foster mother had weakly acknowledged her sister Thunderfoot with a fading rumble before tragically passing away. Rosade, unable to offer her dying friend anything except woefully inadequate words of comfort, had at that point decided to act in the only way left to her. The hardest thing for any medical practitioner to accept is death and the forlorn healer resolved then and there to save the most important Thunderfoot of all from perishing. That fleeting glimpse only moments ago proved that the Grand Matriarch still lived—for now at least.
Rosade cleared the hooting Duckbills and resolutely made her way through the battlefield trailed by oaths concerning Thunderfoot clumsiness. ‘Nincompoops!’ she rumbled low in reproof. ‘Killjaws everywhere and they're moaning about me stepping on a few toes.'
Sighting the wrinkled visage of Balticea again, the healer plodded determinedly toward her besieged leader like a moth flitting upwards to a full moon. So intent was she on reaching the Grand Matriarch that Rosade failed to notice a Dwarf Killjaw cow come running out of nowhere to leap onto her colossal frame. She screamed as the emboldened predator repeatedly lacerated her broad back, clinging tenaciously to the bucking titan like a demented rodeo rider all the time she clawed and bit her. Somehow Rosade shook off her assailant and, drawing strength from her anger and desperation, reared up to bring her pile driver front legs crashing down to squash the life out of the fallen huntress.
Time abruptly came to a standstill for Rosade as the moral ramifications of what she had just done hit home. She had killed a fellow living creature. True, it had been a reviled meat-eater trying to turn her into a snack bar, but was that really excusable for one dedicated to saving lives? Perturbed, the distressed healer nevertheless banished any recriminating thoughts from her mind. She would examine the ethics of her ‘crime’ later on, providing any Thunderfeet lived through the massacre of this horror afternoon for her to discuss the dilemma with.
'I'm coming, Matriarch,’ avowed the mauled cow, stepping over the slain predator and resuming her march to aid Balticea. She oddly felt no sensation from her shredded back, shock and willfulness blinding her to the pain. Rosade found the oldster strangely alone in a calm spot in the maelstrom of ferocity.
'Stay back,’ commanded Balticea.
The healer glanced about for any sign of the Killjaw she had spotted assailing her leader. There was thankfully no sign of Madcow nearby amongst the madly dashing Duckbills, so she approached the Grand Matriarch. Balticea, horribly bitten and bloodied, was living.
'Save yourself and get away, Rosade,’ reiterated Balticea, ‘before it's too late.'
'We're getting out of here together,’ pledged the medico.
Balticea shook her head. ‘I can't move, Healer.'
Glancing at the aged cow's hindquarters, Rosade winced. Balticea's attacker had severed the elder's spinal cord with one powerful bite and paralysed her rear legs. The old girl was not going anywhere. ‘You are in pretty bad shape, Grand Matriarch.'
'You're pretty sorry looking yourself. Now get going before that she-devil comes back. There's no point in you dying here today as well.’ Balticea aimed an uncompromising stare at the unmoving healer. ‘That's an order.'
'And one I'd not normally ignore, my leader. I must refuse this time. My place is with you now.'
Balticea, trying her utmost to look reproachful, was in fact grateful for the company. No one liked the prospect of dying alone. ‘What of the herd?’ she asked, relying on Rosade's candour for the untainted truth to confirm the outcome she already surmised. ‘Have any escaped?'
'Florella's dead. The others are fleeing and dying.'
'And Bodiah?'
'I last saw her and Darved staving off a pack of Killjaws. Their plight looked hopeless.'
Balticea swore.
'They might stand a chance of escaping,’ Rosade opined, offering her downcast leader a scrap of hope. ‘Bodiah struck me as being a pretty tenacious sort.'
'They are not my immediate concern. Bronte is, and she may just be foolish enough to go looking for her bull right about now.'
'Bronte's alive? I assumed that because you're alone she has been killed.'
'I drove her off for her own good. She listened and went. Hopefully by now she's running north using the horn-beaks as a shield, like I instructed her to. If not, she'll be stupidly seeking out her mate and placing herself in even greater peril.'
'Shall I look for her?’ suggested Rosade. While abhorring the idea of leaving Balticea alone to die, she felt compelled to save at least one of her fellows. The crippled leader never got the chance to answer for Madcow reappeared on the scene.
'Sorry to duck away like that, Balty, but I fancied a change of pace,’ growled the crazed she-Killjaw, licking droplets of Duckbill blood from her muzzle. ‘I see you missed me. Ah, you found a friend to keep company with in my absence.’ She leered evilly. ‘How thoughtful of you to give me another playmate.'
Gritting her peg teeth, the Grand Matriarch seethed, ‘So help me if you harm a single scale of Rosade's hide...'
'Don't go anywhere, Balty,’ mocked the demented huntress, orienting on the rigid healer. ‘This won't take long.'
Madcow inexplicably stiffened, letting out a strangled cry. She pivoted around, not of her own accord, and the transfixed Thunderfeet saw that an equally giant Killjaw had the nape of her neck gripped firmly in his own lethal jaws. Exerting a tremendous amount of pressure, the bull carnosaur effortlessly crushed the base of the stalking cow's skull and casually dropped the limp wannabe tyrant-queen onto the trampled ferns flooring the churned ground. Madcow's insanely lit eyes remained glazed open in the lifeless stare of the surprised dead as her slayer stressed, ‘Exactly what part of “Balticea is for me alone” didn't you understand, you batty cow.'
Balticea managed a weak chuckle. ‘King Rexus, as I live and breathe.'
'I'll remedy that soon enough,’ avowed the monarch. ‘I've waited for this moment a—hey, quit laughing, you old crone. This is a serious occasion. I have a speech prepared.'
The Grand Matriarch continued to quietly chortle.
'Okay, I'll bite. What's so damned funny?'
'I never pictured you being my hero.'
Rexus spat the acidic taste of Madcow's blood out of his mouth. ‘Life's quirky like that.'
'I suppose it is,’ Balticea remarked dryly, ‘and now you're about to end mine.'
'That's the general plan.'
'Not if I can help it,’ interjected Rosade.
'No, Healer!’ Balticea weakly rumbled. But her protest came too late.
Rearing up on her hind limbs, Rosade waved her stubby-toed forelegs challengingly in the air. The Killjaw King gave an arrogant snort and darted forward under the cow's flailing feet, dodging her sharp thumb claws responsible for snuffing out one of his lesser subjects. His vicious jaws clamped about her chest and Rosade shuddered once as Rexus ripped out her beating heart. She instantly collapsed to the ground, the life torn from her body.
'You filthy murderer,’ the Grand Matriarch rasped in condemnation.
Rexus gulped down the deliciously warm organ and began circling the stricken herd leader. ‘Come now, Balticea. You know the score as well as I—predator versus prey. There has to be a winner and a loser. It's nature's way.'
Balticea looked about her at the scale of the butchery. ‘This isn't natural.'
'Granted, but you should know by now I don't play by the rules.'
'So you organised this sickening bloodbath just to get to me.'
'Don't flatter yourself. Your demise is just an appetiser to the main course.'
'What are you raving about?'
'Maybe you should pose that question to Kahla.'
'How could you possibly know my niece?'
'She was very helpful in convening this little social event. I'd say it came off pretty well, all told.'
Balticea struggled with the revelation. ‘Kahla sold us out?'
'Got it in one—even with that pebble-sized brain of yours. She craved power and dominance almost as much as I do, and was more than willing to trade your life for them. Word of advice, Balticea: never trust family. You'll live longer that way. Oh don't worry, I made sure Kahla was suitably punished for her treachery.'
'You killed her too.'
'And dirtied my claws on her worthless hide? Not likely. I did make certain she got the reward coming to her though.'
'You're a despicable monster, Rexus.'
'Flattery won't save you now, Grand Matriarch. In fact nothing will. Before I send you off to your darling Spirit Forest with the rest of your slain losers, I want you to know that your lineage dies with you on this day.'
'Kahla's passing won't be mourned,’ Balticea rumbled dispassionately. ‘I was quite embarrassed to call her my niece actually.
'Will Bronte's death also find you so impartial?'
The old cow gasped.
'That's right, Balticea. Die knowing that your precious heir will join you in death. She was the real target of my attack.'
'You had two herds slaughtered just to get at my granddaughter?'
'You catch on fast.’ Rexus came to halt before the disbelieving Thunderfoot oldster. ‘My aim was never to simply kill you. I'm not that unimaginative. I mostly desired the deaths of your spawn and her laughable friend.’ The tyrant-king kicked at Chappy's headless corpse sprawled nearby. ‘Half of that goal has been achieved.'
'Whatever for?
'Immortality, my longtime adversary.'
'You've lost what little mind you possess in that ugly head of yours,’ accused the stranded matriarch.
'Genius is often mistaken for craziness. Take a long hard look around you, Balticea. You're beaten. Your herd is broken and your genealogy will expire along with you. I've won the final round in our lengthy game of Nightclaw and Treefur.'
The Grand Matriarch raised her snout defiantly. ‘Far from it, because you haven't caught Bronte.’ She took perverse delight in seeing the pained expression on the baneful regent's face, confirming her supposition. ‘I do catch on quick, Rexus.'
'It's only a matter of time before my captain hunts her down,’ he huffed. That was Festur's second task after slaying Kahla. His protégé had a score to settle with Bronte and revenge was great motivation.
'Keep telling yourself that and you just might believe it. Remember, I trained her. She's resourceful and won't be an easy mark for your bloodthirsty mob.'
'The brat will only be prolonging the inevitable. How long can a herdless Thunderfoot evade me?'
'Long enough to form a new band from the remnants of the old to fight you with,’ postulated Balticea.
Rexus snarled indignantly. ‘I promise you Bronte will be dead before night falls, not that you'll be around to see it.’ He bunched his muscles, ready to overpower his hapless victim in a rush of teeth and talons.
'You are right about my life ending,’ the elderly Thunderfoot said with a note of finality oddly lacking regret. ‘Happily, you'll not enjoy the notoriety of having slain me. That accolade falls to your dead subject, the one you nibbled on.'
Hesitating, the Killjaw king rotated to view Madcow's carcass with a befuddled look crossing his maw. The slump of a great weight thudding to the earth confirmed his worst fear and he slowly turned back, unwilling to trust his mean eyes. The steadfast elder had at last succumbed to the fatal wounds inflicted by Madcow and lay on her side at death's door.
With her dying breath Balticea uttered, ‘The redoubtable King Rexus shall be remembered as a loser—a has-been who almost killed the Grand Matriarch of the Thunderfeet.’ The venerable cow's head placidly drooped until it rested upon the flattened ferns. Even in death Balticea was incontestably majestic.
Rexus stood blinking like a Nightclaw caught in daylight. He then let out a god-awful roar venting his frustration.
* * * *
Bronte ploughed through the undergrowth.
Intending to heed her grandmother's advice to take flight with the Shieldhorns after locating Darved, circumstance had forced the cow to rethink her escape plans after she was engulfed by careering Duckbills and swept along on their westward retreat into Mother Forest away from the battle-zone. Appalled by the day's genocide, the traumatised Thunderfoot had taken this turn of events as a hopeful sign and gladly crossed over the timberline from Fernwalk. The wood had been her sanctuary as a hatchling and would be so again in this time of crisis. She would take refuge in the forestland until the carnage was over and she could venture back on to the plains to look for her beau and family.
A bloodcurdling roar of lament froze Bronte in her tracks. It was a terrifying wail of inconsolable despair that made her heart tremble. She hurried on through the constricting brush as the fading afternoon light smudged the shadows of the trees into frightful shapes.
'Going somewhere, bitch?'
Bronte started. An alarmingly familiar Dwarf Killjaw crouched in front, blocking her path and growling meanly.
'It's bad manners to leave a party so soon,’ scolded Festur. ‘Rude reptiles need to be taught a lesson.'
The cow scrambled to get clear of the shrubs she was wading through as the hunter propelled himself towards her with a gleeful roar. Bracing herself for the impact, Bronte was startled to see a fellow Thunderfoot come charging from the gloomy wooded depths to her rescue.
Sorrin body-slammed the Killjaw captain to send him careening into the sturdy trunk of a nearby oak. He watched intently as the winded predator rebounded off the unyielding bole to wobble his way at him. With deft swishes of his stiff tail the bull remorselessly thrashed Festur about the head until the dazed meat-eater broke off his attack and staggered away to seek asylum in the undergrowth.
'Father, am I glad to see you!’ Bronte exclaimed with a sigh of relief.
'And I you, my daughter.’ Sorrin gazed fearfully at her bloody body. ‘Did that fiend mangle you?'
'It's not my blood.'
Her sire mumbled his thanks to the Originator. ‘I feared you had met the same fate as the rest of the herd.'
'You were watching?'
'Yes, from the forest. I was helpless to intervene. I'm no match for an entire Killjaw horde. But now is not the time for talk.’ Pawing at the restrictive shrubbery trapping Bronte's legs, Sorrin said, ‘Let me get you out of here, after which we can put some distance between us and Fernwalk.'
Bronte was aghast. ‘Aren't you planning to go back to look for grandma and the others?'
'You were out there and saw the bloodshed firsthand. She's probably already filling some Killjaw's belly by now. No doubt they're all dead, and those who have by some miracle escaped are in no fit state to put up any kind of resistance. The herds are gone, Bronte. We are on our own. If you want to survive, you'll have to come to terms with that. The Mother Forest Thunderfeet are finished as a race.’ He completed trampling down the branches of the bushes snagging Bronte.
Freed of the imprisoning vegetation, the headstrong cow challenged her father's dire summation. ‘My mate will have made it somehow.'
'Balticea made a good choice pairing you with Darved, and even as a youngster he met with my approval, but...'
'You helped arrange my mating?'
'Naturally. From time to time I've had an input in the major decisions affecting your life. Darved's suitability aside, the odds are stacked against any Thunderfoot lasting beyond dusk out there, no matter how valiant she or he may be. Like it or not, that's the way it is.'
Bronte hated her sire for his brutal appraisal and despised him even more for his apparent indifference. She had found true love, only to have it wrenched from her heart and he could not care less.
Sorrin was perplexed. What would compel those motherless Killjaws to band together and annihilate two entire herds? ‘This holocaust is unfathomable,’ he pondered aloud. ‘As much as I hate to admit our place in the food chain, by destroying us those soulless bastards are starving themselves for the duration of the Bloodletting. They must have a death wish.'
Something clicked in Bronte's mind as a puzzle began falling into place. She knew, without fully reasoning why, that Chappy's death had not been purely incidental. He had not entirely been the casualty of mischance, although the cow could not quite yet fit the pieces together to form a coherent pattern of understanding. She did glean from her father's prompting that the massacre of those she held near and dear was likely cover for a more sinister action and that benumbed her more than the nippy evening westerly rustling the forest greenery.
