Chosen One, page 21
'That's foolish. You should be.’ A bulky silhouette materialised from the darkness, dividing the Killjaw and his intended victim. ‘That's no surprise. You blood-lappers have never been particularly bright.'
A nervous titter escaped from Festur's jaws. His phantom was naught but a decrepit Shieldhorn with nothing more useful to do than aggravate his betters. The plant-eater's scent had been vaguely familiar, but not readily identifiable because his kind frequented the eastern plains and rarely ventured into the forest itself.
'Get on back to Fernwalk, old-timer. You're not worth bloodying my fangs over. I simply haven't time to waste on the likes of you.'
'You'll have to make the time,’ Orridus rumbled harshly, ‘for to reach Bronte you'll have to go through me.'
Festur revised his initial appraisal of his antagonist. Orridus stood thirteen feet high, thirty feet long and weighed in at around five tons. The oldster was physically his match, even discounting the intimidating three-foot brow horns and shorter nose horn fronting the browser's impressive six-foot-long neck frill. Despite being termed Shortfrilled, members of this relatively new branch of the reptilian tree were the bulkiest of the frilled dinosaurs. The large geriatric would not be easily overpowered.
'Go home to your herd,’ repeated the hunter, hoping to avoid an unnecessary fight. ‘My quarrel is not with you.'
The elderly Shortfrill snorted. ‘It is, considering you're still planning to go after that Thunderfoot.'
'I'm beginning to lose patience with you, old one.'
'It's about time, junior. I was starting to think that this duel was never going to take place. This might not be the only rescue I have to perform tonight, so if you don't mind speeding things up...'
'I'll happily sharpen my claws on your bones then,’ Festur pledged, rushing at Orridus.
The ceratopsid calmly stood his ground against the oncoming tempest of teeth and talons. He bellowed in reproof when the Killjaw shied away and barged through the brush on his left to get at the Thunderfoot he was protecting. Orridus did his best to turn about to block the ardent hunter, but his old limbs lacked the quickness of youth, and by the time he reached the cow's side she was being horribly mauled about the flank. Lowering his formidable headgear, the big Shieldhorn forced Festur off his unflinching victim with vicious jabs from his pointy eyebrow horns aimed at the Killjaw's vulnerable legs.
'You could help a little by providing a moving target,’ Orridus grumbled at Bronte while battling to keep Festur at bay. The badly bitten cow continued to stand there, uncaring and unresponsive.
'Move aside so I can hurry this along,’ enjoined the captain, striving to chomp some more on Bronte.
'Why don't you pick on someone your own size,’ retorted the Shortfrill.
'If you insist, pops.'
Festur backed up before he rushed at Orridus a second time. He did not veer away as before but met the defensive Shortfrill head-on. The aged horned reptile was amazed at the hunter's stupidity and easily fended off the clumsy attack. The Killjaw repeatedly dove at Orridus in this ludicrous frontal assault, only to have his charge deflected by the oldster's horny lances every time. But each rush was tiring Bronte's champion and Orridus realised Festur's intent. The carnosaur's fiendishly simple strategy was to wear his opponent down until the fatigued Shieldhorn made a fatal mistake. Orridus had to end this encounter fast or there would be two fresh herbisaurs corpses added to the forest's rising bereavement tally.
Reversing once more for his run up to the attack, Festur snarled merrily when he saw the old Shieldhorn stumble forwards, the robust head hanging low from weariness. Finally, his tactic was working! Pouncing eagerly upon his adversary, the Killjaw was in midair when Orridus snapped his lethal horns upwards and retreated. Festur tried desperately late to twist out of the way of his imminent impaling, landing squarely on his adversary's prongs, belly first.
Orridus reeled from the impact and follow-on weight of the skewered predator on his horns. His head jerked spasmodically as Festur, speared through his gut, thrashed about wildly. What amazed the veteran Shortfrill was the fact that his growling foe was not trying to get free and escape, but was striving to reach the bleeding Thunderfoot behind with those snapping jaws of his. What persistence! With a tremendous effort he hefted the squirming Killjaw on his blocky neck muscles and, taking faltering steps that quickly became more certain as he gathered momentum, charged toward the handiest tree. Festur never knew what hit him as he was rammed against the bark, sandwiched between the tines of fatality and the unbending bole. He shuddered once and expired with a gurgle.
'I think you got my point,’ Orridus wheezed at his slain foe. ‘Both of them, in fact.'
The seasoned Shieldhorn now had a dilemma on his horns—the carcass of Festur was spiked firmly on his pointed brow appendages and refused to budge. ‘I'm too old to be carting around a hood ornament,’ he grouched, tossing his head this way and that to loosen the deadweight.
He gave a final mammoth shake and heaved the lifeless Killjaw captain onto the forest floor. Orridus then calmly stood panting heavily, recovering from the strain of defeating the carnosaur. The unnerving silence pervading the forest seemed to lessen in the aftermath of the duel as the nocturnal critters slowly resumed their paused lives. The curtain now dropped on this latest act in the ongoing play of life and death.
'You took your sweet time taking care of that rogue,’ piped a nasally voice.
Orridus gave the savaged Thunderfoot an offended look. Bronte was stock-still in the tiny glade, looking for all the world like the standing dead. She plainly had not spoken.
'Not her, you great lummox—it's me talking, down here.'
The Shortfrill squinted at the ground. All Shieldhorns were notoriously shortsighted and therefore relied heavily upon their acute sense of smell. With a loud snuffle Orridus identified his critic. ‘A Treefur, if my nose is not mistaken.'
'Not just any one, spike-nose.’ A dishevelled marsupial sat on his haunches atop the crunchy leaf litter. ‘I'm Alphred Treefur the Thirty-third,’ he proudly stated.
'A lengthy name for such a tiny beast.'
'Are you making fun of my size?’ squeaked the possum-like critter. He was rather touchy about his minuteness.
'Small and feisty,’ Orridus observed humorously.
The marsupial bared his teeth. ‘You better believe it.'
'Calm down, furry one: I don't mean to give offence. What is it you want? I'm a trifle busy here.’ The ancient reptile turned towards Bronte. ‘There's an injured Thunderfoot cow to care for.'
'She's the reason I'm here. Well, not her actually. Her herd is.’ Alphie scampered through the crackly detritus to trail the Shieldhorn, now crossing the short distance to the cow, explaining as he went. ‘Four days ago I found myself in a compromising position, and to cut a long story short I overheard the boss of laughing boy back there ranting on about raising an army of fiends.'
'You were listening in on the tyrant-king Rexus?’ Orridus cogitated. ‘To do that the best place would be inside Killjaw Clearing itself.'
'Yep, that's where I was.'
'That was brave of you. What were you doing there?'
'I was on a lunch date. You're missing my thrust. The reason behind those monsters getting together is to wage war on your tree-legged pals.'
'The Thunderfeet.'
'They want to wipe them out. I've been looking for them ever since to warn them. I realise this is a mighty big forest of ours, but you'd think a host of large, slow-footed scale-backs would be relatively easy to spot.'
'They don't live in the woods, Alphred.'
'I prefer to be called Alphie.'
'Very well, Alphie—Thunderfeet reside out on the open plains of Fernwalk, don't you know.'
'No wonder I've had no luck finding them. You lizards sure are a funny lot. Why live on the perilous flats when there's a perfectly good forest to hide in?'
Orridus came to stand before Bronte. The cow numbly stood with her heaving flanks scored and bloodied by Festur's brutality.
'She doesn't look too healthy,’ Alphie remarked, expressing his concern over the large bite mark exuding a goodly amount of blood. The raw area defacing her flank was surrounded by a flurry of angry red scratches made by the Killjaw's rending claws.
'Her injuries look worse than they are. The wounds are largely superficial, except for that big chunk of flesh taken out of her side. That's a little worrying.'
'You an expert on bites?'
'I've seen my share of bitten plant-eaters before,’ confided Orridus.
That exposure must have been personal, Alphie noted, judging by the ample scarring on the Shortfrill's hide.
'She'll live, if we get her to some help quick smart.'
'We?'
Orridus swung his horned countenance down at the Treefur perched on a mossy stone rising out of the jungle of groundcover ferns. ‘You chose to become involved in this matter upon deciding to go and alert the Thunderfeet. It's only proper that you see it through.'
'Whoa there, big fella—my job here is done. I've managed to locate a Thunderfoot and she can deliver my warning to the rest of her folk when she's feeling well. She'd better hurry, though, for I got the impression that the Killjaws are not going to hang about.’ Alphie's whiskered snout twitched as he studied the blank expression and unseeing eyes of the would-be bearer of his portent. ‘Why is she doing such a lifelike impression of a rock?” he asked Orridus in a puzzled tone.
'She's in shock.'
'From being nibbled on? I've had one or two close calls with hunters myself and never wound up mindless from it.'
'This cow is traumatised, not only from obvious tiredness and being munched on, but having also witnessed firsthand the decimation of her herd.'
The loudmouthed Treefur was gob-smacked while Orridus related the hard truth.
'I'm afraid you're a trifle late with your alarm, Alphie. As of noon today Bronte's herd came under attack from the Killjaw army, and by sunset they practically ceased to exist. I know this for a fact because I was watching the horror from the trees. I saw the youngster here make good her escape and decided to follow after in case she ran into trouble. Lucky for her I did.'
Alphie heard nothing the Shieldhorn had said after ‘decimation', his racing mind deliberating. Treefurs had a short life span and tended to be rapidly decisive. ‘You're right, lizard-lance. I do have to see this through.’ He felt responsible for the lone Thunderfoot's plight after having failed to warn, and thereby save, her kin. ‘We do have an obligation to escort her to a safe place. Any ideas where?'
'Fernwalk's out of the question,’ considered Orridus, ‘while Killjaw Clearing is placed to the south and the Swamp of Despair lies north. That really only leaves heading west.'
Alphie was baffled. ‘What's out there besides more trees?’ His knowledge of geography matched his size, and he was understandably limited to forest lore.
'The Uplands,’ the oldster supplied. ‘I have friends there who'll help.'
'Wait a moment, horny. I've overheard a few casual reptile conversations in my time, inadvertently of course.'
'Naturally.'
'Anyhow, whenever the west has been mentioned it's been with a certain amount of dread. From what I can gather the Uplands are a queer place, make no mistake, and you plan on taking the Thunderfoot there?'
'I know the lay of the land, Treefur. There's no real danger once you delve beneath the aura of local superstition.'
'That's a great comfort,’ Alphie said dryly.
'We'd best get underway,’ decided Orridus. ‘It's quite a walk to the hill country.'
The marsupial looked critically at Bronte. ‘She's in no fit state to journey anywhere. Shouldn't we at least hold off until she regains a bit of strength?'
'The cow's bleeding is sapping her vigour. By waiting, she will only worsen and we run the added risk of exposing her to further attack. From the looks of that massacre out on the plains, the Killjaws are hell-bent on slaying every Thunderfoot in the area.'
'A forced march could kill her quicker.'
'It's preferable to being eaten alive by a hungry predator.'
Alphie was bemused by such dubious logic. ‘Hey, is that really necessary?’ he squeaked when the Shortfrill gave Bronte a gentle nudge with his nose horn to get the cow moving.
'I doubt she'll respond to anything but direct motivation,’ the crusty Shieldhorn rejoined as the injured giant began to trudge mindlessly ahead of him in a general westerly direction. ‘We can't afford to mollycoddle her. Situations arise when you have to cruel to be kind, Alphie. Coming?'
The Treefur looked put out. ‘I've been constantly on the trot for days now. I'm as knackered as that poor cow. It's no picnic scampering through the forest with legs as short as mine.'
'Then ride on my back,’ suggested Orridus.
Alphie was mortified by the idea and spluttered madly.
'I promise not to bite,’ the ancient ceratopsid grinned, opening his hooked beak to show off his batteries of plant grinding cheek teeth.
The shabby marsupial grudgingly scurried up the Shortfrill's stout tail, and sat hunched on his rocking back as his ride herded Bronte with his careful prodding.
'This doesn't mean we're pals,’ Alphie pointed out, clinging nervously to his mount. ‘Befriending you lizards holds about as much appeal to me as having my whiskers plucked out one by one. I'm only going to escort this Thunderfoot to a safe haven out of the goodness of my heart and then I'll be on my way, so don't think we'll be getting chummy. I only hope none of my kin see me like this. I'll be the laughing stock of the Treefur community.'
Pretending to be offended, the Shieldhorn said, ‘You won't be introducing me to your friends then? I'm devastated.'
'That'll be difficult considering I don't know who you are.'
'Orridus is the name.'
Alphie's facial bristles quivered. ‘You're named after a folklore character?'
'No, I am the legend come to life.'
'The fabled hero of Mother Forest who rushes about rescuing waifs in distress.'
'The one and the same.'
'Oh brother,’ the Treefur sighed. ‘I've climbed onto a cracked branch with a loony perched on the end.'
The strange trio walked for the remainder of the night, the tortured slowness of their pace dictated by Bronte's debilitating injury and overtiredness. As dawn crept over the eastern plains to bathe the drowsy timberland with its warming radiance, Orridus called a halt to the trek. They had journeyed half the night and barely covered fifteen miles. The sanctuary of the Uplands, lying close to 300 miles away, seemed impossibly distant.
'We'll rest by day and walk at night,’ the Shortfrill declared after squeezing Bronte into the hideaway offered by a stand of bunched-up poplars. ‘It'll be safer travelling in the dark.'
Alphie hopped down from his reptilian steed and started grooming himself. ‘That suits me fine. I'm a night critter anyway.’ If the truth was told the Treefur was glad for the respite. Being a Shieldhorn's jockey was taking some getting used to.
'I'm heading out to scout around a little,’ Orridus announced after a bit. ‘Watch over the Thunderfoot.'
The Treefur gazed doubtfully upon his titanic charge as the Shortfrill left the copse. It was like tasking a flea to be custodian of a mountain.
* * * *
Vai was a box of nerves. Gideon was incommunicado and his cybernate minder had not the faintest notion of his precise location. Such inefficiency drove her nuts.
Retrieving a fragmented scan from her database, Vai reviewed the partial sensor trace recording the last known whereabouts of her commander. No sooner had Gideon disconnected his comlink did she aggressively monitor his situation via his PIL while simultaneously conducting her surveillance of the volcanic Redmount. Without any warning the starsphere's scanner had gone on the blink and Vai spent the better part of the night patching the worn subsystem. The spacecraft had been scheduled for a major overhaul prior to Gideon thieving his own ship and now was complaining about its missed refit. By the time Vai completed her makeshift repairs, her pilot cum explorer was way overdue to radio in for his pickup. She had executed a narrow band scan based on his previously established locale and therein lay the crux of her anxiety. Gideon's personal locator had just registered his position when the scanning array went back on the frizz, leaving the computerised persona with an incomplete image. Her commander was strangely on the move, apparently not alone though, as there was a second blip faintly alongside the Berranian's. It was either an innocent sensor echo or something far more sinister...
'Honey bunch, this is Vai. Please respond.'
She knew it was pointless radioing him, but felt marginally better for it. Disgruntled by the still dead airwaves which crackled mockingly in reply, Vai moaned, ‘The minute they leave home they forget to call,’ before returning to her chore of fixing the downed sensor module.
* * * *
Orn kicked Gideon awake. Woozy and disoriented, the alien slowly roused himself. He had dreamt a terrible nightmare of being bodily folded inside a travelling case and transported cross-country on the back of a galloping beast of burden. It had been a bruising, hellish trip, and reality was scarcely any better.
The Berranian struggled to sit upright and leant on the rotting log at his back for support. He entire body ached from head to foot. It was early morning, about an hour after a grey sunrise had fuzzily lighted a dirty sky of low-lying clouds, and the alien found himself sitting roughly in the middle of a sizable glade ringed by sentinels of skeletal oaks denuded by the leaf-stripping wind blowing coolly in from the west. The bared branches of the dark trees rearing upwards had the uncomfortable look of the bars of some monstrous cage, an impression reinforced by the striped hide of the ostrich dinosaur prancing skittishly before him.
'Where am I?’ he petitioned the Fastclaw.
'Killjaw Clearing,’ said Orn.
'Who are you?'
'A nobody placed at your disposal.'
'What do you mean?'
