Chosen One, page 34
'How about this for a last snippet?’ he retorted. ‘The hermit has...'
A violent shuddering of the ground interrupted Cragg's final disclosure. Bronte trumpeted loudly in alarm as all about them the pines swayed like fern fronds fluttering in a stiff breeze, and the frightening clatter of loose boulders tumbling from the nearby cliffs into the trees and bouncing off the bedrock reverberated in the highland air. Fifteen seconds later the tremor subsided and the disturbed land settled into an uneasy quiet.
'Was that a ground shiver?’ Bronte asked in a breathless rush, her columnar legs trembling from the upheaval.
'Aye,’ Cragg mildly said.
The Thunderfoot was not so calm. ‘Aunty Flo told me about such things once. I thought she was joking!'
'It's no joke, my lass. Generally the shakes are but a minor inconvenience. The severer tremors though do cause damage and sometimes trigger avalanches.'
'Such as the one that's just been.'
Cragg played down the incident. ‘We've had worse in the valley before now. They are very commonplace up here.'
On that count he was right. Living in an active volcanic region meant regular earthquakes, the majority unfelt, a horrible few of sufficient magnitude to scare and even injure. What Cragg was reluctant to divulge to the excitable Thunderfoot was that lately the shakes were escalating in frequency and intensity. That was a portent of a disaster of epic proportions to come, for both high and low country. He caught a whiff of sulphur tainting a sudden wind shift and scuffed a hind foot through the deepening ash. Redmount, dormant for centuries, was getting set to make a fiery comeback. The only question was when.
'We'd best get back to the Settlement,’ he decided. ‘Hetti is probably fretting about us.'
Bronte was less than keen to return. Despite the heart-stopping drama, she was enjoying her outing and did not fancy being cooped up in the fir grove again. ‘I'll stay out for a bit longer, Cragg,’ she informed him, glancing at the ground rather dubiously.
'That's unwise.'
The giant cow put on a brave face. ‘If you're worried about my nerves, don't be. Sure it loosened my teeth, but I came through my first ground shiver intact.’ Her quivering legs told otherwise. ‘Well, mostly.'
'Nay, that's not my concern. You shouldn't be roaming the valley unescorted.'
'You said the Deciders gave me free run of the place.'
'That doesn't mean it's safe. I believe Malp plans to do you harm. For your own welfare stay close to the Settlement, Bronnie. I'll get one of Clift's bulls to keep an eye on you while I'm gone.'
'That's right, you're going off to meet up with Orridus soon.’ The shaken Thunderfoot had momentarily forgotten that part of the plan.
'Promise me you'll not go wandering while I'm away,’ pressed the chieftain.
'I'm a big girl, Cragg. I can handle myself.'
'I don't doubt that. Malp and his gang fight dirty though. Humour me by keeping out of harm's way.'
'Okay, I'll stay put in the glade.'
Cragg was not finished with his warning and advised Bronte to watch out for Shrok. ‘He's impetuous, lass, and that makes my boy troublesome.’ She nodded her understanding and saw the pain of disappointment sorrow the old Bonehead's eyes.
They started back. ‘You didn't finish telling me about Orridus,’ prompted Bronte.
The Highrock chief thought back. ‘Aye, that's right. Orridus has it in for some lizard he calls Lord of the Killjaws.'
Bronte was flabbergasted. ‘You don't mean King Rexus?'
'That's the laddie.'
A chill descended over the cow that had nothing to do with the crisp highland winds. No wonder Orridus was so eager to tackle the Killjaws on her behalf. He was playing out a personal vendetta against her mortal enemy. His motive was not justice, but revenge!
* * * *
'Don't move.'
'You're the one doing the walking, horn-face.'
Orridus ignored the Treefur's rebuttal. ‘What I mean is no sudden movements from you, shorty. One wrong flick of the tail and we're both Lizardwing fodder.'
Noon was an hour or two off and the travellers were cautiously picking their way through the denuded forest. The forlorn oaks and maples, bare boughs clawing skyward in mute agony at the withering touch of autumn, lent a graveyard feel to the wood. Alphie spied movement all about them in the trees; furtive shapes heaving between the trunks to the raspy tune of crackling branches and rustling leaves. ‘Killjaws?’ he hissed worriedly.
'Rexus and his followers are lodged further south. But what's out there is potentially just as dangerous.'
The Treefur uttered a tiny growl of frustration. ‘Spike-nose, you'd better spill the beetles on what to expect. I hate climbing trees blind.'
The hermit heaved a sigh. Explanations were in order. ‘Shieldhorn herd structure is a rigid affair. There's an outer ring of defending bulls, followed by an inner circle. Both serve to protect the cows and calves at the centre of the circle.'
'Sounds complex.'
'It's more a case of organised chaos. We're about to penetrate the former. Those restless shadows on the fringe of your vision are them—young, inexperienced, expendable bulls. They could charge us en masse without warning or simply let us pass unmolested. It's hard to say how they'll react to my presence.'
'Can't you ever take me someplace where we can get a friendlier reception?’ griped Alphie. ‘First Shrok and his bullies, now this. What about the next lot?'
'Those who do survive the rigours of the first line of defence naturally progress to the second. By that stage they're older, wiser and more manageable. If we can reach that group unscathed we'll be safe enough.'
'Define “safe enough".'
'I'll only have to face-off against the ruling bull rather than the entire herd.'
'That fills me with confidence.'
'It shouldn't. If the leading bull is bigger and stronger than me, we're in double trouble.'
'This is all very fascinating, horn-head, but what bothers me most is what the mood of your homecoming will be. Is it to be joyful or scary?'
'Your concern for me is touching, whiskers.'
'Don't flatter yourself, fern-breath. My own skin and the fur attached to it is my first worry.'
'Expect the worst then.'
'How did I know you were going to say that.'
The first sign of trouble broke from cover when the winding forest trail broadened and a quartet of immature Shieldhorn bulls sauntered from the trees to block the path. They looked a restless bunch, wild-eyed and spoiling for a fight.
'Damn,’ swore Orridus. ‘They're Longfrills.'
Alphie twitched his nose and gazed hard at the horned lizards. To him they appeared ordinary, nondescript Shieldhorns. Orridus knew different.
Shieldhorns, much like the Duckbills, were a mixed bag of related races that herded together in the interest of communal protection. There was, after all, safety in numbers. It can also be said that familiarity breeds contempt. Shortfrills and Longfrills were not as compatible as the harmonious cousinly Duckbills. They competed directly for food, territory and power. There was no love lost between the differing, yet plainly similar, Shieldhorn kin.
Orridus hurriedly elaborated on his initial warning to Alphie. ‘Don't move suddenly or speak out of turn, Treefur. These guys are jumpy and will take any careless act or word the wrong way. On a good day I can maybe fend off two. This isn't such a day. I'm tired beyond belief.'
The bravest of the four trotted ahead of his fellows, snorted and shook his nine-foot-long neck frill challengingly. Orridus responded by stamping a forefoot, followed with a vigorous toss of his horns.
Strong silent types, mocked Alphie to himself.
Emboldened by their compatriot's forwardness, the three other Shieldhorns began playing up. They pranced about, bellowing madly and posturing with the unrestrained gusto of youth. Their behaviour in turn incited their leader to behave rashly and he lowered his head and charged blindly. Holding his ground, Orridus roared a single word: ‘RHYNAAA!’ The charging Longfrill strangely veered away to plough into the undergrowth and kept on galloping. His astonished brethren balked, turned about snout and fled down the trail.
'Talk about saying the magic word,’ complemented Alphie.
'Lucky guess,’ said the hermit. ‘Round one to me.'
An oddity struck Alphie. ‘Hey fern-guzzler, I just had a thought.'
'Did it pain you?'
'How droll. You lizards don't normally haunt the forest. What's your herd doing off Fernwalk?'
'It's a seasonal ritual. Every migration north is preceded by a side trip to Crescent Lake.'
'Shieldhorns don't seem the type to go in for sightseeing.'
'We're not. It's a water stop. The trek to the northern feeding grounds is long and dry.'
'That accounts for you knowing where to find them straight away.'
They pushed on. Orridus was not challenged again. Whatever he said to his contenders had the desired effect. News of his arrival was spreading like wildfire and the panicky younger bulls resorted to keeping their distance within the trees lining the route. Moving at a steady trot the hermit eased through their shadowing ranks to the next hurdle without further incident.
A stoic line of mixed Shieldhorns awaited them. Alphie took a more discerning look at the living barrier. There were indeed subtle differences between the kindred Shieldhorns. Longfrills measured five feet shorter than Shortfrills, but carried an extra two tons of weight. The most noticeable contrast was of course the frill, fully a third longer than their cousins—and what a fitting headpiece it was for the beast boasting the largest skull of any land animal! Unlike the solid bone shield of the Shortfills, Longfrill crests had a latticework of minute blood vessels beneath the skin. When flushed with blood, the frills came alive with vibrant bands of brown and orange in sharp contrast to the uniform olive hides worn by the Shieldhorn family.
Slowing, Orridus warily approached the assembly. The atmosphere was so thick with tension the air could have been visibly pierced with a horn. No words were spoken as the line of three-horned warriors silently parted to admit the estranged Shortfrill to the inner sanctum of his former life. Alphie glanced surreptitiously at the upturned faces of their honour guard. He thought he caught flashes of recognition for the hermit in their steely eyes, but could not be sure. The ring closed behind them like a trap springing shut.
A harem of Shieldhorn cows lolled about in stands of yews, larches and spruces, consuming any and all woody victuals in sight like reptilian vacuum cleaners. Leaves, twigs, cones—all vanished into their hungering bellies. Feeding alongside the gluttonous females were calves of various ages and sizes, ranging from this year's recently hatched to the yearlings of the previous season not yet old or big enough to go it alone in the herd. Neither group paid the newcomers any attention whatsoever. The business of the bulls was strictly their own affair.
'Crikey!’ exclaimed Alphie. Never had he clapped eyes on that many reptiles in the one spot. There were literally hundreds of the softly grunting herbisaurs eating up the land and despoiling the leftover husk with their droppings. The sight and stench very nearly made the Treefur keel over.
'You have some nerve returning, oldie.'
Orridus practically sent his marsupial mount sprawling as he spun at the sound of that hostile rumble to be confronted by a battle-scarred Longfrill.
'Do I know you?’ the puzzled hermit said. ‘You seem vaguely familiar.'
'It has been a long time. I was but a calf when you absconded.'
The oldster racked his brain. A lot of seasons had passed and his memory was not as sharp as it used to be. ‘Thauron?’ he guessed.
'One and the same.'
'You got big.'
'I've gotten more than that. I got the leadership.'
'You're in charge?'
'Don't sound so surprised.'
Orridus was anything but. He remembered Thauron as having been a rambunctious hatchling and ruffians invariably did well in Shieldhorn society. Rowdiness was a clear indicator of ambition.
'Why have you come back, Rhyna?’ demanded Thauron.
The homecoming hermit replied in a gravelly voice, ‘To reclaim my herd and again be Dominator.'
Alphie did a double take. Rhyna? Dominator? Just who was Orridus? ‘What's going on here?’ he squeaked demandingly.
Noticing the vexed Treefur for the first time, the Shieldhorn leader jeered, ‘What's that—your mascot?'
'No, my fan club.'
Thauron snorted derisively. ‘You'll need it. You won't have any other support for your ridiculous claim.'
He was right. During the short exchange the senior bulls of the Shieldhorn herd had crowded about their presiding leader and his predecessor, who worriedly noted that the interested group was predominantly Longfrills.
'You intend to honour my challenge then?’ pushed Orridus.
'Custom compels me to,’ conceded Thauron. ‘I cannot refuse any contender. Even you.’ His manner became one of forced casualness. ‘Besides, I have nothing better to do today and I doubt this'll take long.'
'Alphie, get down,’ ordered Orridus.
'Whatever for?'
'Unless you want to partake in a duel to the death, I suggest you vacate my back.'
'I'll get off.'
'Wise choice.'
Thauron eyed the dismounted Treefur. ‘You can wait over there on Percta's back.’ He pointed with his nose to a nearby Longfrill. ‘When I'm done with Rhyna you can go your merry way.'
Scampering hesitantly through a forest of legs, Alphie reached the bull named Pectra. He nervously waited while the uncertain Shieldhorn gave him an inspecting sniff before tentatively clambering up the Longfrill's tail onto his rump and inching along his back. Neither of them looked particularly comfortable with the arrangement. Percta shifted position, joining his brethren in forming a loose circle about Thauron and Orridus, horns facing inwards. The pair of vying Shieldhorns stood readying themselves for their upcoming ordeal within the arena. That involved a great deal of head waggling, snorting and pawing the ground. Hushed murmurs circulated through the ring of onlookers during the build-up and Alphie eagerly listened in.
'Thauron looks nervous,’ whispered one voice.
'He ought to be,’ commented Pectra, his own contribution spoken low. ‘Rhyna is rumoured never to have been defeated.'
'I heard he slew a Killjaw giant single-horned when just a calf,’ the first voice said.
'And had killed an entire pack by his third season,’ added a second.
Alphie scarcely believed his ears. The old hermit certainly hid a colourful past!
Orridus bawled loudly and Thauron answered with his own contesting bellow. The games were about to begin with Alphie still in the dark.
'What is going on?’ he asked Pectra.
The Longfrill condescended to reply to the curious furball on his back. ‘Isn't it obvious? They're about to fight.'
The sea of bristling horns about him persuaded the sharp-tongued Treefur not to give a sarcastic rejoinder. With a great effort of will he simply said, ‘Over what?'
'For the leadership of the herd, dummy. Haven't you been listening?'
Alphie's self-control was outstanding. ‘Why does Orri ... er Rhyna, want to be your leader?'
'Rhyna used to be Dominator. He plainly wants the position back.'
At long last the history of the hermit was beginning to be glimpsed through the veil of secrecy!
Pectra loosened up. ‘It was all before my time of course, but the tale is a local legend.
'Rhyna rose through the ranks in meteoric style to become Dominator. He was unbeaten in every battle he fought on the way up. Such a record was, heck remains, unsurpassed and the envy of all. Not even Thauron can lay claim to having absolutely no losses.
'One day Rhyna was out on Fernwalk instructing some of the younger bulls in fighting techniques when a Killjaw party boldly staged a raid on the family circle. By some stroke of bad luck the daring killers broke through the defences and butchered a playgroup of calves. Rhyna's sons and heirs numbered among the dead. By the time the commotion brought Rhyna running it was all over bar the roaring. The offenders escaped unpunished and he was powerless to do anything except bellow his frustration. Afterwards, his mate pined to death for her lost offspring and Rhyna, unable to bear his grief, simply took off.'
Alphie was stunned by the tragedy. ‘So that's why the old bugger lives alone in the woods.'
Pectra summed up. ‘That's where the legend becomes cloudy. Some say Rhyna died of a broken heart in Mother Forest, which is obviously untrue. Others told the fable of him becoming an avenger in an effort to alleviate the guilt he harboured from failing to protect his wife and children.'
The mutual posturing and bellowing of the duellists abruptly ceased. The resulting silence was deafening.
'What's happening now? I can't see.’ Alphie reared up onto his back legs. The Longfrill's enormous crest was blocking his view.
Pectra obliged with a running commentary. ‘The contest proper is about to begin. They are lining up now for the crucial opening charge.'
'Head-butting?'
'It's a trial of strength.'
'That doesn't sound so tough. How's it work?'
Alphie's grandstand blew a huffy snort. ‘There's just the one rule of engagement, hornless one—the bull left standing is the winner.'
Orridus and Thauron clashed like two freight trains impacting head on. The noise of the colliding Shieldhorns was frightful, shattering the taut quiet. All motion then came to a grinding halt. Horns locked together, the opposing bulls settled into the pushing contest that decided important issues for this category of lizards, whether territorial or courtship. The rasp of bone grating against bone filled the ensuing lull, partnered by the intermittent grunting from the straining combatants. Each was using every ounce of strength at his disposal to try and shift the other. It was the proverbial case of an immovable object meeting an irresistible force.
An hour elapsed and neither bull had budged an inch. ‘This is about as exciting as watching trees grow,’ complained Alphie, crouched on the curved top of Pectra's frill. ‘How long will this go on for?'
