Chosen One Read online

  Balticea trudged across the rain-splattered mud as the new parents strained to see what aspect of their calf's appearance concerned the healer so. The Grand Matriarch viewed her granddaughter through narrowed, rheumy eyes and gasped. While in every other respect she was an unblemished, if tinier, copy of her beaming folks, the hatchling bore a roughly star-shaped smudge of white on the baggy skin above her eyes. ‘She's disfigured!’ spat the old cow.

  Beliann, turning her bulk to shield her stigmatised daughter, snapped defensively, ‘She's beautiful, mother.'

  The leader's hurtful comment was a natural, if unforgivable, reaction. Thunderfeet were undeniably proud of their unrivalled bulk and placed great emphasis on bodily perfection. Birthmarks and severer physical deformities were not tolerated in a society where perfect size was applauded. Imperfection was dealt with swiftly and cruelly. In times not so long past a rejected hatchling would have been abandoned in the perilous woods to suffer a lonely death from starvation or roving predators. Attitudes, altered by dire circumstances, had all but eliminated that barbaric aspect of Thunderfoot herd life. Faced with shrinking numbers, enlightened matriarchs now discarded impromptu death sentences on flawed calves in favour of a leniency built upon the premise that every live hatchling was needed to bolster diminishing herd strength. Age-old prejudices were notoriously hard to banish though, and not even matriarchal decree was enough to entirely stamp out the antiquated bigotry. Occasional instances of abandonment still occurred. Beliann's daughter therefore faced an uphill struggle for herd acceptance from the very start.

  'We'll not desert our daughter,’ Sorrin rumbled warningly to Balticea, joining his mate in protecting their mildly deformed offspring. ‘I'll battle you if I have to.'

  Rosade stiffened. The Grand Matriarch was herself unconcerned by the parental threat. ‘Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Sorrin. You always were headstrong as a calf. I guess that's what appealed most to me when selecting you as Beliann's mate. Your stubborn streak matched my daughter's own obstinacy. However, the pair of you are over-reacting. My granddaughter's standing in the herd will not be affected by her unsightly blot. She is of my blood and one day will lead her fellows. They'll afford her the customary respect or face my wrath.'

  Sorrin smiled grimly and backed down. None dared tangle with the formidable Balticea, with the notable exception of her belligerent son-in-law of course.

  Balticea regarded her heir. ‘A name for your daughter, Beliann, would be appropriate about now.'

  The bolt literally came out of the blue, were it not for the grey thunderclouds overhead. Dazzling electrical fire engulfed the glade as the lightning fork grounded itself in the Hatching Circle. The stunned reptiles reflexively shied away from the searing flash that mercifully lasted only a split second, but nonetheless heated the surrounding air a thousand-fold before dissipating. Burned and temporarily blinded, the Thunderfeet recoiled from the acoustic impact of the thunderous shock wave that followed. An eerie stillness settled over the hammered clearing and the patter of raindrops became louder.

  'Is everyone all right?’ Balticea asked hoarsely. She grimaced. Even the air tasted fried.

  'Shaken, and with an awfully bad case of sunburn, but alive,’ groaned Rosade, her infamous dry sense of humour intact. “What was that?'

  'Sky-fire, I think,’ Sorrin groggily postulated. ‘Beliann, are you and the baby alright?’ An alarming silence was the only reply to the bull's query. A frantic note of worry tinged Sorrin's second call as the sightless and disoriented male stumbled about. ‘Beliann, answer me!'

  Balticea sniffed the statically charged air and wrinkled her snout in further disgust. Although Thunderfoot nasal passages were less developed than their predatory cousins, they served the plant-eaters well enough to differentiate scents, and the overpowering stench of charred flesh assaulted the Grand Matriarch's nostrils placed level ahead of her unseeing eyes. With a gut-wrenching realisation, she knew that what she smelt was more than singed hide. Balticea blinked away stinging tears as temporary blindness gave way to a harsh light dotted by indistinct blurs representing trees, her standing colleagues and the downed body of her daughter splayed on the muddy ground before her.

  'Rosade, can you see well enough to tend my daughter?'

  'I believe so, Grand Matriarch.'

  'Then do so quickly.'

  Sorrin's heart sank. ‘Balticea, is Beliann badly injured?'

  'We don't yet know, Sorrin. Be patient.'

  'And my daughter?'

  Making use of her more substantial bulk, the Grand Matriarch blocked the smaller bull from going to his mate's side now that his sight was improving. ‘Let Rosade see for herself,’ she commanded.

  The healer shook her head to speed up her recovery, ignoring the pain of her own wounds. The shadowy bulk lying in the mud rapidly gained definition until Rosade was mortified to view Beliann's smoking corpse. She hurried over to inspect her patient. A feeble groan issued from the fallen cow during the cursory examination.

  'She's alive!’ Sorrin cried out, pushing past Balticea.

  Rosade tore her smarting eyes away from the horribly smouldering Thunderfoot at the squelching footfalls of the approaching bull. Sorrin had fared better than his mate but was still a mess. His burnt skin was patterned with ugly blisters, the affected scales peeling off outright in patches, and his eyes were misty and glazed. The healer and matriarch looked equally worse for wear.

  'Is there any hope of recovery?’ Balticea pointedly asked Rosade.

  'None, I'm afraid. Beliann is dying.'

  Sorrin whimpered piteously. The staunch Grand Matriarch closed her eyes in resignation, showing no other sign of emotion. There were times when the healer's normally appreciated candour cut bitingly to the bone.

  'The calf!’ Balticea remembered, snapping her eyes open.

  Rosade stepped around the distraught bull and pulled up short. The hatchling miraculously still lived and was unscathed, although plainly dazed. Her mother's bulk had taken the full force of the terrible lightning strike and shielded the vulnerable infant from harm. ‘Your granddaughter is alive and well, if not a little thunderstruck,’ she called back to the Grand Matriarch.

  'Thank the Originator,’ Balticea murmured under her breath.

  'Sorrin?’ croaked Beliann, gasping for breath.

  'I'm here, my love.’ He inched closer to his scorched cow and gingerly nuzzled her shuddering neck. Beliann answered with a moan of excruciating pain and Sorrin backed away, casting an imploring gaze Rosade's way. ‘Is there nothing you can do for her?’ he pleaded.

  Tears welled in the healer's eyes as she regrettably said, ‘I'm so sorry.’ Beliann's only comfort was the damp weather, for the steady rainfall was cooling the stricken cow's horrific burns.

  'I don't want to die,’ lamented Beliann, her body convulsing uncontrollably as shock took hold.

  Balticea interceded. ‘Be strong, my child,’ she urged. ‘You have the blood of generations of matriarchs coursing through you. Draw your strength from them.'

  Sorrin was about to decry the Grand Matriarch's utter coldness when his mate underwent a profound change. Beliann's body stiffened then relaxed and her laboured breathing grew easier, although she continued to wheeze terribly. Her imperious mother's words had had the desired effect. ‘I wish to see my daughter,’ the fatally struck cow requested.

  Balticea nodded to Rosade and the healer revived the bewildered calf, gently nudging her along Beliann's roasted length. The hatchling's burnt and blistered dam raised her uncooked head with an effort. The infant Thunderfoot sensed her mother's distress and grew frightened. Beliann cooed reassuringly to her in a throaty rumble and the placated calf nestled against her trembly snout. ‘My lovely little girl. I'll not get the chance to see you grow up.'

  'I can't raise her without you, Beliann,’ sobbed Sorrin, moving closer to his family unit.

  'You must, beloved.’ Beliann grimaced. To talk, even to breathe was indescribably painful due to her seared lung
s and throat. ‘Sorrin, I am not long for this forest. I can do nothing more for our daughter except give her my parting gift.’ A fit of coughing racked the fading cow.

  Sorrin inched nearer to his mate once her frightful hacking subsided. ‘What is that, love?'

  'To name her is my dying wish,’ rasped Beliann. ‘She is to be called Bronte.'

  'A fittingly strong name,’ approved Balticea.

  Beliann's vision began to cloud, but she saw still the mountain-like figure of her aloof dam standing apart from them, momentarily backlit by a distant flash in the roiling heavens. Balticea somehow seemed invincible, even immortal. ‘Mother, I gave us our next Matriarch,’ she proudly said.

  'You have done well, my daughter.'

  Her last vestige of strength ebbing, Beliann said to no one in particular, ‘Mark my words. Bronte is meant for greatness. Her birthstar tells me so.’ She rested her head on the pillowing mud.

  'Beliann, don't go!’ cried Sorrin. ‘Please stay with me. I can't live without you.'

  'We will meet again, beloved,’ avowed Beliann, closing her eyes. ‘Promise to look after Bronte. My memory shall live through her.’ She heaved a mammoth, rattling sigh and lay deathly still.

  'She has departed for the Spirit Forest,’ Rosade gravely pronounced. A faraway rumble of thunder emphasised the healer's sad declaration.

  Unwilling to acknowledge the obvious, the Thunderfeet stood about in awkward disbelief. It was the uncomprehending hatchling that broke the pensive silence by announcing her hunger with a demanding squeak. Dragged from her reverie by the insistent call for food, Balticea took charge with her familiar authoritative brusqueness.

  'Rosade, escort the calf to the nursery. Sorrin is in no fit state to usher his daughter anywhere at this time.’ The Grand Matriarch eyed the sorrowful bull, his head and neck hanging dejectedly over Beliann's corpse. ‘Besides, he has a ritual to conduct,’ she flatly added.

  'Who will mother Bronte later in life, after she rejoins the herd?’ the healer asked, herding the hatchling cow away from her dead mother. Patient care extended to offspring and, as every biased female knew, bulls made lousy solo parents.

  'I shall decide that come morning.’ Balticea glanced stonily at the stormy skies. It had been a sleepless, harrowing night and dawn was not far off.

  'You're not thinking of raising Bronte yourself?’ queried Rosade.

  The wizened ruler sighed. ‘I'm too old to run about after a lively infant. For now, I'll entrust my granddaughter's future care to a foster cow. However, I will oversee Bronte's upbringing as often as my matriarchal duties allow.'

  'Might I make a suggestion then?'

  'By all means, Rosade. I value your advice.'

  'Dorna and Tyron spring to mind as the best candidates. They hatched half a clutch this season and will provide brothers and sisters for Bronte to grow up with.'

  Balticea considered the recommendation before rejecting it. ‘That pair already has their brood to raise. One more or less won't make a difference to them. Florella is a better proposal for fostering.'

  'She's only recently widowed, Grand Matriarch.'

  'True enough, but Florella has the makings of an excellent mother. Her maternal instincts are strong and in need of an outlet.'

  'As you command, Balticea.'

  'You disagree?'

  The healer frowned. ‘Florella is still in mourning for her mate.'

  'Caring for a juvenile should ease her through the grief process of losing her bull to those accursed Killjaws. As for Bronte having company, she'll enjoy a blissful season in the crèche alongside the older hatchlings.’ Rosade hesitated taking the hungry youngster away to the nursery. ‘Was there something else?’ pressed Balticea.

  Rosade struggled to find the appropriate words. In the end she gave up and could only say, ‘I'm sorry I could not save Beliann.'

  The Grand Matriarch softened ever so slightly. ‘Don't blame yourself. My daughter was beyond your help.’ Hardening up again, she commanded, ‘Go now and see to my wishes.'

  The aggrieved healer rumbled her assent, adding comfortingly before leaving, ‘Beliann was right, you know. She continues living on through Bronte even now.'

  Balticea had not the heart to respond with her true feelings that a parent should not outlive its child. She watched Rosade usher Bronte from the Hatching Circle, the calf warily approaching the puddles of rainwater dotting the soaked earth flooring the glade before playfully jumping around or splashing through the muddy pools. It seemed impossible to imagine the hopes of an entire Thunderfoot herd resting upon that one carefree infant.

  The rainy night began to clear as the worst of the squall was blown eastwards by a blustering wind. A gentle downpour caressed the already sodden forestland, marking the anti-climactic end to the receding storm. A mournful rumble of lament echoed through the wood, rising in pitch and loudness to terminate in a shrill keening that bade the departing tempest farewell.

  The Grand Matriarch grew sullen. She had listened to the sorrowing Death Wail of the Thunderfeet too many times during her century-long stewardship of her band. Sorrin was announcing the passing of his mate to the woodland inhabitants, as well as calling for the heavenly host in the Spirit Forest to welcome the new arrival into their celestial herd. The dutiful bull would stay at his dead cow's side over the next few hours to keep the carrion feeders off her cooling and stiffening carcass, thereby ensuring her soul safe passage to the afterlife. Only the unfailing appearance of the keen-nosed, larger predators would finally drive Sorrin from his unenviable vigil.

  Balticea steeled herself. It would be unseemly for the Grand Matriarch to be reduced to a blubbering wreck in front of her juniors when informing them of her immediate heir's demise after they awoke at daybreak. She would grieve some time later in private when the only witnesses to her unbridled tears were the uncaring trees. Donning her impervious emotional armour that came with leadership, Balticea plodded heavy-hearted from the clearing that normally hosted new life, only to now personally embody death. On this fateful night she had been simultaneously blessed with joyfulness and cursed with tragedy.

  Burying her conflicting feelings, the aged cow trod the path of inevitability. Life went on.

  * * * *

  The nighttime downpour was unrelenting.

  Less than 100 miles east of the Hatching Circle the dark storm clouds scudded from over the timberland onto the sprawling plain of Fernwalk, soaking the expanse of windswept fronds with their heavy curtain of moisture. Yet even the howling gale and torrential rain could not drown out the commotion made by the thousands-strong gathering of reptiles congregating dismally beneath the furious onslaught of the tempest. Pressed against the edge of the wooded blend of deciduous and evergreen boles heaved a raucous throng of Duckbills crowded haphazardly amid innumerable dark mounds blotting the flatland like an unsightly affliction. This noisome place was just one of the many breeding grounds of the gregarious hadrosaurs, for although they frequented the forest depths, the bipedal, duckbilled plant-eaters favoured open spaces for the hatching and rearing of their young. They subsequently sited their elaborately constructed dome-shaped nests on the verge of the treeless plain, never straying too far from the safety of their woodland haunt.

  This particular colony of clamouring adults squabbling over nesting sites happened to be a breeding colony of crest-less Duckbills, for this newest and more numerous of the plant-eating dinosaurs was divided into two distinct families—those crowned with crests and those unadorned. Forty feet in length and weighing three and a half tons, this species was the largest amongst their brethren and wore the uniform colouration of their many-branched family, a lemony underside offset by a lime green body marked with irregular splotches of tan running along the back and flanks. Devoid of the ornate helmet and snorkel-shaped headgear enabling their crested cousins to produce a myriad of complex hoots and bellows, these plainer Duckbills nevertheless vocalised with equal loudness. They sported a distinguishing flap of crimson
skin sitting atop a lengthened muzzle flattening into the broad beak that gave rise to their generic name. When inflated the bulbous nose sac acted as a resonator, so that the distinctive calls of the reptiles defied even the loudest rumblings of the thundering storm. Mingling with the chirping of the hatching broods, the honking adults turned the entire breeding colony into a vibrant cacophony of sonorous cries.

  A single cow was strangely quiet, at odds to her rowdy neighbours. She was perched atop her mound, head cocked to one side while she listened intently for the first faint sounds of life stirring within the six-foot wide dome of vegetation beneath her. Nineteen eggs had been incubating for the past eleven weeks in a bowl-shaped depression scooped out by the broody female and lined with ferns collected by her partnering bull. Covered with an insulating layer of foliage, the clutch was protected from egg-robbers by the vigilant parents who took alternate turns between guarding the nest and foraging in the nearby forest. Her lifelong mate was returning from one such foray now.

  'Any signs of life yet, Vetta?’ the bull enquired, striding from the shadowy timberline. The pair had managed to win a prime location this nesting season, building their mound on the edge of the plain and backing against their wooded domain. Aside from providing a handy escape route in case danger threatened, the reassuring proximity of the trees bestowed easy access to and from feeding grounds.

  'Shush, Laff. I'm trying to listen.

  The bull strode to a halt before their nest and dropped to all fours. Despite his cow being a seasoned breeder, she fretted so before her eggs hatched. ‘I'll relieve you for a while,’ he offered. ‘You've not eaten since the Life-giver rose.'

  Vetta shot an annoying glance at the sunless night sky, the swirling clouds intermittently lit by lightning flashes and the drumming of their companion thunderclaps. ‘Between the noise of the storm and our honking neighbours, I'll be lucky to hear any darned thing.'

  'Vetta, go and browse,’ insisted Laff. ‘I'll keep an ear out for the younglings.'

  'Maybe later. I've got a feeling they're going to call out very soon.'