He approached two soldiers standing at the entrance arch framing a massive quercus wood door set into one of the older stone walls surviving in Villiren. The men were wearing crimson uniforms under their dull metal body armour, and massive sheathed sabres hung from their hips. They chatted idly, unprofessionally, rubbing their hands and shifting their weight from foot to foot to stamp out the chill.
He declared, ‘I would like to see your commander.’
The guards laughed. ‘Yeah, right,’ one said, a chubby man with deep-set eyes and bad skin. ‘He don’t just see anyone unarranged.’
Bugger. Malum should have realized he couldn’t just walk in there, not at this time of night. ‘I’m Malum, of the Bloods,’ he explained.
‘Don’t care who you are, mate,’ the other stated. ‘We need to be expecting you.’
‘Fucksake, I’ve already met him before. Look, can you at least pass a message to him?’
The guards conferred. ‘Go on then.’
Malum continued. ‘Tell him that Malum of the Bloods has come to a decision about helping the commander out with the impending war. And tell him that his preferences as to men has been noted, and frowned upon. Make sure you get that men bit, though. I’ll be waiting outside the Victory Hole tavern at sunset tomorrow. He can meet me there if he wants to keep his rep intact.’
And with that, Malum turned and merged again with the cold Villiren evening.
NINETEEN
Wax cape bundled around his shoulders, Brynd marched through the dreary streets of Villiren back towards the Citadel. Another failed meeting with some of the self-appointed district representatives. When would they realize that if no one would help by joining the citizen militias, then they would have no houses left in which to take sanctuary?
Featureless stone facades lined a narrow iren, which seemed much poorer than many of the others. There wasn’t a lot for sale either – cheap incense, pots and pans and blades rusted by months of bad weather. Traders scowled at him from under decrepit canopies. Some bore wooden signs supporting the unions, or cursing some of the larger corporations – Broun Merchants or Ferryby’s or Coumby’s. Brynd learned that companies or individuals rented out space at the larger irens, taking in return a slice of the profits, but the traders couldn’t do anything about it – that was where everyone went to buy their goods, and Lutto himself had passed the relevant legislation in the first place.
Up ahead three figures, huddled on the ground, gaped up at his approach.
‘Commander Lathraea!’ the woman spluttered. She hastily handed a book she had been carrying the last time to one of the others, then made her way over. It was those same old cultists dressed in tweed. The woman herself was nearly as tall as him, but the other two – one with a moustache and the other bald – continued studying some of the designs they had made on the flagstones, weird script and cipher marked with chalk. They kept gesturing to each other erratically.
‘Yes, it’s uh . . .’
‘Bellis! Of the Order of the Grey Hairs, at your service. Sir, have you found any use for us yet? We’re still as active as any of those reckless young cultists who keep blowing themselves up. Years of expertise, you see.’
This bunch seemed mad and untrustworthy, and he had better things to be doing right now. And he could smell alcohol on her breath. ‘As of yet,’ he said, ‘the planning has been concentrated on less esoteric methods, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh well, we’ll be about if you need us. A shame really, as we can offer quite a bit, but if you insist on using those silly conventional methods then you go ahead, young man.’ She gave him a kind of salute, and he wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not.
He gave a cautious smile and continued past.
*
Red sunlight streamed across the table in Brynd’s small studverlooking the harbour. Seagulls and pterodettes screamed outsidis window, circling the skies endlessly. Charts and maps papered alour walls of this room, lines of potential strategy marked on them iarious colours. Bold lines slashed across them like wounds. He’een studying the streets for real, as well as these sketches, calculatinhe flow of troops needed in response to flows of attack. Probabilitief access and of restrictions: these were tight streets, and bottleneckould prove a weapon or a curse, depending on the situation. Sucariables he had committed to memory on the spot, then writteown instructions to be fed to other officers.
According to garuda reports, the most likely method of attack would be a sea landing directly into Villiren’s harbour – since the enemy was lining up directly opposite. Punctuating the shoreline for miles in either direction, he’d stationed small units to keep watch.
A knock on the open door and Brynd glanced up.
Nelum Valore stood before him, a lieutenant of the Night Guard. One of Brynd’s closest comrades, they’d long served alongside each other and in the field, getting to know each other by instinct. His wide-muscled figure suggested someone who relied upon his strength to get by, but Brynd had instead come to value the man’s ferocious intelligence, his keen eye for logic, his knack of looking through the gaps in the world he confronted. Nelum’s swarthy figure seemed to add to the mysterious aura he gave off whenever he retreated into his mind during deep contemplation. In such uncertain times Brynd felt that Nelum should be ranked at the top of any command structures.
‘Sir, the Okun.’
‘What about them?’
The Okun had been captured on Tineag’l several weeks ago, in a small-scale skirmish that had led to the death of his friend and comrade, Apium, but ever since they had been in Villiren, they had proved unresponsive, locked away in darkness while remaining seemingly dormant.
‘They’re up and alert now.’
‘How did they wake?’ Brynd asked.
‘They were moved into a different cell yesterday,’ Nelum replied. ‘One with more light. They’d been showing marginal reaction to torchlight, so we suggested they might have preferences. And guess what? They appeared to react after being exposed to daylight, slowly coming to life. They even began to bleed again from their wounds. They’re still locked up now, the two of them.’
‘Right, I’ll come.’ Brynd grabbed his sabre and followed the lieutenant from the room.
*
Brynd entered the metal-lined holding cell, with Nelum and guardtepping in behind him. He pulled his sabre free, uncertain of whaight happen – fearful, if he was honest, because he had no idea whao expect.
They were still lying there, on the floor, massive and alien. Both creatures’ flesh pulsated under their shells, slick juices seeping out of their skin, the black fluid pooling near his feet. The stench of them was rancid and more intense than ever.
Two pairs of eyes opened and he lurched backwards.
In that instant, Nelum and the guards were gripping their swords in readiness, but Brynd cautioned them to hold back. The Okun would most likely feel threatened in a new world, imprisoned like this, and they could prove more dangerous if undue pressure was applied to them.
Nelum leaned over towards Brynd and he asked earnestly, ‘Your thoughts, commander?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. They’re definitely alive, which is good. As long as they’re alive we can examine them, and study them, for points of weakness to exploit in combat. Surely this must be our best chance of understanding the enemy? I mean to say, if a victory is possible, it might come from such a careful study. And perhaps they can offer more clues as to the nature of Earth – it’s clear we’re learning more and more about the Boreal Archipelago as time goes on. Apparently they came through some gate, from some other world. So much clearly exists that we don’t understand.’
‘Other worlds . . . perhaps, perhaps.’ Nelum nodded, looking down as his mind began to sift for a theory. ‘But I’d suggest they’re closer to us, to our world that is, than we first thought. We know they’re bipedal and – look – they have two compound eyes, and a structure much like other life forms that can be found on most shores under t
he same red sun as ourselves. Hypothetically, in another world with other landscapes and alternative biological systems, one would expect selection pressures to have forced greater differences. Morphologically, say, three eyes or legs. The interesting thing, if this is not the case . . . well, it means that the world they came from has once shared similarities or ancestries to our own. We share similar evolutionary traits, and therefore we share a history.’
‘Our roots are the same,’ Brynd whispered, in awe of his lieutenant’s theory.
Nelum nodded, not removing his gaze from the creatures.
There lay, somewhere in the coming weeks, a solution, although more questions were growing exponentially before them. Brynd could only just about get his head around the facts – he was not a man who had devoted much of his life to detailed academic pursuits, unlike Nelum. These Okun creatures had at some stage shared a past with humans and rumel. So was it possible that they could now share a world? Brynd contemplated his lieutenant. If anything happened to Brynd himself during the coming conflict, then he would want that mind, that man Nelum, to take full charge of anything remotely tactical.
‘It would perhaps be useful if we could visit these gates, the ones they purportedly came through.’
‘We can’t because . . . ?’ Nelum asked.
‘Surrounded by enemy troops. You’ve seen the garuda reports, I think. Huge numbers currently pouring across Tineag’l. The journey there would be too reckless, especially since we’d have to cut right through their invasion force.’
‘So we must just sit and wait for them to attack – either us or a city further up the coast, who knows,’ Nelum said, not a question, just a statement of what they both realized. Theirs was a waiting game. ‘Bohr, we might die before we find out what it all means.’
One of the Okun suddenly began to cackle. Brynd crouched to take a better look at it. There was a mouthpiece, a jaw resembling that of a rabid dog, equipped with several incisor teeth that glinted metallically.
Brynd glanced askew at Nelum. ‘Is it trying to talk?’
‘Well, I think it might be – who would have thought it? Now, what do you suppose it’s aiming to say precisely?’
The sounds it made were more like staccato coughs than anything resembling a voice, and even though he listened for a while, Brynd knew any communication was unlikely.
‘If only we had some way of knowing what the hell it was going on about,’ Brynd said.
‘You know, I suppose there’s always Jurro . . .’ Nelum offered.
‘Could be worth a go.’
*
The Dawnir progressed thunderously through the hallway leading the small cell which housed the Okun. He was already so excited! How often had any new creatures come to his attention? Possibly never – or, at least, not after the discovery of his own existence in the Boreal Archipelago. Thousands of years spent trying to find a memory of his own, yet he was once so fresh to this world that he might have been a baby. He needed to learn a language from scratch – and had now mastered over fifty of them.
He had been told he was found wandering through the tundra outside of Villjamur, and assumed to be some kind of prophet at first, then even a god of the creator race, the Dawnir. And when everyone finally realized he knew nothing of the world, that he could give them nothing, they lost interest in him, such was life. He had been kept as an imprisoned guest of the Council ever since, and they had been reluctant to let him outside, for his own good, in case disaffected types hailed him as a religious leader.
Rotting away in his chambers, he had all his books, and had made the most of them, turning nearly every printed page available in a quest to discover who he was and where he came from. The recent opportunity to leave his dark retreat inside the Imperial residence of Balmacara had been a godsend. And now the opportunity to investigate a new-found race . . . well, that was something to be utterly delighted about. For the first time in centuries had come an opportunity to discover his own origins, for if these shell-creatures came from somewhere else, some other world entirely, then they might bring with them pertinent information.
Information was his life. There might now be some answers.
He had to hunch to fit into the room, but still very nearly caught his tusks in the door frame. More than once he had scraped them in these cramped stone shells of his new home. He brushed a hand across his thick body fur as a cobweb smothered his ear, then he lowered his head to focus on Brynd, dominating much of the available space.
‘Commander Brynd Lathraea and Lieutenant Nelum Valore. A pleasure, no? I hear our little malacostraca friends are no longer slumbering like cherubs?’
‘Sele of Jamur, Jurro,’ the commander greeted him, apparently amused, as so often, by the words issuing from Jurro’s lips. The Dawnir estimated Brynd highly. He was a sound man, a philosopher as well as a warrior – just as much a warrior, even. The two had conversed during many years in his forgotten chamber in Villjamur.
‘Let’s show you these things, then.’
Jurro felt the gaze of a few Night Guard soldiers fixed on him, as they stood aside to let him through. They always moved so quickly, these humans, as if there was an urgency to all their actions.
It was not easy being the only one of a kind. Even these two Okun outnumbered his own race at the moment. Brynd soon brought him up to speed on their analysis of the situation. They led him over to the Okun, the two creatures now quivering perceptibly on the tiled floor.
They froze as soon as they registered the presence of the Dawnir in the room. Then, as one, both the creatures shambled to something resembling a standing position, though awkwardly, in such an unlikely connection of movements. Together they fell to their knees, as if in the presence of some Jorsalir priest.
The commander turned to his lieutenant. ‘Well, they’ve never behaved like that before.’
‘Intriguing,’ Jurro mumbled, then crouched until he was at eye-level with the humans surrounding him. These Okun were unyielding as they were inspected by the Dawnir. They began clicking again, something quite incoherent at first, and then he began to understand the noises they made on some level. Not understand perhaps, merely recognize? After all, he had been cursed or blessed with spending all those centuries reading the texts within the confines of his chamber in Villjamur. The knowledge he had accumulated was only useful once he was out here, in the real world. It was a relief, finally, that he might serve some function other than as a curiosity.
‘You comprehend these sounds?’ the albino commander enquired.
Jurro turned to face the humans in the room. They all seemed to him the same at first, and it was only the commander’s red eyes that singled him out. ‘I know only that they are asking me for my forgiveness or pardon. Something along those lines, I believe. Yet, I don’t understand quite how I know that. Such random knowledge! I might have read it in a text, you see. Or I have learned it at some other earlier time. I cannot quite tell. How can we trust memory, when it is not accurately documented, when it is perhaps only the shadow of something I remember. My mental vaults have grown vast.’
There were no expressions evident on their faces that he could recognize, nothing to give away their emotion as the expressions of humans or rumel so often did – so easy to read, and childlike. These Okun were something altogether different. It was truly baffling!
‘I think I sense it, rather than know it, but they see me as some threat. Yes, that is so. They know who I am!’ The realization almost stung him, he was so used to appearing as nothing but a myth to those he encountered.
‘Or what you are,’ Brynd suggested. ‘Do you suppose there are more of your kind where they come from? And that, in that other place, whoever your kind are actually frighten them?’
Jurro muttered, ‘It may well be.’
He knew for sure that he must ascertain more about them. Although their communication was one way, this was the first time in his long life where he had the opportunity to find out who he was. For so long he had
remained an enigma not only to the officials of Villjamur but, more importantly, to himself. He had watched the lives of countless rulers and the general populace come and go, had watched the ice encroaching in recent times. None of it mattered to him, because the pattern just repeated itself: humans and rumel alike making the same mistakes for decade after decade. He himself aged hardly at all, and for all that time he had wanted to know his origins.
‘I must, of course, discover from whence these two little specimens came,’ Jurro announced.
The albino studied him with empathy. He had always been unusually smart, Jurro reflected, this pale thing. ‘I understand,’ the commander replied. ‘You think their invasion force might let you through its ranks?’
Jurro held out his hands to either side, and shrugged. ‘I may need assistance, but before I leave I want to interrogate them as thoroughly as possible. I understand a great deal about forms of language. Perhaps I could gain crucial intelligence.’
‘That would be deeply helpful,’ the commander agreed. ‘Although if you want to leave here you might have to progress on your own. We have to commit all of our numbers to protecting the city.’
Jurro acquiesced, studying the Okun once more. They had risen to their feet again, still focusing their eyes on him, still unmoving apart from their mouthpieces. ‘They seem to fear me greatly, so I doubt very much that their kind will offer me much in the way of hindrance. I shall make plans, and I will need some maps, and your advice, commander, on the routes to follow to find the location of these so-called gates through which these little fellows crawled. And I will need you to allow me some time with them in a cell so that I can press for information.’
With that, he departed.
TWENTY
The Dawnir squeezed through the narrow metal door and lumbered into the cell to engage with the Okun again. The creatures scrambled away from him, thrusting their backs against the stone wall, feet skidding on the floor. Jurro motioned, in whatever forms he thought appropriate, for them to settle, but it wasn’t much use. Fear had possessed them, made them nervous and volatile. He set two lanterns on the floor, as a guard slammed the door behind him, leaving him utterly alone with this new species. No chairs in the room, no tables, nothing civilized here, only bare stone surfaces and a vacant space between them and himself. But they shared a tension, something indefinable.
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