City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [78]
‘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