Orphans and Outcasts (Northland Rebellion Book 1)

by Kylie Leane

  A head appeared through a small window, air-gills of yellows and pale blues fluttering with excitement. “Nixlye! I’ll be right down.”

  Denvy winced as the house shuddered. He had a horrible vision of the whole shack coming down around them, but it held, and out through the curtain of a small door burst a prince, indigo coat glinting in the light. Denvy hid his alarm behind a cough, trying not to stare at the young prince’s replaced leg, severed at the hip-joint. Briefly the prince glanced his way, a slight frown touching his lips before he straightened, tail twirling back and forth.

  “Rythrya Blessings, Queen Nixlye.”

  “Prince Ryojin.” Nixlye inclined her head. “How are you, my dear old friend?”

  A boisterous laugh flowed from the prince, and he propped his paws on his hips. “Old friend? You’re making me feel as ancient as Father! We have been well, thank you. Father has been much better since Jythal fixed his lungs.” Ryojin glanced down at the Human, who rolled his eyes. “And he has finally given up smoking.”

  “Good to hear.” Nixlye turned to Obakjen, waggling a finger. “Jythal will be pleased.”

  “I was fine!” Obakjen snorted. “Just a bit winded.”

  “Father, you almost died. I could not have looked after the shop myself.” Ryojin’s ears tweaked back.

  Obakjen huffed, turning sharply he stomped off, slipping behind the curtain. Ryojin’s air-gill’s flattened around his neck. “Sorry. He is getting old for a Human in Utillia. I do not know how much longer his lungs will last. I keep asking him to make the trip to Pennadot.”

  Nixlye shook her head. “He was born here, Ryojin. You cannot ask him to go a land he knows nothing about.”

  “That is true, I suppose.” Ryojin’s mechanical leg hissed with steam as it moved, whirring and grinding with gears. “So, do you need the usual, my dear?”

  Nixlye nodded. “Could you double it, though?”

  “Ah. Not expecting to come back for a while?”

  “Probably not.”

  Ryojin nodded. He shifted across to the overstuffed shelves, sorting through the contents.

  Clive suddenly burst out, “Your leg is made of iron!”

  Ryojin paused and looked down. He laughed softly as he placed a few items into a bag and handed them to Nixlye. “Yes, it is. Keen eye you have there, lad.”

  “How did it happen? Was it painful? Did a giant fish eat it?”

  Ryojin’s laughter sounded once more. “It was quite painful as I recall, though, alas, no giant fish ate it. That would have been quite epic. I lost it helping that queen right there,” Ryojin gestured at Nixlye, “escape from the evil clutches of the Iposti.”

  Nixlye snorted. “I recall it the other way around. I saved your pretty little tail.”

  “No, no, it was all me.”

  Nixlye rolled her eyes and smirked up at Denvy. “It was me. I saved him.”

  Ryojin’s arms spread wide. “I’m the resident mechanic of Ishabal. If a limb needs replacing, I’m the go-to-Kattamont for the job.”

  Nixlye graced Denvy with a wince. “Many Scavengers tend to lose limbs burning-sea diving. I worry for Aaldryn often. Ryojin is kept quite busy. He is the best in the business.”

  “Whooooa!” Clive climbed onto the table, picking up the nearest odd-looking device. Denvy clapped a paw over his face with a groan. He really had to start teaching Clive proper manners. “You make all this stuff! How does it work?”

  Ryojin gently plucked the pair of goggles from Clive’s hands and kindly set them around the boy’s head. “Like most things in Utillia, machines either run off Mist or wind. Here, in the Outer Sectors, Mist is all we have. We don’t rely upon the Simoon for our power; that is Iposti nonsense. We choose to power ourselves. My machines all run off Mist.”

  “So your leg is Mist powered,” Denvy mused. His people had become ingenious in the time he had been away. He felt a small ball of pride growing in his stomach as he studied the young prince. Without the Zaprexes to guide them, the Kattamont civilization might have collapsed, but, looking around Ishabal, he saw a thriving world. It was mayhap not the cleanest, safest, or happiest of homes, but his people had built something, at least, out of the ashes of war.

  Ryojin nodded. “Mist comes in three different forms. The vapour that farmers capture, the purified liquid that runs sand-ships, and its hardened state.” The prince tugged out a string of white jewels from his hip-bags. “It’s a trade secret, the use of Mist’s jewelled form.” He tapped the stones against his leg. “Have to crank up the old leg every couple hours, but it gets you around better than a piece of wood.”

  “I imagine your services are highly sought after.”

  Ryojin sighed. He rubbed a paw through his air-gills. “There’s a reason we’re living in the Outer Sector. The Ruling Prides are very persistent.”

  “Aaldryn and Jythal’s invitation still stands, by the way,” Nixlye said. “They would be thrilled were you to join their Brotherhood, and I honoured if you would join our Pride. And you know Mother; she would do anything to stick a thorn in the side of the Ruling Prides.”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “I know, and I am grateful for the offer.” His gaze shifted to the curtain across the entrance into the shack. “Father cannot travel anymore with his lungs. He needs me here. He would wish me to go, but I cannot leave him.”

  “You are a very responsible lad.” Denvy smiled warmly. Ryojin glanced his way, studying him once more. Likely the young prince was baffled at his lack of mane and the atrophy of his muscles. He was in quite a dishevelled state.

  “You have the most stunning fur colour, sir.”

  Denvy blinked in surprise. That was not what he had expected to come out of the prince’s mouth.

  Clive laughed. “Everyone says that about Khwaja Denvy! It’s so funny.”

  “Well, he does.” Ryojin ruffled Clive’s hair. “Are you Nixlye’s new prince?”

  “Sun above, no,” Denvy chortled. “I am an old stray they kindly saved from poachers.”

  “It was amazing.” Clive bounced on the table.

  “How would you know?” Nixlye tweaked the boy’s ear. “You were unconscious.”

  “Well…well…” Clive pouted. “Khwaja Denvy, can I have these glasses?” Switching tactics, Clive waved his arm about dramatically. Denvy sighed, catching the boy before he fell off the table.

  “They’re actually night-vision goggles,” Ryojin responded kindly. “Most Humans cannot see in the dark.” He slipped the goggles off Clive’s head. “So these were designed for you. They’re rather handy in a tight spot, I hear. Lots of scavengers use them.”

  “Interesting.” Denvy raised his brow. “Messengers have something similar.”

  Ryojin rubbed his cheek. “Well, I might have stolen the design off a Messenger passing through.”

  “Ah.”

  “We tend to do that.” Ryojin looked around the market and up into the heights of the Zaprex turret. “We steal from everything. It is as if we are trying to find ourselves again. And, until we do, we will keep searching.”

  “Can I have them, Khwaja Denvy?” Clive pulled on his sleeve. “Please, please, please!”

  He wanted to say no, really he did, but he had lost his ability to deny his children a long time ago. Perhaps that was his problem. Reaching under his poncho, Denvy fiddled for his pouch of jewels and pulled out a small ruby, handing it to Ryojin.

  The prince raised an eyebrow. “Ah, this is more than enough.”

  Denvy shrugged. “Perhaps it will help you and your father through the winter.” He hoisted Clive off the table, setting him down gently. The happy boy pulled his goggles over his head proudly and beamed. “Now I look like I really belong here!”

  “Indeed, you do.” Denvy chuckled. “Come along, let’s find your sisters and get something to eat.”

  “Oh!” Ryojin cast about. “I’ll come with you.” He ducked his head through the curtain into the shack, giving a yell. “Father, I’m just taking my break. Watch
the shop, please.”

  Beside the Lawless Child, their little dhow7 sand-ship was barely visible. But for its shimmering rainbow sails, lit up with Mist, Jarvis was sure it would have been swallowed up by the immense ships surrounding it. He had a small bit of pride though, sitting in his stomach, as he stared at the dhow Aaldryn had managed to wrangle out of the dock manager for a fair price. It was a sweet little sand-ship, if a bit worn out. Jarvis ruffled the feathers of his scarf. He had once been a farmer boy of the Wynnila Basin, a simple Plains lad, clad in a summer frock. Now he was preparing to be a sailor of the burning-sea. He could hear his mother’s voice, as though it were the soft wind brushing his hair aside, kissing his cheek, telling him that no one truly knew the steps of their own path.

  Zafiashid’s tail fell over his head playfully and he shivered at the warmth of her feathers. The queen swept up beside him, looming under the light of the Mist lantern she held in a paw. Jythal grabbed his arm abruptly, yanking him out of her reach and holding him protectively against his midriff.

  “Mother, please stop playing with our new prince.”

  Zafiashid huffed. “You are no fun, Jythal.”

  “Play with someone who will fight back fairly.” Jythal made a shooing motion with a paw.

  “Fine. Fine.” Zafiashid stalked away, her tail twirling as she turned to Aaldryn and Titus who were shifting Mist supplies into the little dhow’s galley.

  Jythal licked his paw and smoothed Jarvis’ hair. Jarvis scrunched up his face. “I’m fine.”

  “That isn’t the problem. She got her scent all over you.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  Jythal shrugged. “No. It marks you as under her protection, but Nixlye would prefer it to be her scent. Queens tend to be territorial, especially when they live in such close proximity like Zafiashid and Nixlye.”

  “How do they work it out, then?”

  “Nixlye is half Human. That makes a considerable difference.” Jythal took his arm. “Come, I’ll help you collect your things.”

  The Sun had sunk low in the horizon and Jythal’s colouring stood out even more distinctly without his parasol to obscure him. As they walked together, eyes followed them intently, some envious, others curious. Jarvis was almost glad the prince was blind, unable to see the stares.

  Jarvis staggered, his usually loose bionic limbs seizing up suddenly as the philepcon liquid that moved them sparked in alarm. He choked out a gasp, clutching at his throat.

  “Jarvis? Jarvis are you all right?”

  He panted, a flush of sweat rushing over his skin as his metal hull repolarised, aligning itself once more. The whole process took barely a few seconds, but it was blindingly painful as the nano-bots refocused. He rested against Jythal, clutching the Kattamont’s paw, blinking against the dazzling lights of his optical lenses.

  “Whoa,” he whispered. “That was weird.”

  “What happened?”

  “Something threw my systems out of alignment.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  Jarvis focused, centring in on himself. It was his damaged chest that registered, and the faint alarm that was still bleeping red against his lenses, though he had been ignoring it for so long it had become part of his vision. Jarvis nodded, only to slap his forehead. Jythal could not see visual cues.

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Jythal gave his head a pat. “Perhaps you are still recovering.”

  He hoped that was the case.

  They found Titus lounging on a crate of supplies, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Even the thinnest rays of sunlight were enough to cause him discomfort. The Hunter’s gaze flicked their way. He smiled in greeting and Jarvis sheepishly scrubbed the back of his neck as he hugged the pack of gear gathered from the Lawless Child.

  “Got everything, Little Weasel?

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  Jarvis looked up at Jythal as he shifted, and the planks beneath them groaned. His eyes were drawn to the darkness between the cracks of the harbour’s interlinking rows. Every so often, the swirling breaths of the burning-sea would hiss through the gaps. It was as though the ancient sand was whispering a reminder that it was there, below them, waiting for its moment to consume them.

  Jarvis shook off the eeriness and scratched his temple, wishing the red spot on his optical lens would vanish. He should have asked the Key more about being a Changeling when he had had the chance.

  “You finally have your own sand-ship, brother,” Jythal joked as Aaldryn joined them.

  Zafiashid laughed. “That’s just what I was telling him. He didn’t think it was funny.”

  “It isn’t,” Aaldryn grouched. “It’s a dhow.”

  Jarvis pushed through the Kattamonts, beaming. “I think it’s magnificent.”

  Zafiashid wrapped an arm around her son, hugging him to her chest. He did not pull away, though it was amusing to see the taller prince bend his legs to accommodate the queen.

  “A sand-ship needs a name. You must name her.”

  “Since Jarvis likes her so much, why don’t you let him name her?” Jythal’s unseeing eyes sought his position and Jarvis cocked a small smile. He liked to think that to Jythal he smelt like the sweet scent of Zaprex crystals and that was how the rune doctor always knew where to turn his head to.

  “Well…” Jarvis rubbed his chin. “Something Kelib. For Ki’b.”

  “You are so sweet,” Zafiashid purred.

  “Oh!” Jarvis leapt up onto the edge of the dock’s railing, gazing down at their sand-ship, swamped in size by the larger Lawless Child. “How about Cor’Qwnpr?”

  “No idea what that means.” Aaldryn frilled his air-gills.

  “Silver Slasher in Common Basic.” Jarvis frowned. “You know: Cor for the Cor River Network in Pennadot. Cor means silver, and Qwnpr is usually the word used for a slashing object in Kelib, like a blade, or a dagger, or even a farmer’s sickle. Changes meaning depending on how you pronounce it, according to Ki’b—”

  Jarvis glanced from one to the other. “Wait. You don’t know any Kelib? Not even a little bit?” Jarvis crossed his arms stoutly. His father had insisted he learn some of the tongue of the Kelibs, at least to help in appeasing the few trees on their farm. Contented trees, his father said, meant a contented farm. They always had an ample supply of lumber whenever they asked, because they respected their trees.

  Jarvis frowned, glancing at Titus. His master’s black eyes shared his gaze. Titus shook his head and Jarvis breathed easier. Titus knew how much wished he could return home, as though nothing had transpired to lead him here. The Hunter had family too, and he was just as far from his home.

  Zafiashid startled him with a laugh. “Lad, I don’t think even the Kelibs in Utillia remember how to speak Kelib. They have been here for generations. Whatever roots they had connecting them to Pennadot have long gone.”

  “Still.” Aaldryn clapped his paws. “I like it. Strong name, Jarvis. She’ll sail us well with a strong name. You’ve got to treat your sand-ships like family. That’s the key to living on the burning-sea.”

  He could do that. The family Khwaja Denvy had given him might not have been the one he had been born into, but it was just as precious now. He could make a sand-ship part of that family. Jarvis gripped the pummel of his elemental-blade, heading for the stairs that led to the jetty. “You need to teach me how to use it, Aaldryn.”

  “That’s Captain Aaldryn to you.” The prince clapped his shoulder. His hull should have absorbed the force of the Kattamont’s strength; the protector bot within him was capable of dissipating immense amounts of force, even without his gravity bubble activated. So the surprise of finding himself on his knees, sprawled out, alarmed not just him, but those around him too.

  “Jarvis!”

  His hands went to his head as the red he had been ignoring burst in a shattering eruption against his skull, scratching down his spine like needles. He was momentarily aware of an intrusion into his mind, not unlike the Dragon i
nvading his firewalls, but it was released through in a torrent as its code was recognized. His gaze snapped to the Zaprex turret in alarm. Information, jumbled together in panic, flooded into him. Titus’ arms, strong and steady, held him up by his shoulders, and he sensed Zafiashid crouching, her heavy paw on his arm.

  “Is it your wound?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head. It was worse. So much worse than any old wound. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Death. A friend was dying—a friend he did not even know. The turret.

  “The gravity is destabilizing. The turret is failing.” He covered his face. “I’m sad.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I hope my gift soothes your anger.

  Goodness knows how you can stand drinking the stuff.

  It’s horrendous.

  Today was a momentous day.

  Please do raise a toast, my dear, to our future.

  I truly do not know if the energy produced by the rotation of the Northlands will be enough to create the same symphony as the Towers, but the gravity should hold long enough to keep the other lands in orbit stable.

  By my predictions the Secondary Realm will begin collapsing some centuries from now. They’ll see the signs—I hope. If we’re not here, to warn them.

  It gives us some stability for now.

  Well…

  As much stability as you can have in war.

  I am sorry, my love, that no one ever listened to your warnings—about the core, about the danger lurking within.

  We just saw a broken world in need of fixing.

  You saw the mouse trap.

  Private Communications Link.

  Utillian Time 5:24AM.

  Signal: Strong.

  Upload: Completed.

  Do you wish to send?

  Send Beer. Yes. I would just love to defrag eight cartons of beer to my bonding partner thank you…

  Denvy was surprised by Ryojin’s strength as the indigo Kattamont grabbed his arm to help him navigate the press of bodies blocking their path. Nixlye had already wheeled ahead some distance, her solid metal chair and sharp tongue aiding her greatly in pushing her way through the crowds. Sol-cycles surrounded by Humans and Kelibs had made Denvy forget how strong his own race was. Teaching himself to be gentle, slow, and kindly had taken a considerable effort, and now it was all unravelling around him.