Orphans and Outcasts (Northland Rebellion Book 1)

by Kylie Leane

Jarvis’ eyes widened and he turned, pin-pointing the area she had just vacated. He ran, tying a line around his waist. The hesitation was momentary, barely stalling him as he plunged over the edge of the dhow and into the shifting sands of the burning-sea. The impact was dazzling, like thousands of tiny needles intruding against his metal hull as it absorbed the force. He struggled against the crushing weight of the sand, moving his philepcon liquid through his muscles, charging each push. His eyes caught every movement within the sand, folding back the darkness like it was a curtain. A paw waved in front of him and he fumbled for it. Everything was slow, the sand so thick. He screamed silently in frustration as he tried again. This time his hands latched around Khwaja Denvy’s wrists. He heaved backwards, feeling his body strain as the protector bot whirred in a burst of energy.

  The old Kattamont had kept him alive in the darkness, in the terrible box. His voice, deep and gravelled, had been the only thing in the heartless world he had been shoved into that had told him to live.

  You have to keep living, Khwaja Denvy. You have to see Zinkx again.

  The spark activated down his backbone, the protector bot within him spreading out and down his limbs. It felt as though one of his father’s heavy winter coats had fallen over him, and was now moulding itself over his skin as his warm metal hull expanded, forming a full exoskeleton.

  The burst of energy pulsed around him, swelling the sand back, just enough, he realized, to pull them both out. Paws grabbed them. Aaldryn and Ryojin dragged them towards the Silver Slasher and onto the deck. Ki’b flung herself onto him but he barely felt her heavy weight. His body was buzzing. The world looked eerily clearer. His heard turned sharply toward Aaldryn and he blinked. Had he not been pinned down by Ki’b, he would have scrambled away in alarm at the sight of the halo of wind that rose from the Kattamont prince. It shifted, coiling like a snake, a triangular head forming. Yellow eyes peered down at him, unblinking and curious.

  It is all right, Changeling. What you are seeing is the Secondary Realm and how it interacts with the Primary Realm. You are currently in your protector bot mode; you need to deactivate it.

  Khamsin’s voice. He was seeing Khamsin’s apparition surrounding Aaldryn. Jarvis wiped his face, only to feel a veil-like shield coating his features.

  “You’ve got to see yourself, brother,” Aaldryn chuckled. “You look like a legendary machine from Nixlye’s tales.”

  “We’ve got to go.” Jarvis scrambled to his feet. “Aaldryn, we have to go now!”

  He pointed through the darkness beyond them. The null-zone was coming. Could the others not see it? The data eroding before their eyes? The desktop grid was vanishing and he had never seen anything more terrifying; not even a Twizel was this frightening. This was the terror their world faced if the Key did not get its Map piece, if the Borders stopped spinning—a death of total blackness, of deletion, of nothing.

  “Aaldryn!” Jarvis tripped over Khwaja Denvy. “Get us out of here.”

  The Kattamont scrambled for the controls, but already Khamsin had sent the vessel speeding forward in a burst of wind, ignoring the direction of the sails. Jarvis winced as the mast groaned with the strain. He was caught in a weak grasp and he looked back, finding Khwaja Denvy’s gaze.

  “Thank you, Jarvis, for coming back for me.”

  That was unexpected. It was if the old man had not believed anyone would bother. Jarvis frowned. “Sir, you are the reason we survived that box. I will always, always come back for you.”

  He might have become a Messenger but it did not mean he had to accept their belief of leaving soldiers behind to die, to never turn back on the field of battle for fear of falling prey to Twizels. He was still Jarvis of the Plains People, a farmer’s son. He would always come back.

  The small city was hanging together by threads of metal.

  He heard Clive’s shout. “Why does it look like it’s raining?”

  It did. His little sibling was right. It looked as though it was raining, only the rain was moving upwards, and it was not rain—they were tiny particles of data being lost as the null-zone approached. He was glad he was not the one who would have to explain to Clive that they were breathing the remains of people. Jarvis clutched at the railing as they launched through the air and landed roughly against a dune. He cursed under his breath as Aaldryn swung them around a dislodged house sticking out of the burning-sea. Their path changed abruptly, towards the harbour, or what was left of it, and suddenly the sea of debris became overshadowed by the immense, looming fixtures of the trading vessels. Did Aaldryn see them? They were heading right for them.

  “The trading vessels!” Jarvis screeched. “They’re blocking our path!” The huge sand-ships had formed a wall, crushed and bent against each other. There had been no hope of them leaving the harbour after the waves had dislodged them. They were approaching too fast. The dhow would be crushed upon impact.

  “I can see that.” Aaldryn heaved down on the sails, strapping them down. “Ryo! Keep everyone tied to the deck.”

  “What are you doing?’ Jarvis scrambled after him as he switched levers and began to crack around on another smaller wheel. It wheezed and whirred with each spin.

  “Hold on!” Aaldryn howled. Jarvis slammed back onto his rump as wings spread out from the sides of the dhow, launching them into the air. Mist ignited down the sails on either sides of the sand-ship, boosting their flight and Jarvis covered his face as wind erupted from Aaldryn. The underbelly of the Silver Slasher scraped against a trading vessel, the loud screech drowning out all thought but that of survival. Jarvis held his breath. They landed with a thud on the other side, swelling up sand. Aaldryn collapsed back. Nixlye called out in alarm, trying to move towards him. Instead the indigo Kattamont quickly scrambled up.

  “Aaldryn?”

  “Ryo, can you get the controls? I can’t get us to the Lawless. I have to stop.” He curled up, clutching his head. Ryojin briefly touched his shoulder before grabbing the helm, swinging the dhow in the direction of a gathering of vessels far out into the dunes. It was so sudden Jarvis barely caught the gleam of the iron cable in the darkness. His reflexes moved him forward, running for the Kattamont prince at the controls, but he was too far away. Before his eyes the feline was ripped from the deck and dragged overboard as dozens of metal cables surrounded their sand-ship. His hand was still outstretched in startled alarm when Ki’b’s cries reached him and he spun, seeing swarms of wreckage swirling towards them, dragged by a sand-dune wave.

  “Aaldryn. We’re not free of the gravity,” he shouted. “Do something!”

  “Get us loose.” Aaldryn shoved him.

  Jarvis dashed down onto the lower deck, ripping out his colour sword. He headed for the nearest cable, swinging his blade.

  Nixlye’s hand grabbed his ankle. “Where is Ryojin?”

  “I wasn’t fast enough.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Nixlye scrambled forward. “No. Ryojin. No! No. Please!” she screamed over the edge of the railing. Denvy’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him. The two landed roughly against the deck as the sand-ship heaved to one side. Jarvis hacked at the iron cable dragging them back into the null-zone’s grasp. He spared an anxious glance at the wall of vessels they were being hauled toward. Ki’b joined him, bloodying her fingers as she tore through the metal with her bare hands. The crack echoed around them. Jarvis threw himself over Ki’b as the cable whiplashed apart, breaking against the rails of the dhow. The Silver Slasher burst forth in a rush of wind. He dared to peer over Ki’b’s head, up at Aaldryn. The prince looked frail against the controls, wind coiling about him as he dragged their tiny sand-ship free of the debris zone.

  Nixlye clung to Denvy, sobbing into his chest. She had bloodied her claws, ripping into his fur. How he wished he could control the dhow, to let Aaldryn go to his mate in her distress. He dragged himself back onto the top deck.

  “I think we’re free.”

  Aaldryn’s paws twisted arou
nd the wheel. “The Lawless made it out, too.”

  Through the burning-sea dunes, the Lawless Child was lit up brightly in a show of Mist, amongst the other sand-ships that had survived the ruin. Smaller dhows and life-boats bobbed against the tossing sand waves. Panicked voices and the sound of grieving met them as they moved through the gathering that had formed.

  So few had made it out. Jarvis rubbed his sweating hands together.

  Nixlye’s weeping made it all worse. It made it even more real. His sister had cried like that when the Twizels had killed her husband. He could still remember it. Jarvis shook his head, trying to clear the memory.

  The Lawless Child’s deck was covered in crew, and they were eerily silent, faces turned to the ruins of Ishabal. Upon sighting them, they were hailed with shouts of greeting and ropes were thrown overboard—along with Master Titus, who leapt and landed on the deck of the dhow. He skidded up beside Khwaja Denvy.

  “The Ki’rayh is swift on our tail. We can draw it away if we leave now.”

  “You’re not serious,” Jarvis spluttered out. They had barely made it out. He did not want to go. They were not ready—he was not ready. Leaving Ki’b, Clive, and Penny…Nixlye and Jythal?

  “I am. We have to leave now.”

  Denvy’s brow furrowed. “Titus—”

  “Denvy, yeh’ve got stuff to do here in Utillia. Yeh do not want a Ki’rayh on yer heels. Jarvis and I can deal with it, get it back to Coltarian where it belongs. Yeh know Messenger code. We run.”

  Something in those words made the old man turn. Something made his shoulders sag in defeat and Jarvis wished he could reach out and reassure him that they were not running away from him. He could not, though. There was no time. Jarvis clutched at Ki’b’s hand. Her eyes widened in understanding and she flung her arms around his neck, sobbing. He could barely come out with something worth saying, something that would sum up what he wished her to know. Khwaja Denvy was already clambering up the ropes to the Lawless Child, helping Nixlye. He was never going to get to say goodbye to him. He kissed Ki’b’s forehead.

  “I promise I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I’ll come back and we’ll get married.”

  Ki’b pressed a small, smooth rock into his hand. “Don’t break your promise.”

  She grabbed hold of a rope and climbed hand over hand up the side of the sand-ship. Clive dodged past him, looking back with a sad, lingering glance.

  “Clive. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he yelled out. “And keep Penny close.”

  Aaldryn lingered at the edge for a moment, looking up at the Lawless Child.

  “Jythal, keep them safe, brother,” he shouted up, into the dim light of the lanterns.

  “Stay alive,” the soft reply returned.

  Aaldryn turned sharply, his walk tight as he took the controls. The Silver Slasher swung away from the Lawless Child. Jarvis should not have looked back. The moment he did, he regretted the decision for he could not tear his eyes from the sight of the sand-ship bobbing on the edge of a dune, backdropped by the ruins of Ishabal dimly glowing in the distance. An uncomfortable, twisting sensation grew in his stomach as the vessel vanished on the horizon. Why did he feel that this was the last time he would ever see any of his family again? Surely it was just the natural fear of being separated from them. He closed his eyes. It had to be an illusion of the wind against his cheeks, but he could almost taste Ki’b’s tears. She would have been crying by now. Perhaps they were his own tears he was tasting.

  “I’ll come back, Little Mountain Flower. I’ll come back.”

  Jarvis wrapped his fingers around the last Map piece.

  “I hope, Key,” he whispered, “that you’re worth it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

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  Exhaustion. He had not known the likes of it since he was a cub. It was debilitating and frustrating. It plagued him, even in his sleep. The lingering part of him that was vaguely awake knew he was in Zafiashid’s cabin, sprawled out on her bed. His weakened chest rumbled with the infection of the persistent Human illness. It was miserable, Denvy concluded, the state he was in—simply miserable.

  “You really should do something about that,” an affluent voice said from behind him.

  Denvy turned sharply, swaying as he stepped onto the surface of a dune. The abrupt change in scenery was disorientating. He had not experienced a dreamscape for sol-cycles. The notion that he had returned to the zone within the Secondary Realm was both elating and terrifying. The wide expanses of the burning-sea blanketed the horizon as far as he could see, and a Sunrise capped the dunes in a crystal shine, igniting tall spires in the distance. Alone beside him stood a tiny, delicate Zaprex, wings of energy fluttering rapidly enough to make the sand dance around its ankles.

  “Sekhmet.” His voice hitched with emotion. “Gibo!”

  If Hazanin-sama had been the Zaprexes’ embodiment of time, Sekhmet had been their finest protector, a warrior of the highest calibre, despite appearing to be anything but. The ancient being had been left in a Tower—forever protecting a world that did not want protection. The sorrow Denvy had always perceived in the sapphire eyes of the delicate cyborg was evident as it stared into his inner being, assessing him as though looking for damage done over the centuries of his life. He felt immeasurably old, weighed down by the sol-cycles that separated them. Sekhmet wore the very last thing he could recall it wearing. A simple body-suit, primed for battle, protecting a fragile body that had been grievously abused.

  Antennae tweaked rearward in curiosity, and a smile graced the forlorn Zaprex’s lips. Sekhmet turned towards the rising Sun. “Maahes, look at my beautiful desert. I saved Utillia, as best I could. It is up to you to finish what I started.” Sekhmet drifted away, fading into the light.

  Denvy held out a paw. “Gibo, please. Wait. Please stay.”

  “I cannot stay when I was never here, Maahes.”

  His hearts raced, thudding against his ribs. “Don’t leave me alone. I never wanted to dream alone.”

  “Denvy, is that you?” The intrusion of another voice was startling. He almost jumped in alarm. It had been so long since he had linked with anyone in a dreamscape. Not since the Dreamers Who Dreamt at the House of Flames, and Titus’ young wife, Rein, had he experienced the sensation of another mind linked with his own.

  Nixlye stared at him in confusion, the fur of her cheeks still damp, as though she had been weeping. Tears, he was sure, shed for Ryojin—and the lives lost in Ishabal. Denvy raised his brow at the sight of her wheelchair in this dreamscape desert. Despite the situation, he smiled. The young queen was a wonder. For her to picture herself in her chair, even in her dreams, revealed how holistically accepting she was of herself. Her avatar within the Secondary Realm reflected stability. No matter how often he had worked with dreamathic Messengers who had lost limbs to the viciousness of the Trenches, always they had tried to dream themselves whole again. It was more an indictment of a society that could not accept their wounded back into its fold, than a reflection on the children he had nursed. It was refreshing to be confronted with Nixlye’s unwavering steadfastness.

  Denvy slowly made his way towards her, and Jythal standing silently beside her. It was peculiar indeed. He had never expected to find himself encountering the wandering minds of the two dreamathics, especially with the yoke still tight around his neck. Did the gem nexus of the two youngsters work even better in close proximity than he had thought? Perhaps it was the null-zone’s displacement of the Primary Realm that had created enough residual energy for him to absorb to evade the yoke’s binding properties.

  “Where are we?” Jythal turned, tossing up sand around his ankles. “However did we get here?”

  “Can you see, Jythal?” Denvy asked, finding himself suddenl
y curious.

  “No. I do know we’re outside, though. I can feel sand beneath my foot-paws. We’re standing on the burning-sea. Wait. That should be impossible. We should be sinking!” He skipped back a few paces, air-gills hackling.

  Denvy chuckled. “Anything is possible in a dreamscape.”

  “What is a dreamscape?” Nixlye reached out a hand, waving it around, only to pull it back in disappointment when she encountered nothing but air.

  “It is the Secondary Realm’s manifestation within a dreamathic’s mind.” Denvy rubbed the back of his neck. “I do apologise. I am not sure how, but you appear to have entered a dream I am having. Perhaps, due to the damage the yoke has done, I am unable to limit my range. As a Dream Master, my dreamathic strength requires a considerable amount of regulation.”

  Nixlye turned to him, shaking her head. “Actually, this is the Misfit Dream. All misfits have this dream.”

  “A mass dreaming?” Denvy mused aloud. That was quite fascinating. “There are very few things that can cause a mass dreaming on a large scale.”

  Nixlye shrugged. “I have never before been inside of the dream like this. Usually it is replayed like a hazy memory. This is remarkably realistic.”

  “Indeed,” Jythal agreed. “Usually I see the Misfit dream as though my sight were returned to me. I know it isn’t real.”

  “It is a true dreamscape then. It is quite often how dreamathics communicate over long distances on their own nexus.” He turned toward the spires in the distance. How he wished he could reach out across the unseen web of the Data-Ways he had once wandered as a cub, so freely, like they had simply been streets to travel and not gateways across vast distances, over worlds and galaxies. Rein was out there, somewhere, listening for him, and he could not contact her to tell her that Titus was coming home.

  “You say all misfits have this dream?”

  Nixlye nodded. She composed herself, wiping her damp cheeks. “I have it quite often, though I have never understood its meaning.”