Orphans and Outcasts (Northland Rebellion Book 1)

by Kylie Leane

  Three more men ducked through the crystal-blocked doorway, faces drenched in sweat. Jarvis staggered up into a fighting stance as they tore past, down the stairs, gathering their equipment. The Kattamont bellowed at them from the balcony.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The Boss—he turned into something! We gotta get out. There’s something trying to kill us.”

  The ship’s pre-warning system flared in Jarvis’ vision and he reacted despite his current lag. He leapt upon the Kattamont, bringing him down with a thrust of heavy gravity, ignoring how much his wounded chest screeched at him and the philepcon liquid that leaked onto the floor. The crystal in the doorway beside them shattered into shards and it took every ounce of his concentration to freeze them into place with his gravity-bubble as a half-transformed Twizel burst through.

  “Torka!” the Kattamont snarled. “By the Rythrya Stones.”

  Jarvis wheezed out, gazing up with a mixture of disgust and misplaced wonder as the disjointed body of the old man tore itself into thin shreds, filling out into tentacles of thick, sludgy shadow with a mouth of acidic saliva. He had never before encountered a High Class Twizel, and, if the intense crackling pressure in the air was the result of being near one, then it was always going to be unpleasant. Talons of bone morphed out of the sludge and great wings expanded in a swirl. The mouth opened, releasing a high-pitched screech. It had no eyes he could see, but somehow Jarvis could feel it looking upon him and the Kattamont beneath him, and its anger was fuelled by a singular need—to kill.

  “You sick old man!” The Kattamont howled, fan-tail expanding in rage. “You walked on my ship. You touched my queen! I swear to the Four5 , I will tear off your limbs!”

  The Kattamont’s words made no sense at all to Jarvis, but the creature’s response was alarming. Jarvis gave the Kattamont a hard punch in the face.

  “Tarki, moron! You’ve ticked it off.”

  “Let it come at me. I’ve wanted to kill the old fool for sol-cycles!”

  Jarvis punched him again, infuriated that his blows were simply absorbed by the thick pelt. He swore as he was lifted up by two enormous paws and set down. A spear of pain went through his chest. He grappled for his sword to stand his ground as the Ki’rayh charged. The Kattamont crouched, preparing to bound as though to meet it halfway. Jarvis grabbed hold of the Kattamont’s armour plates, dragging him back as the Twizel was struck in the side and rolled off the balcony, tumbling down amongst the confused and frightened scavenger men. Jarvis stumbled over to watch as Titus landed on the Ki’rayh with a shout, fists smashing into the monster’s face.

  “What in the burning-seas is that?” the Kattamont spluttered out, hanging onto the sides of the balcony’s bent railings. He heaved himself over the edge, landing on the platform of the central control room. Jarvis panicked. Using his sword as a crutch, he hobbled down the stairs.

  “No! No! Get out. Hurry!” He grabbed the Kattamont’s arm, trying to drag him back.

  “Wait. I can help—”

  “Listen to me. My Master is not Human. He sometimes cannot see the difference between friend and foe. You have got to get out of here. That Twizel will either kill my Master or my Master will kill it.” Jarvis seized up, proximity alarms flaring to the side of his vision. In front of him, the Kattamont made a movement with his wrist. Nothing touched him but he felt the backward momentum as he was hit by a thrust of wind that slammed him out of the path of the Twizel’s tentacle. His body impacted a terminal. His mouth opened in a shout but his vision scattered into flecks. Everything around him dropped.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They have called it the Thousand Sol-Cycle War.

  I wonder what name it will be given a thousand sol-cycles from now, dearest Sekhmet.

  I grow weary, our children grow weary, watching a world rip itself apart through war and hatred.

  My mirrors reflect a light of a fading dawn age. I feel so old, so tired, so alone.

  I miss you.

  Private Communications Link.

  Utillian Time 6:09AM.

  Signal: Good.

  Upload: Completed.

  Do you wish to send?

  Denvy breathed heavily through his aching air-gills. His body was decaying faster than he had anticipated. The trip over the Ovin-tu Mountains, crossing the path of the Three Little Kings, through thick snowfalls, vast forests, and rocky cliffs, had brought on a Humanlike illness to his now-mortal body. Titus believed something akin to pneumonia was attacking his respiratory system. He had never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. Kattamonts did not catch Human diseases.

  He snorted at the preposterous thought and wearily shifted his weight against a wind-wrangled tree, one of many in the little cove they had found on the small island. A month prior they had crossed a pipeline between Pennadot and Utillia, used as a passageway for generations of traders. Since then they had hopped from island to island, with Titus growing increasingly concerned at the lack of land and the upsurge of the burning-sea. Not even the Hunter had been prepared for the wilderness of Utillia’s deserts. It was like no other land.

  Crossing the border had felt like a dream inside a hallucination. He was returning to the land of his birth, a land he had not wandered for many millennia—not since it had become a raging sea of sand. He blinked away ghosts of images that overlaid the horizon—looming coral reefs, dancing green and silver weeds shifting in the thick air currents. Shaking his head, he focused on the children playing in the lagoon of sparkling water.

  Titus had found a small oasis island for their camp while he and Jarvis ventured further inland. Jarvis had adapted quickly to the different environment of Utillia, the air far denser than it was in Pennadot. The boy’s body was changing on a cellular level. The other children, however, had struggled severely for the first few days, turning paler, movements slowing, and suffering awful headaches, their lungs unable to take in enough oxygen. It appeared the Zaprex turrets gleaming in the distance, still scattered over the ruined landscape, were not operating at full capacity, but the inadequate system was at least sufficient to aid in environmental adaptation—and eventually the children had recovered.

  And now they were enjoying themselves, squealing and laughing as they played in the oasis pool, cooled by the shade of trees. The Sun roasted their skin, still scarred from the abuse they had endured at the hands of the Twizels over the course of their imprisonment. But they were free. The scars would forever remind them of the families they had lost, but they had forged new bonds, becoming a new family.

  Clive kept a large shackle around one of his slender ankles; the Retenna boy claimed it was his trophy for surviving. He had taken up praying to the Sun again each morning, noon, and night, in honour of the Sun Monks who had been slaughtered when he had been taken captive. It was cruel, Denvy mused, that if only the lad’s father, a travelling bard, had not left him at the temple to become a Monk...Well, everyone’s threads travelled differently, he knew.

  Sometimes, Denvy feared that Penny was the worst stung by their journey. The silver-tongued Obilb girl was bitter and frightened. She longed for the city of Tempath and the thick darkness of the mines where she felt she belonged. Maybe she truly did belong there, where silver ran deep into the earth.

  “Oie! Khwaja Denvy, watch me do a boulder smash!”

  Denvy lifted his weary head, brushing aside his air-gills. He caught sight of Clive at the last moment as the ruby-haired boy leapt into the water with a whoop, curling into a ball. Beside him, Ki’b released a pent-up howl of frustration as water splashed over her kit of herbs. The little Kelib girl leapt to her feet, ferocity shining in her eyes as Clive swam to the pools shore.

  “Clive! Look what you did. You got water in my potions!”

  He made a farting noise. “Your potions don’t even work.”

  Penny clapped him over the head with a long stick. “You would be rolling around clutching your stomach still, Clive, ’cause of those berries you ate, if not for Ki’b�
��s potions.”

  Clive swam away, making a show of gagging.

  Ki’b shook her head, but slowly a smile came to her lips and the hands planted firmly on her hips returned to rest at her sides. She turned to face Denvy, her look far too mature for her age. “He is funny.”

  “I am glad you see his humour, dear one.” Denvy winked.

  Ki’b flicked back her short curls of hair. Since Titus had shaven it due to its matted state, it had grown considerably to cover her dainty, pointed ears. It was still not enough for her to hide her blushing cheeks behind, which often brought a grin to Jarvis’ face whenever he teased her.

  “Tsk valai, Khwaja Denvy.” She used a high-class rebuke, having picked it up from one of his stories. “You sit back and rest! Let me rub my cream into your neck, so that nasty ring does not chafe anymore.”

  He chuckled, obeying her and settling back into the inlet of the tree roots, letting the wood take the weight of his aching muscles and heavy, lustreless fur. Ki’b scrambled her way up a root, perching herself neatly on his broad shoulder. With a joyful tune, she began to scoop up sweet-smelling cream to rub into the skin beneath the poisonous yoke around his neck. It would not bother her. To the tiny Kelib girl, it was nothing more than simple iron, but, to him, an ancient being from the Dawn Ages, the spell cast into the forging of it bound his immortality and his dreamathic mind.

  This was not how he had expected to die—slowly, draining away, hour by hour, being eaten by a Human illness.

  He snorted mucus. It was so ridiculous, it was almost hilarious. He would have laughed at the stupidity of it all, if he had any energy left to laugh with. He had to conserve all the energy he had for travelling, plodding one foot-paw before the other, in a body that had not been mortal in eons.

  Denvy furrowed his brow. Could he even remember when he had last felt the real touch of the wind against his fur, or smelt the heat of the Sun through his nostrils? It had been so long since his foot-paws had burned with the agony of long travel. For centuries he had been an unyielding, solid, untouchable marble pillar that could not be beaten by time or elements. He had been the first program installed into Livila’s mainframe by his Creators. There had been side-effects; he had endured them, accepted them.

  A smile touched his lips and he closed his eyes. Maybe it was not so bad, dying as a mortal, feeling life in his veins again.

  His ears twitched, catching the splashing of Clive and the annoyed shout the boy suddenly gave.

  He turned toward the sound, grunting at the effort.

  “Oie! Oie! Wha’cha think you’re doing? You get away from my sistah!” Clive scrambled free of the pool, running for his pile of clothing, snatching up his dagger, ignoring his half-naked state and dripping wet limbs. The lad pinned the approaching figures with a furious glare.

  Denvy’s concentration was so slow and he cursed himself and whatever slug was currently eating his mind as his eyes finally focused on Penny, trembling against a tree as three Kelib men approached.

  A foul stench hung in the air, and Denvy knew it was worse than what he could sense.

  “Yuck.” Ki’b covered her mouth. “They smell like rotting flesh.”

  Denvy ignored her unhelpful observation of her kin-people, however correct it was. The swagger in their walk was too confident as they approached the protective Clive, who was hissing like a kitten. They were like birds of prey, circling a dying carcass, and Clive was not the rotting corpse they had in mind. Denvy could feel them studying him. They would know a downed Kattamont when they saw one. He was an easy catch in his weakened state.

  Denvy snarled, spreading his air-gills, despite the pain the territorial display caused his aching lungs. Ki’b’s small hand gripped his leg. She would not be able to feel his agony, his dreamathic abilities were suppressed by the binding yoke, but she was observant.

  The Alpha of the three Kelibs had sense enough to pause at the alarming colours of his gills, but the man’s lips spread in a smirk nonetheless. Denvy narrowed his eyes. These were not Pennadotian Kelibs, who still had pride; these were members of a decayed society rotten to its core. The teeth that leered at him were foul and sharpened; between them a split tongue appeared. It might have hissed, if it could.

  “What do you want?” Denvy gradually eased himself onto his foot-paws, careful not to make a sudden movement to set them off. Anything now would give them an excuse to kill Clive and Penny.

  “Oie!” Clive barked. “Can you speak Common Basic, you ugly mutt-face!”

  Denvy hissed at the boy. Clive ignored him, trying to inch closer to the frightened Penny. He was not doing a very good job at being stealthy by making himself so obvious, Denvy internally griped at the lad, wishing he had his dreamathic mind intact so he could mentally drag the boy back.

  “Balkr, we want yerk pelt, kitty, kitty, and the little Human’s night-skin.” The tattooed Alpha made a vulgar sign at his throat.

  Denvy’s fur hackled. Poachers. He should have guessed from the putrid stench.

  The stinging sound of drawing cutlasses rang in his ears and Denvy steadied himself, beginning a dark, deep growl. His body was weak, but it would last long enough to shield the children and give them a chance to escape. Ki’b inched herself into a fighting stance. He tapped his foot-paw twice, and she replied with three taps. She knew she had to run.

  Two of the heavy Kelibs charged and Denvy swung his tail. The brittle spikes bent on impacting the chest of the nearest male, barely doing any damage to the rampaging poacher. He thrust the full weight of his shoulder against the man and twisted, throwing him high over his back. Agonizing pain speared his chest and he landed in a heap, clutching at his throat as he vomited blood.

  Laughter erupted from the poachers, but nothing was more chilling than the feeling of cold steel against the nape of his neck. Skinned alive. But then again maybe it was better to go down fighting than to die of a Human illness.

  Clive shouted. Denvy snapped his head up. He wanted to hold out his arms, to order aloud that he not intervene, that he run to the girls, but it was too late. Clive was in motion. He leapt upon the Kelib, driving his small dagger into the flesh of a shoulder.

  “Get away from Khwaja, you monster!”

  Denvy struck out with his tail, throwing the Kelib off balance. The poacher staggered back and Clive howled as he slashed viciously at the man’s throat. It was scarcely enough to scratch the surface of the thick hide. The Kelib wrenched Clive aside, holding him out with a bloodied hand.

  Clive spat into his face before the air was choked from him. Denvy staggered towards him, yelping as a blow sent him elbows first into the soft dirt. The girls had made it around the pool, but Penny was screaming for Clive. Denvy clawed the grass, bellowing as a sword sliced down his spine. He had failed his cubs. He was nothing without his immortality; he may as well have been dead to them.

  Clive’s head dropped back, his limbs slackening. No longer could Denvy feel pain. The boy’s life was draining away before him. The leering Kelib holding him pulled out a knife and made a movement to scalp his precious fiery hair.

  Denvy choked on the blood in his throat, speaking a desperate spell, despite the knowledge it would be useless with the yoke binding him. The words hung comfortingly on his tongue. At least he had tried.

  An arrow speared through the skull of the Kelib, the bone bursting with the speed and enormity of the weapon that was now buried in the flesh of a nearby tree. The fletching feathers were not of a bird; they were the fins of a male Kattamont’s mating gills.

  “Release the cub, Kelib scum, or I will tear you limb from limb,” a refined female voice spoke maliciously.

  Denvy blinked away tears, turning his head weakly. He peered through his air-gills. Whether from blood-loss or pain, or simply his addled mind tricking him, what he saw was surely not real—in a wheelchair, a young Kattamont sat proudly, holding a bow of twisted crystals. A brilliant pink fan-tail rattled in provocation. She wore a merciless grin, directed at the Kelib
men.

  Denvy had not thought it possible for a Kelib male to look frightened, and yet the ghastly tattooed face of the Alpha had drained of blood. Though he himself had not recognized the voice that had shrilled out, nor the Kattamont sitting territorially in the wheelchair, the Kelibs certainly did, and the arrow that had slain so easily was no mere threat. She meant to kill again.

  The Alpha’s remaining brother shouted a bull’s roar, tearing across the oasis in the direction of the girls. Denvy stooped for the blade dropped by the slain Kelib, using it as a crutch to drag his trembling body upright. The yoke felt like a powerful counterforce; he was unable to reach his cubs. Ki’b stood her ground, rooted like a tree as she stared down the raging Kelib male. Behind her, Penny had curled into a ball.

  Denvy cringed as the Kelib lunged. From the branches of the trees above, a blur of silver, black, and vivid iridescence shot down, hurtling into the charging Kelib, smashing him into the ground with a crack. It was a Kattamont queen, with a pelt as rich as charcoal. Her jaw closed around the neck of the poacher, spraying blood. The Kelib struggled, smashing fists and knees into the female, yet her pelt absorbed every hit. Suddenly the queen reared up and threw the flailing Kelib into the air. She shouted and Denvy watched as another arrow sailed past. The massive shaft howled as it was released, carving the body in half.

  She turned as blood rained down around her, the frenzy of the hunt wild in her eyes as she focused on the Alpha pinning Denvy to the ground. The blade at his throat tightened against the muscle and he dared not breathe out. Her tail whiplashed back and forth as she began to stalk forward, a feral grin spreading over her bloodied lips. Her fan-tail burst with a rocket of dazzling colour and she bounded in a surge of speed. The blade at Denvy’s throat cleaved, but he only heard the roar and felt a heavy weight leave him as the queen struck the Kelib and dragged him down. The magnificent shadowy female rolled before her tail’s feathers pulled back to reveal blades. With a crack and pop she hewed head from shoulders. The Alpha’s scream died abruptly. The queen held the head up, smirking.