Orphans and Outcasts (Northland Rebellion Book 1) Read online

  ORPHANS & OUTCASTS

  A TALE OF THE NORTHLAND REBELLION

  IN THE AGE OF THE BLACK SUN

  WE ARE ALL BUT DUST IN THE WIND

  AT THE MERCY OF FATE

  WHICH TURNS THE WHEELS OF TIME

  UNTIL THE DAY WE HARNESS THE WIND

  BECOME MORE THAN DUST

  AND QUEENS OF OUR OWN FATES

  BOOK I

  OF

  THE CITIES OF GOLD

  K Y L I E L E A N E

  PUBLISHER

  Kylie Leane

  COVER ARTIST

  Ben Wootten

  COVER LAYOUT

  Kylie Leane

  © 2017 Kylie Leane

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means, without express written permission

  of Kylie Leane.

  Names, characters, locations, and events featured in this novel

  are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead),

  events, institutions, or locales, is purely coincidental.

  ORPHANS AND OUTCASTS

  PUBLICATION HISTORY

  Paperback Edition / November 2017 Kylie Leane

  ISBN: 978-0-9944382-3-2

  eBook / November 2017 Kylie Leane

  For information address:

  [email protected]

  Kylie Leane can be found online at

  authorkylie.com

  Other Works By Kylie Leane:

  Chronicles of the Children

  KEY: Book One

  Protectors: Book Two

  Table of Contents

  Scribe’s Blessing

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  About the Author

  Scribe’s Note

  Thank you, Readers, for waiting patiently for another book.

  I’m really grateful for all the support throughout the journey of writing, illustrating and publishing. I hope I can continue to bring you wonderful tales.

  I’m going to take a moment to explain how Northland Rebellion fits into the world of Chronicles of the Children.

  Chronicles of the Children is the ‘Main Series’ – however it is a huge epic. I started realising I wasn’t going to be able to tell every facet of the story within the main series since I am only following the main characters through their journey.

  Chronicles of the Children and Northland Rebellion will occasionally intersect, with characters traversing back and forth between each series. I’ve been writing the books in the hope that they’ll be read side-by-side, complimenting each other, someday.

  When I was a little girl I was always fascinated by the idea of the characters who couldn’t go on the great quest, who held the castle while the heroes went off to fight in wars. What was their story? What if the heroes never returned? How would they deal with the situation?

  That is what the Northland Rebellion was born out of, the desire to know the tale of the secondary characters who remain behind. The wonderful characters who keep the candle burning brightly. Waiting with the hope that, someday, their heroes will return and having to become heroes themselves.

  Can you read Orphans and Outcasts without having read KEY or Protectors? Yep. You can start here if you like and work your way backwards. I’ll be curious to see how that works for you.

  A word of thanks to my editor, Elle. She took what was a rough stone and polished it until it shone. I cannot thank her enough for the months of hard work she puts into editing my dyslexic mayhem.

  A huge thanks to Ben Wootten for another stunning front cover. I love it, I adore it, and it’s everything I dreamed it to be.

  I am always grateful to my parents for their ongoing support, much of it emotional, and my sister, Mel, for our many hours of conversations.

  Finally – to you – dearest readers. A thank you, to all of you who read, review, and who follow me on Facebook and Twitter. You’ve been a part of this journey. Thanks.

  Enjoy the tale!

  Your scribe,

  KL

  P.S – The Kindle version of KEY, Protectors and Orphans and Outcasts are not illustrated. If you really like illustrations, I can recommend the paperback versions of the novels. Otherwise, enjoy the world of imagination you’re about to leap into.

  In memory of

  Lance

  Thank you for being my Denvy.

  Your tales are missed.

  Scribe’s Blessing

  You look like you have had a rough trip, friend?

  The burning-sea can be feisty to new travellers, I’ll give you that.

  Mayhap you need a beverage, a stool to rest your feet after a weary journey?

  I can enlighten you with a tale as you linger.

  Nay, it is not a sailor’s tale, friend.

  This is a tale of truth and those who sought it,

  For the seeking of truth is often the beginning of great heroism.

  Our world is but one of many,

  Folded over each other,

  like sheet upon sheet,

  Layer upon layer,

  As many as the grains of sands in the burning-sea.

  Each unique.

  But they all have one thing in common—

  The Song of Eternity

  Only in some worlds does the Song take shape.

  Our world is one of them.

  You travel in a special world.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There is nothing left.

  Kemet is gone. Kemet is gone. How could we have allowed this to happen?

  Had we truly grown so complacent in ourselves that we believed we were invulnerable?

  We believed we had tamed a Dragon—(why, why did they not listen to you? Why did they not slay it?)

  I sit here, my dearest Sekhmet, surrounded by the mirrors that reflect my failures.

  What have we done?

  Kemet is gone.

  There is nothing left.

  Private Communications Link.

  Utillian Time 14:19PM.

  Signal: Strong.

  Upload: Completed.

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  Aaldryn dashed lightly across the sand, the fine grains roasting his foot-paws despite them never touching the surface for longer than a moment. The wind sang a howling song in his ears as he raced Utillia’s wide skylines. In the distance the bow of the Lawless Child crashed down, cutting its way through the mighty sand-waves like a blade. The Sun, low behind the dunes, was a herald of the coming Twin Winter months. The cooling air from the higher dune shadows tangled between his legs, dulling the heat of the scorching sand. A school of juttfli cackled and jittered around him, their oxygen holes bursting with billows as they leapt sky-seaward in sparkling hues, only to vanish into the mysterious realm below.

  These precious moments of freedom were just for him and Khamsin. The wind-god who dwelt within him cherished the running of the burning-sea. In these few scarce hours they were one in mind, lost in the immensity of the horizon.

  It has been a good day. The wind-god stroked the filaments of his awareness. It was not so much a voice that he heard but a sensation of lingering like an old etching carved into stone, for Khamsin was as ancient as the Ovin-tu Mount
ains1 and always it felt as though he was a call echoing off distant cliffs.

  “Indeed,” Aaldryn replied. “I hope we uncover something in that null-zone. Thanks be to the Rythrya2, maybe we’ll finally get enough funds to upgrade the generators.”

  A horn hollered, spiking his pelt. Thick lines were flung over the edge of the Lawless Child, breaking the waves. Aaldryn breathed deeply through his air-gills. A thrill chilled his under-pelt as he watched the sand-ship spreading her outer wings. She was not an overly large vessel—a nyhot class3, crewing only a hundred and fifty able-bodied burning-seafolk—but she did them proud and he adored her almost as much as he adored his mate.

  He dropped to all fours, increasing his speed. The wind surged around him, spurring his body forth with leaps and bounds until he latched onto a rope, clawing up the hull with strong hauls. With a flip, he twirled into the air and landed with an expert swagger on the decking. He caught the movement of the sand-ship as he stood upright on his hind-paws. His fan-tail unfurled, steadying his posture.

  The two upper-decks of the sand-ship were busy with scurrying crew members, obeying the orders of the queen, all paying him no heed despite his rank of chaplain. The vessel shuddered under his foot-paws as the Lawless Child took the brunt of a strong gravity swell, thrusting out from the null-zone beyond.

  They were vagabonds and orphans, cast-offs from the Ruling Prides, drawn to the Lawless Child for the same reasons—protection, shelter, food, work—a home, a pride. To the unobservant it was not so obvious, but to his eyes it was easy to see those who were unique like himself—the misfit-born, cursed with mutations caused by the rising radiation leaking free of the null-zones and the Zaprex technology beneath the burning-sea.

  In many ways it was better to be dead than to be born a misfit. Whether Human, Kelib, Kattamont or half-breed, the shame was a cutting blade and life within the Ruling Prides was impossible.

  Aaldryn curled his extra digits into the hooks of his dangling belts. The scars had long been hidden by his silver pelt, but he could still feel them pull from time to time, reminding him of his childish attempts to cut off what he had once considered an abomination.

  Through the commotion a commanding voice called, “Prince Aaldryn, get your tail up here! Report!” Aaldryn caught sight of his mother aloft the stern deck: Zafiashid Silvertide, exiled queen of the Silvertide Pride. The glow of the Sun was raw behind her, casting a glinting halo around her glossy unkempt fur. She was dainty behind the heavy weight of the helm, the magnificent contraption of wheels and levers dwarfing her in size, and yet there was no doubting the queen’s prowess.

  She might have been an exile of the burning-sea, cast aside like trash by the Silvertide Pride that ruled the Trading Routes between the Wind Cities and Isles, but her queenly strength was unwavering. Like raw silver, pure from the ground, she had been born to rule the strongest pride of Utillia, and that air of royalty had never left. It was something she had passed to him, in the way he sashayed up the stairs to the helm. She did not glance his way as he stationed himself directly beside her, but her flamboyant air-gills briefly flashed in greeting and, within, Khamsin berated him sharply for forgetting Kattamont customs.

  Zafiashid cared not that she mingled with the low-life scoundrels of the outlaw trading posts, or the criminals and pirates that winged through the outer sectors. That, he knew, was true pride—that she had been outcast but had never lost what she had been born to be.

  “Mother, I scouted ahead and the null-zone is over the next wave-bank. Nixlye was correct in her dreamings; there is a ruin inside.”

  Zafiashid spun the wheel, locking a lever in place with a foot-paw. Her tail balanced her weight as she guided herself around the controls. “Good, good. Does it look like anyone has discovered it already?”

  “It looks unscavenged.”

  “All the better; we shall be the first.” Her grin grew wild, bright azure eyes ravaging the horizon yonder in anticipation. She did so love the hunt. Aaldryn swished his fan-tail lazily, envious of the colours his mother’s had; it glinted like a precious opal, while his had the pristine blues of scarce water. Mother had never told him why she had been outcast, but he had gathered enough over the sol-cycles. It had been because she had birthed a misfit. It perhaps explained the intense drive he had inherited to search for and learn more of the Zaprexes, following in her unwavering paw-steps.

  What truly lay beneath the burning-sea? Wonders untold—long uncharted cities, sunken and left to slumber. He had barely scratched the surface of their great towers in his countless dives. They called to him. He had to follow. It was because he was misfit-born, and all misfit-born shared in common the dream of the cities paved in gold.

  Mother knew he craved answers. That was why they had become archaeologists. It was a dangerous profession; they were labelled heretics by the Iposti—a formidable rival pride—for their beliefs that the Zaprexes were not invaders but saviours. He was not afraid of being branded a heretic, but what he truly despised was the dirt they had to put up with to fund their research. For the upkeep of the Lawless Child and food for the crew, they were forced to allow Scavengers to use the sand-ship and accompany them on exhibitions.

  It went against everything an archaeologist upheld to tolerate Scavengers pulling apart the wonders of a Zaprex ruin. He felt filthy just thinking about it.

  “Must they come, Mother? This is truly a marvellous find and they will destroy it.”

  Zafiashid’s brow lifted under the linkage of her air-gills. Aaldryn unfolded his arms, spreading them in protest.

  “And, yes, I detest the man.” He spat.

  “It is simply your pride instinct. Resist it.”

  “I want to stab him in the face whenever I see him.”

  Her laughter rang high into the Mist sails. “That is what you get for being born a pure-blooded prince.”

  “Mother!”

  He had been born a prince, and the prince’s place in a pride was to protect. Queens and princesses lived for the hunt. Aaldryn stiffened as he caught the scent of the leader of the Scavengers. Zafiashid was smiling and he rolled his eyes, feeling his fur spike as the heavy footstep of the Human thumped up to the helm. There was no way he was going to duplicate his mother’s gesture of greeting towards Torka. The stinky Human could go throw himself overboard for all he cared.

  “Greetings, Queen Zafiashid! I see we have been in luck and found some fair winds.”

  Zafiashid cocked her head toward him and Aaldryn shrugged nonchalantly. He might have given Khamsin free range to push the Lawless Child along; it was not a bad thing to have a wind-god permanently residing within his mortal shell—he was personally going to take every advantage it brought. After all, he was the sand-ship’s chaplain; taming the wind was his role on the vessel—the Pride had just never seen fit to inform the Scavengers about Khamsin. To the vultures he was, quite simply, a very good wind-tamer and he did so enjoy how much it vexed them.

  “Indeed, Torka, the Rythrya Stones have smiled upon us.”

  The Stones do not cause the winds. Your mother needs to remember who it is that truly rules these oceans. Khamsin stirred, bristling under his fur like hot-fire. Aaldryn snorted, insulted on behalf of Khamsin for being compared to the monuments scattered around Utillia.

  “Mother, the Rythrya are guide stones, nothing more. They do not create the winds.” Aaldryn glanced over the tossing dunes in the distance. “The Simoon forge the winds.”

  “Ever the scholar, Aaldryn,” Torka said. “You fill your head with useless facts from a useless past.”

  Torka’s bass laugh was heavily weighted with a gurgling of tobacco use. It was never a good thing for a Human to abuse their lungs in Utillia—the air was already too thin for a first-generation Human of Pennadotian birth.

  “The past is not useless, Torka,” Aaldryn muttered. “It is from the past that the future shall be reborn.” He could not understand how anyone who dived deep into the burning-sea, down into the depths of the Zap
rex wonders below, could not see that the rebirth of their world was beginning. Aaldryn unfolded himself from his perch, levelling the man with a glare. “Besides, it is my useless facts that bring you coinage to fill your useless pockets.” He had not encountered many Humans Torka’s age; most who sailed the burning-sea died before they had the chance to reach more than fifty sol-cycles. He was not entirely sure if Humans could get much older. Half-breeds he had encountered—they had many amongst the crew—but pure Humans usually remained in the Wind Cities and the Isles, preferring the life of mist-farming or trading. Torka, though, was beginning to go gray and he smelt of foul decay that was off-putting. His long hair was always bound back, and he often wore a broad smile as though life was pleasant. His skin had long since seen better days, wrinkled and blotched by the boiling Sun and the radiating burning-sea. Yet it was still the smirk that Aaldryn detested the most—so smug and self-satisfied, like he knew something no one else did, some grand secret he was content to let sit on his lips but never to tell.

  “I think what the prince is trying to say, Torka, is that the ruin is un-scavenged. If you and your men will prepare for the dive, I will get close enough to drop you off.”

  “This is good news Queen Zafiashid. My men have been holding out for a good bit of scavenging.”

  “I hope this will be fulfilling for us all.” Zafiashid heaved on a lever and the vessel beneath them lurched forward. Aaldryn steadied himself as a side-wing caught an up-gust of gravity and he seized a nearby handle, throwing his full weight upon it.

  He bellowed over the deck, “Tie down that wing! Why is it still open? Someone tie that cursed thing down. We’re closing on a null-zone. The gravity is destabilizing. I want the wings buckled down.”