Roil (28 page)

“Good to see you,” she said, right into his ear. “But this is hardly the time or the...”

David winced at the blood streaming from a shallow wound in the side of her head.

“We’ve got to get you back inside,” he shouted.

Kara Jade rubbed at the side of her head, then peered at her fingers covered with blood. She blinked again, slowly. “What are
you
doing out here?”

“Saving your life.”

“Ha!” She slipped out of consciousness again, the weight of her almost dragging David into the sky.

David yanked her to him, startled by the warmth of her body and the rapid beat of her heart. His own heart beat pretty fast, particularly when he threw a glance at all that empty space beneath him. Bad idea.

Her rope had tangled and he struggled to free it, but it had knotted too tightly. David gave up and pulled out his pocketknife. He sawed through the rope quickly, hoping all the while that the
Dawn
wouldn’t drop suddenly. It did, his ears popped yet again, the muscles in his arms burned and his breath struggled in his chest but he managed to hold Kara Jade against the walkway.

I am going to die
, he thought.
I am too weak, too small, too drug fucked for this.
And he was, but somehow he managed it.

He inched backwards to the doorifice and was happier than he had ever been in his life when he felt it open. He shoved Kara Jade through, then toppled after her, careful not to tangle or get in the way of Cadell’s line. Not an easy task as it whipped about the opening, striking David so hard that he nearly fell back outside.

Kara Jade grabbed and steadied him, helping him over and away from Cadell’s line, they both tumbled to the floor of the gondola.

“You’re back with us,” David said.

She coughed, her eyes wild. She lifted up her cut line. “That rope’s expensive.”

“How can a flyer weigh so much?” He said.

Kara blinked. “You may have saved my life, but if you don’t shut up I’m gonna have to slit your throat, and – oh...” She rose to her feet unsteadily, then pointed behind him.

David turned. Cadell’s situation had grown far more precarious. He had lost his footing and hung in the air, dangling from the edge of the ship by his fingertips.

Cadell slowly pulled himself back up, and slid again to the iron ship’s cockpit window; steam rising in sudden dirty grey bursts from the cracks that scarred it.

David heard the distant retort of the iron ship’s guns, and then something struck the nearby gondola wall, shattering the outer layer. A thin pale liquid ran from the wound.

The guns blazed again.

This time one of the bioengines was hit; it rumbled rather than whined. Above them the Aerokin groaned. The
Roslyn Dawn
veered to the right. Black smoke streamed from the cracked nacelle. David turned towards the pilot seat where Margaret sat hunched over and cursing at the controls.

Down below, Cadell shook his head, all the while shouting something and gesturing at the glass as though he could break it with words and will alone.

The iron ship dipped and bobbed, then dived, all at once. The rope hissed as it played out the door, the fibre smoking. David wanted to stop it, to yank it back in and Cadell with it. But he also wanted to survive. Cadell knew what he was doing, he hoped.

Below, Cadell appeared unperturbed. He waved his hands palm out over the shattered glass once, twice, three times.

The iron ship frosted over with a sudden explosion of ice: a kind of frozen fire. It hovered jerkily, a last burst of flame spluttering in its engines. Cadell ran to the edge of the craft and leapt smoothly into the air, clinging onto the rope. But it was a moment too late. The iron ship flipped up and struck him on back of the head. Even from the
Roslyn Dawn
, David could see the blood spray.

The frozen ship fell away punching through the clouds. Not long after, and far below, the sky flared, became almost clear. A distant detonation followed like a muted thunderclap.

Dizziness welled within him, staring at that explosion, so far below. He needed to sit down, or throw up then sit down, and then he realised he could not see Cadell anywhere.

“He’s gone. He’s gone,” David said.

Kara drove an elbow into his side.

She looked half-dead, but her face was set with a grim and awful energy. Her shaking hands gripped the now taut line. The biceps of her lean arms bulged.

“Hey, idiot,” she snapped. “This rope, Cadell’s on the other end, remember.”

Kara Jade had wound it around a pole by the doorifice, her arms straining.

“Sorry,” David said.

Kara Jade’s jaw clenched. “Don’t be sorry, just help me.”

He sprang towards her and grabbed the rope.

“I’m ready,” he said.

They pulled it in, foot by tedious foot. After ten minutes, sweat stinging his eyes, hands bloody, muscles burning, he wondered just how much rope had played out.

“Pretty heavy for a scrawny old geezer, isn’t he?” Kara panted. “Of course the air’s thin at these altitudes. Doesn’t make it any easier. Nor do head injuries.”

“At least it means that he’s at the end of it,” David said.

They worked until David thought his arms were going to drop off and his lungs pop out of his mouth. Finally, Cadell’s hands clamped around the edge of the doorifice.

Cadell was awake, the Old Man was awake. He pulled himself up and through the doorifice, his skin bloodless, his lips blue, one of his eyes had swollen shut.

His body was cold, David could see ice forming where his feet touched the
Roslyn Dawn
. The doorifice reacted by opening wide. Wind whistled through, and Cadell stood there, unsteadily, the empty sky behind him.

“Quick, get him inside,” Kara shouted.

“I’m quite all right, madam,” Cadell said and nearly toppled back out the opening. David grabbed him, pulling him in and away from the opening. It snapped shut behind them.

“Let’s not do that again,” Cadell said, his words coming between wheezes. “At least not for a while.” His eyes rolled up in his head, and he was out.

David gently set him down on the bunk, not liking the deep wound in the back of his head, nor the patches of soft brittleness around his back, beneath the skin, as though bones were crushed.

“Don’t worry. He’s an old warhorse, sure his reserves have been taxed, but he’ll recover,” Kara said. “He has to, doesn’t he?”

Margaret looked down at Cadell, and shook her head. David could see that it was bad, shallow cuts on the scalp bled fiercely but thinly, this blood was thick and dark. Margaret released a breath with such heart aching weariness that David’s first instinct was to offer comfort. She stepped beyond his reach.

“I’m no doctor, but I’ve seen this sort of injury before.” And she paused as though remembering them, and it came to David that her background was not at all like his, and that she had entertained a very different sort of horror all her life. “David, there’s a real chance he may not wake again.”

Perhaps we should have never warred with the Cuttlefolk. But then again, War and Industry, what else do we do so well?

THE GATHERING PLAINS

The Cuttlefolk led them west, away from the tracks for a good half a day, Messengers flying to and from them with increasing frequency, their sharp wing beats signalling a moment or two of rest. The Cuttlefolk did not speak, though their intentions were clear, and while they performed no brutalities upon their prisoners (water was distributed among them, even food, and it was palatable) they forced a hard march across the plains.

Twice Medicine demanded to speak to whoever was leading them, and both times he was gently and definitely dismissed.

Slowly the Cuttle city of Carnelon was revealed to them.

Built around a small range of hills, they ringed it in narrow streets, the buildings low, unlike anything Medicine had seen in Mirrlees or Chapman. They had eschewed the sky, reaching not into the heavens but deep underground. The sky was dark with Messengers, as disturbing a sight as he had ever seen. It was one thing to observe the occasional Messenger skirting over Mirrlees or Chapman, but to see them descending from the sky
en masse
was terrifying.

Medicine and his wards were led along narrow curling streets open to the sky, the whole place smelled sickly sweet; the scent of Cuttlefolk and the sugars they produced. Pleasant, perhaps, as an additive in perfume, but here it clawed at the throat. Reminding Medicine of those times he had drunk too much Cuttlewine, and there had been far too many of those, though now he rather expected the outcome of this journey to be far worse than any hangover.

Cuttlefolk watched them silently. The ground beneath their feet rippled, shivering to movements and masses below that Medicine didn’t want to consider all that much.

Finally, they stopped at pens where, much to Medicine’s surprise, a human greeted them. He seemed almost embarrassed.

“I’m Dreyer,” he said. “You do know you were trespassing on Cuttlefolk lands? They’re not at all happy with you.”

“I didn’t know there were humans in Carnelon.”

“There’s a few of us. We are tolerated, I suppose just as the Cuttlefolk are tolerated in Mirrlees,” he said. “I am studying Cuttlefolk sociology.”

Good for you
, Medicine thought.

“Can you help us?” Medicine asked.

Dreyer shook his head. “Good heavens, no! You’ve broken Cuttlefolk law, and Cuttlefolk alone can deal with that. But I can translate for you, and even that threatens to tar me with your association.There will be a meeting tomorrow. I will do what I can.”

The Cuttlefolk left them in their pens. There was an explosion of wings and half a dozen of their messengers flew north and west.

A little while later a lone messenger took to the air, hovering high above the city for a moment before shooting south.

“What are they doing?” Medicine asked.

“Isn’t it obvious,” Agatha said. “They’re gathering an army.”

That night something flew over the city. An iron ship unlike anything Medicine had ever seen. Medicine watched as canisters dropped from its belly.

Smoke descended on the city. There were cries, howls, the stomp of feet. Locked in the pen, Medicine was as good as blind.

Then, just before dawn, there was silence.

Half the morning they waited and nothing in the city stirred.

At last Medicine pulled a blade from his boot and worked on the lock. It was a stubborn thing, but it gave way to his promptings. He and Agatha stumbled through the city.

The entire city was deserted.

“They’re gone,” Medicine said. “I do not understand it at all.”

“Let’s just get out of here while we still can,” Agatha said. “In case they come back.”

And he did not bother arguing with her, they returned to the pens and freed the others.

Silently they moved through the empty city. Not one of the Cuttlefolk or their Messengers was in evidence, but in the square, outside the many-bannered building that Medicine guess to be the Cuttlelord’s residence, humans had been strung up, their organs removed, and their eyes.

Medicine stared at Dreyer’s corpse, wondering how close they had come to that. The Cuttlefolk had forgotten about them or, more chillingly, thought them not worth the effort.

GATHERING PLAINS DISTANCE FROM ROIL: 1200 MILES

“Where are they going?” Medicine asked, pointing at the ruined earth. This was the fourth such two-hundred yard wide furrow in the ground, extending in either direction as far as he could see. It was as though someone had torn a path across the land, using only claw and tooth. And that was pretty much what had happened. This was the spoor of a race on the march to battle.

“South,” Agatha replied, crouching and sighting along the broken earth. “Like all the others.”

“And what lies south of here?”

“Mirrlees.”

All day, they found evidence of the Cuttlefolk’s passage, skin casings, midden-heaps, even egg sacks gently pulsing. These Agatha’s soldiers had taken a grim delight in shooting, until she ordered they cease. There were so many, and their ammunition so limited.

“We’ve missed the party,” Agatha said, running her fingers through the earth.

“I think it’s the Roil,” Medicine said. “That ship, those canisters. The Roil’s reach has extended considerably.”

They returned to the great iron-beast that was the
Grendel
and Agatha sent her best men to check over it. There were engineers and mechanics enough in their numbers that it would be a truly ruined train for them not to repair it. As it was, the damage was limited, the equipment necessary for repair on board the engine, and those skilled enough to fix it in abundance.

Agatha could not conceal her delight. “With this we can reach the Underground in a day, nor more than two, if the tracks hold up.”

“Let’s do it,” Medicine said. “I’ve had more than enough of trudging.” He lifted a ruined boot. “These were my best pair, you know.”

There was room enough for the workers and essential equipment; barely, but enough, and everyone was crammed in.

The
Grendel
built up its steam, a process that took longer than Medicine would have liked, but was assured was absolutely necessary. The engine, really a series of linked engines run in tandem, was huge and it’s carriages packed to capacity. He was mad with boredom before they had even started but finally the
Grendel
moved.

Agatha and Medicine sat in the front cabin, hardly a common carriage at all, but a room. Agatha cheered at the sight of the bar there, quickly opening a bottle of Hardacre Donaldson Whisky no doubt intended for some dignitary. She took a quick swig and passed it to Medicine.

“This is a fine, fine thing”, he said, letting the drink burn the back of his throat.

Agatha took another sip. “I do believe our luck has changed.”

The sky was blue, no rain or Cuttlefolk to darken it.

“I hope so,” he said, passing the bottle back to her. “I really hope so.”