Trent Jamieson - Roil

It bit down, but the sound it made was odd, a soft sort of scrapping: over and over.

Margaret started awake. She blinked.

A pale face stared in through the window next to her.

The Roiling gave her a clownish grin, idiotic and terrifying, its long white fingers working on the lock of the door, their nails scratching, scratching.

“Mother!” it shrieked so loud that even Margaret could hear. “Mother!”

Margaret engaged the engine, her fingers fumbling over the controls so that she nearly stalled the carriage. “Mother!”

If only she had a sentient carriage, like an Aerokin, then none of this would be happening. The Melody’s engine turned, but didn’t catch.

The Roiling’s movements grew desperate; moths swirled around its head. A flap of bone white skin slid from its cheek, revealing a dark resinous substance beneath.

Margaret stared into the Roiling’s face, into its dead black eyes and wondered if it had ever been human. Of course it had, it wore an old morning suit, tattered and dusty, but still recognisable.

“Mother!”

The engine came to life, the carriage shot forward, accelerated.

“Mother!” The Roiling tumbled off the carriage and ran back down the bridge towards Mcmahon.

A dozen Roilings circled the Melody Amiss watching. She sprayed a short burst of ice and opened up a gap that closed even as she passed through it. The Melody ’s endothermic weaponry ammunition was almost gone, its efficacy reduced. One of the Roilings struck the carriage and its arm tore from its shoulder with a spray of smoky blood. Margaret picked up speed, and soon they were out of sight. And all she had again was the deserted highway.

She did not want to think about what would have happened if she had slept for even a few moments longer.

Three columns of black smoke drifted on the edge of the eastern horizon, there was no wind and so they had grown much larger than they might otherwise have. The sight disturbed David, more than he would care to admit, there was something ominous about the smoke as though the Roil had detached itself and flowered where it did not yet belong.

He pointed them out to Cadell. The Old Man’s face greyed.

“Yes, I see them. In truth, I’ve been ignoring them. They are the mute ruin of peoples’ lives, rising up like a cruel ghost. I hope some people managed to escape.” He shook his head, as though he thought it unlikely, and turned his gaze once more in the direction they were headed and mumbled, half to himself. “The world just keeps getting worse. But then that has been the case for a long time now. The question is, did Chapman hold out?”

After seeing those silent columns of smoke, a taciturn gloom settled on them that nothing was able to break. David was almost happy when darkness descended obliterating the sight. Until a hot storm came with it and their clothes were again soaked to the bone.

However, as the rain came in and the night, Cadell’s mood changed. He became nervy, not exactly afraid, but close to it.

The thought of something that could rattle Cadell was enough to worry David. Quarg Hounds and Roilings had been dealt with almost without blinking and yet their approach to Uhlton was being met with such trepidation.

“We’re getting close,” Cadell said, his first words in hours, and fell into a kind of disturbed silence broken by interludes of nervy mumbling that kept David on edge.

Which was, perhaps, why David saw Uhlton first – well, the few specks of light that betrayed its existence in the rainy murk of evening. He thought of the sleepy village he had seen in maps (and with the powder), built above the river. A place far from politics and Vergers, somewhere he might manage to score some Carnival – if he could just slip away.

“I can see it,” he shouted, hoping to lift Cadell’s spirits, and because he was genuinely excited. “There, to the south west, the town of Uhlton.”

“Good,” Cadell said. “How very clever of you. We’ll be there soon”

“And where in Uhlton is there?” David asked.

“Never you mind,” Cadell mumbled. “Got to keep some mystery in your life.”

Uhlton was not as David imagined. Built on a ridge above the swollen lake, it was a cramped and crowded village, and anything but sleepy. Steamers docked and undocked at a long quay, men shouted and swung thick ropes around bollards as they guided their pilots with hand signals and curses, working busily even at this late hour. The river seemed almost as busy as Mirrlees itself.

The roads leading to the town were in poor repair. The River Weep sustained this township as it did Mirrlees and Chapman. Around Uhlton, besides a few tilled fields, the land was bare or forested, without the river the town would die.

As they approached, someone released a flare into the sky; blue flame illumined the sky like a third moon. Cadell slumped down on a large pale stone, marking the edge of the town. Dim double shadows stretched behind him. He let out a long, resigned breath and rested his chin on his hands.

“They’ve seen us now,” he said. “There’s little reason to go on. They will come and get us, and I am too weary. We will wait here.”

A second flare rocketed skywards. From the township rolled a horse-drawn carriage, its driver tall, lamps dangled from its corners.

Back the way they had come lightning scarred a black and starless sky and the northern horizon rumbled and boomed. Though they were scarcely more than a hundred miles from Mirrlees it was as though they stood in another land entirely.

The carriage came to a halt beside them and the driver cracked his whip in the air – the horses didn’t blink, he obviously did this a lot. “State your business in Uhlton,” he said curtly, swinging the whip in lazy circles around his head.

“I have an appointment with the Mayor and his second in command,” Cadell said.

The driver laughed, and there was threat implicit in that sound as much as any cracking whip. “Mayor? None go by that name here, kind sir.”

Cadell grinned, an equally threatening grin. “Don’t be so disingenuous; you know who I need to speak to. And you’d best hurry, I am hungry.” Cadell flashed his teeth. “I must talk to Buchan and Whig. Unless of course, they have passed away or been driven out.” Cadell sounded almost hopeful.

The driver’s eyes narrowed, and he peered at them through the gloom, one hand lifting a lamp to better aid his scrutiny. David’s eyes watered in all that light.

“They’re here,” the driver said, clearing his throat significantly. “But not for much longer.” Then he whistled, his eyes widening then narrowing, expressions so bordering on caricature David couldn’t tell if he was serious or taking the piss. “Oh, I know of you, you’re that Engineer, the one with the cruel sense of humour and the taste for Vergers. We’ve a portrait of you on our dartboard. Buchan would speak to you, yes indeed.”

Cadell looked up at the driver, irritation passing across the Old Man’s face like a storm, he stood taller and taller, and the driver seemed to shrink.

“We are tired,” Cadell said sounding at once tired yet energetic enough to possibly rip off a certain driver’s face. “Very tired. Take us to the village or strike us with that ridiculous whip, just do something! I’ve no patience for this.”