Angel Stations

by Gary Gibson

  ‘It’s only for the good of our city, boy,’ said Uftheyan. ‘Our enemies want Shecumpeh gone from the city, because with Shecumpeh gone, the city is theirs.’

  ‘The city is already theirs,’ rasped Ursu, his throat sore from his beating. Uftheyan stared at him, and then the elder’s fists started hammering at him.

  ‘Into the water – now!’ a voice cried, and Ursu felt himself lifted. And then a shock beyond pain, a freezing rush, as if all the warmth in the universe had fled, leaving him in a place of unending, cold darkness. Water filled his nose and ears and mouth and he reached up, feeling his hands break through the surface of the water, feeling himself being dragged along by the current.

  He thrashed out instinctively, clawing for air, his mind filled with primordial terror, reaching out for life at any cost. He saw them there on the tiny shore, surrounded by the sparkling dim light of the glowing fungus for the tiniest of moments, a frozen tableau of murderers almost certain to be the last thing he would ever see.

  And then he was gone, sucked down into rushing blackness. He thrashed, and screamed, but water rushed into his lungs and a heavy darkness spread out from the centre of him, grabbing for his very soul, and in panic and terror he reached out blindly once more, desperate for the slimmest, tiniest chance of a miracle, of a way back to life – not ready to give up, not yet. His hands touched smooth wet rock, the walls of the underground tunnel slipping by him, then miraculously his face felt the air. He gripped onto a roughened protrusion, the water still battering at him, and vomited water. Air, he realized gratefully. Air. His head was still singing with the beatings he had taken, his muscles as if on fire. Then he spotted light: the familiar thin glow of icewort.

  He had emerged in a tiny cavity of rock, several feet in height, a natural deformity in the tunnel that narrowed upwards to a paper-thin crack reaching through the stone. He listened to himself whooping, hyperventilating, sucking in as much air as he could manage, gripping on desperately, his feet braced against a rocky outcrop by the side of the tunnel to prevent the icy water from sucking him away. Slowly, gradually, he regained some composure, but the terror still lingered, and it took every ounce of effort to keep himself from slipping into blind panic.

  Even if he didn’t drown here, the cold would take him soon enough. And the air would last him only so long; minutes, maybe. Perhaps this was fate’s cruel joke on him, to give him one last taste of life before dragging him away to the merciless underworld where all such enemies of Nubala were doomed to languish.

  But perhaps there were other air pockets; and perhaps the tunnel was not so lengthy, after all. But the water spilled out of the hills miles away, and if there were no further air pockets between here and there . . .

  No, he mustn’t think of that. Shecumpeh would not have entrusted himself to Ursu if the god had thought him incapable of his task. To think otherwise was to remain here until the air became stale, until he froze to death, until he became weak enough for the current to snatch him away once more.

  He remembered those childhood tales, those horrible stories passed around amongst the youngest acolytes, that some had heard a voice calling up from the well outside the House of Shecumpeh, only days after Ewenden had disappeared – had been murdered, in fact, by Turthe and the others, for experiencing the same vision as Ursu had.

  How could they have made her disappear so completely? Surely not by bundling her body out of the House . . . and then where would they have disposed of the body? There was nowhere obvious inside the city, and beyond the walls an enemy army was waiting. Then it must have been done the same way: dragging a frightened young girl, guilty only of trying to serve her god, into that underground cave and throwing her into the water to drown her. Perhaps she had also found herself trapped here in this same diminishing bubble of air, only to be swept away eventually.

  She must have survived for a brief time. Under the well, of course. Clearly the river ran under the well shaft and replenished it.

  The thought of it was even more terrible than that childish ghost story. Perhaps she had indeed been trapped alive at the bottom of the well, too weak after the beating to call out for any length of time. Perhaps some young acolyte had indeed heard her calling out in the night, in the days immediately after her disappearance. Perhaps he would have run to Turthe, or Meleter, or Uftheyan, and told them. As Ursu pictured the scene unfolding, anger began to burn within him, anger strong enough to almost make him forget the terrible cold seeping through into his every bone.

  He could feel his strength sapping away with every passing second, but he held on grimly, not willing to return to the rushing blackness until the force of the icy current finally pried his feet and hands loose. But eventually the Teive would claim him, regardless.

  He sucked in air several times, filling his lungs, feeling the air grow denser and warmer each time he did so. Then he let go, feeling strangely calm now, yielding himself to the river spirits that gurgled and roared around him, as they snatched him away from the tiny bubble of life that had so briefly given him sanctuary.

  Then, suddenly, the river seemed to twist downwards, plummeting. By some miracle Ursu kept his mouth closed and resisted the urge to scream.

  And then, just as suddenly, he encountered air again. Though it felt like an eternity since he’d first been submerged, by a miracle he was still alive. His feet touched a mound of pebbles and loose shale, covering what he realized was the base of the well. Some of the surrounding brickwork had given way, allowing him enough of a handhold to scrabble part of the way up out of the water, before he could be swept away again.

  Aware of light coming from above, he looked up and saw a tiny disc of sunlight. Apart from where the walls had occasionally crumbled, the sides of the well were composed of smooth brick offering little to hold onto. But he could see a water bucket hanging down, just out of reach, and maybe . . .?

  He yelled out several times, hoping someone could hear him, but no answering call came, no sudden welcome silhouette peering down from far above. He paused and listened intently for a few moments more, hearing sounds that might be screams, and other less recognizable noises. But deep in the well, with the water still surging around his chest, it was impossible to guess what was happening above. He now refused to even think of the girl, Ewenden, trapped down here unheeded until she had died. Instead he negated her from his memory, thinking only of surviving.

  The bucket, he realized, was not so far above him. Normally it was reeled up to the top after use, but for some reason it had been left hanging a short distance above his head. Not near enough that he could easily reach it, so he scrabbled frantically for handholds, some way to brace himself against the curved brickwork and then raise himself up. He had to reach that bucket, and then . . .

  And then what? He didn’t know. But he was now freezing cold after his immersion, and it was getting steadily harder to move, or even to think. The water swirling around his chest tugged at him constantly like the souls of the dead trying to carry him away to the underworld. He knew his time was limited as his fingers sought out spaces between the bricks where some mortar might have been loosened. One of the bricks came loose all of a sudden. He jerked back in surprise, then put his hand in the gap it had left, finding it made an excellent handhold.

  Again his fingers sought among the bricks, looking for a way to loosen more of them.

  One seemed to give way the tiniest amount, so he began working at it with his hard, stubby claws, wrenching it from side to side until finally it gave way enough for him to pry around its sides with desperate fingers and slowly tug it loose.

  Now he had created two handholds, which would raise him much closer to the bucket. Just close enough so that he might be able to reach upwards. His long clawed feet sliding and slipping desperately against the smooth bricks below, he scrabbled up, and thrust a hand into one of the inviting gaps, then lunged for the other one a short distance above. Now that he had his clawed fingers firmly inserted in these two handho
lds, he found the bucket was just above his head. Even so, he was not at all sure he had enough strength left to reach it. Then he thought of the water waiting below him, ready to suck him away again, and knew somehow he must find the strength. And it had to be now.

  He reached up with one long leg, finding a foothold next to one of his hands in the loosened brickwork, and for a moment hung sideways across the diameter of the well shaft, just above the foaming water. Then he swung the same leg out in a frantic arc, so that it caught the side of the bucket, batting it against the far wall of the well, and watching as it bounced back towards him.

  He reached out quickly from his second handhold, and caught the edge of the bucket with one hand, pulling it down just enough so that he could get a firm grip on its rim. His mind sang with joy, but he wasn’t safely there yet.

  With fingers still clamped grimly onto the rim of the bucket, he let go of the wall and for a moment hung there precariously by just one hand, before reaching up and grabbing the bucket’s edge with his other. He pulled himself up slowly, the painful effort forcing tears from his eyes.

  The bucket suddenly tipped under his weight, and in desperation he scrambled upwards, with what remained of his strength, till he had both hands and both feet securely around the rope. Fortunately the bucket had remained above the treacherous water. By some miracle, by the merciful hand of Shecumpeh, Ursu was still alive.

  But for how long now? He couldn’t shimmy up the rope; couldn’t perform the impossible. He would still have to rely on a rescuer. As he rested for a while, his robes felt soggy and damp and uncomfortable around him, drying only slowly. He realized he had every chance of dying first from exposure. As he shivered miserably, he wondered what was happening far above him, as the city his people called Nubala succumbed to the armies of the Emperor Xan.

  Time passed.

  He had taken the rope he used to tie his robe around himself and knotted one end tightly around the curved iron handle of the bucket, and had tied the remaining length around himself. He then kept his arms wrapped around the handle, his flesh becoming sore where it pressed against the bucket’s wooden rim.

  But now he could feel very little of anything; even his fingers had lost all sensation. He had forgotten what it must be like to be warm, and his fur had dried out in thick, uncomfortable tufts, which he longed to drag his claws through. The cold was gradually seeping into his brain.

  Sometimes, he heard sound from far above, but the fact that nobody had come to draw water from the well was not a good omen.

  As more time passed, the night drew in. Ursu clung onto the bucket, staring longingly upwards. After a while, he found himself playing childhood games with Ewenden. First they played stone rounds, a favourite game of Ursu’s, on the pebble-strewn ground near the well. From time to time, Ursu would look over at the well. Then he would turn back to Ewenden, her skin pallid and rotting, ears and fur tangled with weed, and ask if she wanted to play some more. She would reach over to groom his fur, licking and stroking it into place with her tongue and sharp, canthre-like claws.

  Sometimes he would be back inside the well, and he could see the flesh of his hands swelling where they gripped the bucket’s rim. Sometimes he would see smoke drifting overhead, obscuring the well mouth. And sometimes, he dreamed.

  He dreamed he had been rescued. This was a comforting dream; he had felt a tug at the rope and the bucket swaying. Slowly, slowly he ascended, and it seemed so perfect, just the happy ending he longed for but knew would never happen. He then dreamed of strong hands lifting him over the lip of the well, and when he called out to Ewenden, called out to Shecumpeh, he heard them shushing him. As if anyone might hear him down at the bottom of that deep dank well.

  He listened to the voices around him, waiting for the dream to finish so he might continue clinging to the bucket, deep down in the well.

  ‘But what was he doing down there, Master Turthe?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just carry him. He obviously fell in while he was trying to raise water to douse the fire. Now carry him inside.’

  Another voice: ‘But how did you know he was there?’

  ‘I don’t have time now for these questions,’ came the exasperated response. ‘And in the name of Nubala, keep your voice down. Do you want the soldiers to hear us?’

  Ursu woke, his nostrils filled with the smell of something burning – so thick and heavy it made him double over choking. As he vomited noisily someone took his head and guided his mouth towards a bucket. As his head fell back the pain returned twice as severely as before. Faces were all around him now, blurred visages that failed to resolve themselves. He saw his own hands, looking thick and misshapen. It took a moment to realize that they had been bandaged.

  The next time he woke, he could make out his surroundings more clearly. The pattern of bricks in the walls around him and the carvings on the wooden door looked unfamiliar, unlike anything in the House of Shecumpeh. There was little light, and he could only discern his surroundings by the starlight coming through the window. He moved his head, and saw a figure watching him from a corner of the room. Turthe.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  Ursu felt his hackles rise. He was lying on a heap of rags and the air around him smelled of animal shit. He realized they were in the stables where the icebeasts had been kept, only a short distance from the House of Shecumpeh. As Ursu tried to raise himself a blackness welled up inside him and he let himself flop down again.

  ‘No thanks to you.’

  ‘I rescued you from the well.’

  ‘You put me down there in the first place,’ rasped Ursu, feeling tired even from the effort of speaking. ‘You tried to drown me.’

  Turthe leaned forward, out of the shadows, and raised his hand. When Ursu saw his face it was as if years had passed since they had last spoken, not just a day and a night. Blood stained the old Master’s lips, and he seemed greyer, as if something vital had been leached from his soul.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Turthe. ‘And, for my sins, we are all being punished.’

  ‘The invaders—?’

  ‘Are everywhere,’ Turthe interrupted. ‘Shecumpeh has failed to protect us.’ Turthe shifted forward. Ursu could see more clearly the lines of pain in his face, saw the way Turthe reached down to clutch his chest, as if something had been damaged beyond repair. This is death, he thought. Turthe was dying.

  ‘The others – where are they?’

  ‘Uftheyan is dead,’ said Turthe, ‘killed by Xan’s soldiers.’

  ‘Shecumpeh – they don’t have the god?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where the god is?’

  Turthe smiled, a wan, thin smile. ‘Yes I do. It was true, wasn’t it?’ Turthe’s sad grey eyes stared into Ursu’s own. ‘Shecumpeh commanded you to carry him to safety outside the city.’

  ‘Just as Ewenden was instructed, and you repaid her obedience by murdering her.’

  ‘Help me up,’ Turthe said, by way of an answer. ‘I need to get up.’

  Ursu’s head felt a little clearer. He pushed himself up from the rags he’d been laid on and looked down at his hands, at the ruined flesh of his palms. Then he grudgingly helped the old priest to stand, and glanced briefly out of a window. Snowflakes drifted through it onto Ursu’s fur.

  The window directly faced the side wall of an adjacent stable, and to the right of it a wide lane leading, in the distance, towards the wall surrounding the city. Closer, he could see figures dressed in armour looming in the dim twilight, their black ears encrusted with heavy jewelled rings, as favoured by mercenaries. They seemed to be just standing and talking. Probably standing guard, Ursu guessed, but over what?

  There were no other signs of life on the streets, which was very unusual, and no lights burning. Only the constellations shone down on the ravaged city, casting thin shadows under the encroaching night. He looked up at the stars spread across the sky in the thick glistening band of Hesper’s Crown.

  ‘Is there some kind
of curfew?’ whispered Ursu, glancing at Turthe. It was strange to think how, a few days ago, Turthe had been a symbol of authority, but that had all gone now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Turthe replied. ‘I’ve been hidden here since before night approached.’

  Ursu made a disgusted noise. He had every right to take his revenge on Turthe. Instead, he supported him out into the night.

  ‘Be careful. There’s been a lot of death, Ursu. Too much death,’ the old one whispered, wary of the soldiers nearby.

  ‘I’m taking the god,’ said Ursu. ‘Do you understand me?’ He grabbed Turthe’s arm and led him through the darkened streets, moving quietly and slowly. There were indeed many bodies; some, men from the city militia, left slaughtered on the cold ground. As they came across a dead child, Ursu’s heart grew colder than an icy grave. Who would do such a thing? Who would encourage an army to do such things?

  As Turthe hobbled along he had to stop frequently to rest, and Ursu anticipated the old Master dying at his feet. But Turthe kept grimly on, and finally they reached the shadow of the House of Shecumpeh – or what was left of it.

  It was a burned-out ruin, and snow hissed on smoking embers mixed amongst collapsed masonry. There were footprints across the thin covering of snow on the open square facing the main facade. Someone had been here within the last hour.

  ‘What happened to you, Turthe?’ Ursu whispered, pausing for breath on the edge of the freezing square. He could hear no sound, only absolute silence, as if everyone in the world had died but them. Smoke rose in great black drifts across the skyline, even obscuring the stars. It was the end of their history, he thought; the end of Nubala, the end of everything.