on a heroic scale, waiting always for some sign he could not be sure would ever come.
So he waited, and the longer he waited, the harder the waiting became. But despite all this, he could still reason, use his rationality. Shecumpeh had shown him the world fallen to fire and death, if he failed. Therefore failure simply was not, could not be, an option. Ursu planned his move, although he greatly doubted his own ability to carry out such an impossible task.
Over the yells and hoots of the enemy, the sound of screaming closer to home became apparent. Ursu felt the fur across his back prickle, and across the tip of his snout. He raced down the cold stone steps, only to find turmoil in the Great Hall. Its doors were wide open, and he witnessed Masters and acolytes alike shouting and running about outside. The well just beyond the entrance seemed to be the centre of activity, as they drew buckets of water up and ran off with them somewhere, as if attempting to put out flames. Ursu began to step forward hesitantly, to help. He still remembered that story the older acolytes once told, about the ghost of the girl, Ewenden, who still haunted the well, and dragged the unwary down after her.
‘Just put that fire out!’ screamed one of the Masters, and Ursu stared around as gibbering acolytes ran past him. It was then he spotted the buildings across the way with their wooden roofs ablaze.
No matter how fast the acolytes hauled their buckets from the well, it was clear they would never have enough to douse the flames before the stricken buildings burned to the ground.
Nubala had been built in the time of the Ice Giants, and had been well prepared for siege. But since then, the ice had retreated, and in its place a great river flowed down the valley, deep enough for conquering armies to float their supplies dangerously close.
When Xan’s army had first approached, the city council had had some forewarning, and therefore time to build up stocks of vital supplies. But these great catapults that hurled flaming missiles over the city walls were an innovation that Nubala’s original architects could never have predicted.
‘Sometimes I think we should just give them what they want, and fuck tradition,’ muttered a voice near Ursu. He glanced to one side, and recognized the long, sad face of Nepuneh, until recently a fellow acolyte. Ursu stared at him, and Nepuneh looked guilty.
‘I – sorry. I didn’t mean that,’ he said hastily, his fear evident from the way his ears flattened themselves against his skull. He ran off quickly, and Ursu watched him go.
Give them what they want , he reflected. Why had it taken so long for him to understand Shecumpeh’s true purpose?
Xan wanted one thing, and one thing only: the living, beating heart of Nubala. And the essence of the city, the one thing whose removal would mean the end of the city, was Shecumpeh itself.
‘Hmm.’ Turthe smacked his long lips and lifted, one after the other, several huge pages of the Book, looking for the most recently inscribed passages. ‘Here we are. Xan’s armies arrived peacefully enough – well, as peacefully as any potential invasion force can.’ Turthe looked up at Ursu and slid his black, unsheathed claws through the fur that coated his lengthy skull.
Every bone in Ursu’s body ached from the endless carrying of water that had lasted until almost sunset. It had, of course, not been enough to prevent all the buildings standing opposite the House of Shecumpeh from burning to the ground. There were now injured to be attended to by Shecumpeh, and the dying also. There were also many corpses whose families would wish embedded by nightfall.
‘You know all this already, Ursu,’ said Turthe. ‘Why refresh your memory now?’
‘It has to do with what Shecumpeh communicated to me when I became a Master-in-Waiting,’ he replied, knowing he could hide behind the truth as long as he phrased things the right way. Turthe’s lips made a sucking sound
So he waited, and the longer he waited, the harder the waiting became. But despite all this, he could still reason, use his rationality. Shecumpeh had shown him the world fallen to fire and death, if he failed. Therefore failure simply was not, could not be, an option. Ursu planned his move, although he greatly doubted his own ability to carry out such an impossible task.
Over the yells and hoots of the enemy, the sound of screaming closer to home became apparent. Ursu felt the fur across his back prickle, and across the tip of his snout. He raced down the cold stone steps, only to find turmoil in the Great Hall. Its doors were wide open, and he witnessed Masters and acolytes alike shouting and running about outside. The well just beyond the entrance seemed to be the centre of activity, as they drew buckets of water up and ran off with them somewhere, as if attempting to put out flames. Ursu began to step forward hesitantly, to help. He still remembered that story the older acolytes once told, about the ghost of the girl, Ewenden, who still haunted the well, and dragged the unwary down after her.
‘Just put that fire out!’ screamed one of the Masters, and Ursu stared around as gibbering acolytes ran past him. It was then he spotted the buildings across the way with their wooden roofs ablaze.
No matter how fast the acolytes hauled their buckets from the well, it was clear they would never have enough to douse the flames before the stricken buildings burned to the ground.
Nubala had been built in the time of the Ice Giants, and had been well prepared for siege. But since then, the ice had retreated, and in its place a great river flowed down the valley, deep enough for conquering armies to float their supplies dangerously close.
When Xan’s army had first approached, the city council had had some forewarning, and therefore time to build up stocks of vital supplies. But these great catapults that hurled flaming missiles over the city walls were an innovation that Nubala’s original architects could never have predicted.
‘Sometimes I think we should just give them what they want, and fuck tradition,’ muttered a voice near Ursu. He glanced to one side, and recognized the long, sad face of Nepuneh, until recently a fellow acolyte. Ursu stared at him, and Nepuneh looked guilty.
‘I – sorry. I didn’t mean that,’ he said hastily, his fear evident from the way his ears flattened themselves against his skull. He ran off quickly, and Ursu watched him go.
Give them what they want , he reflected. Why had it taken so long for him to understand Shecumpeh’s true purpose?
Xan wanted one thing, and one thing only: the living, beating heart of Nubala. And the essence of the city, the one thing whose removal would mean the end of the city, was Shecumpeh itself.
‘Hmm.’ Turthe smacked his long lips and lifted, one after the other, several huge pages of the Book, looking for the most recently inscribed passages. ‘Here we are. Xan’s armies arrived peacefully enough – well, as peacefully as any potential invasion force can.’ Turthe looked up at Ursu and slid his black, unsheathed claws through the fur that coated his lengthy skull.
Every bone in Ursu’s body ached from the endless carrying of water that had lasted until almost sunset. It had, of course, not been enough to prevent all the buildings standing opposite the House of Shecumpeh from burning to the ground. There were now injured to be attended to by Shecumpeh, and the dying also. There were also many corpses whose families would wish embedded by nightfall.
‘You know all this already, Ursu,’ said Turthe. ‘Why refresh your memory now?’
‘It has to do with what Shecumpeh communicated to me when I became a Master-in-Waiting,’ he replied, knowing he could hide behind the truth as long as he phrased things the right way. Turthe’s lips made a sucking sound
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