A dozen of the creatures inhabited this chamber, crouched on their haunches, arms moving side to side as though they were obsessively polishing the floor.
She circled the chamber, keeping well back from the rim. She blew on her rope’s end, causing flame to rise, and lifted her torch to see what was inside one of the holes.
The flame reflected back at her, revealing a metallic object, like a sheet of bronze or iron, curled up exactly in the manner of a scroll.
The creatures ignored her. One squatted nearby and, cautiously, she moved close enough to get a good look at what it was doing. It had unrolled one of those sheets and was running its fingers up and down gashes and gouges torn into the fabric. The sheets were as long as her arm span and a third as wide, yet as thin as Jinna paper. How could such an object lie flat after it had been rolled up so tightly? What magic—or smithcraft—was at work here?
It took no notice of her scrutiny. None of them did. They did not lift their heads and sight, not as creatures did in the world above, the world of light and air. If the pool’s glow was visible to them, she saw no sign of it.
But she recognized immediately what they were doing. Their task was like breath to her. She would have known that action anywhere, the way their fingers flowed along the lines. In the deeps, such creatures needed no light. They did not exist in light, not as she did. Their way was not so different from the mechanism she used, although she relied as well on her eyes for tracking and her lips for speaking each word as it crossed above the pointing finger.
They were reading, and this was a library.
5
FOR five days Ivar and Baldwin pushed the horses as hard as they dared. They expected with each step to be set upon, but on that fifth day they were still alive and trudging along a dark and lonely path through forest land flowering with green. All morning they enjoyed open vistas beneath a high canopy, but in time they reached an area where humankind had gone about its business managing the woods by felling mature trees. Here, young beech and opportunistic ash grew in abundance among clouds of flowering honeysuckle and swathes of sweet-smelling woodruff. It smelled like glorious spring, although it was early summer.
“There,” said Baldwin, pointing to a gap in the tangle. “A clearing.”
They stumbled out of the woodland and into a hamlet, a good-sized holding with several sturdy houses, a byre, a roofed storage pit dug into the earth, a chicken coop, and a lean-to with a shattered roof. Not even a dog barked, and if there had once been chickens, they were fled. It was as silent as the grave.
“Someone’s buried here.” Baldwin had a habit of stating the obvious, and after five days Ivar would just as soon that he kept his mouth shut.
A dozen mounds of dirt lined the roadway, so fresh that no weeds had yet sprouted.
“What do you think killed them?” Baldwin added, then went on nervously. “We’d better keep moving.”
“You stay with the horses,” said Ivar. “Find water, and check that shoe again. I hope to God she doesn’t throw it before we reach a holding with a smith. I’ll do a quick search. There might be aught of food or drink we can take.”
“I don’t like it. It’s too quiet. It creeps me, to see it all silent. Look! That trough is half full of water. I’ll water the horses there.”
For the hundredth time, and with an overwhelming weight of guilt, Ivar wished that Baldwin was Erkanwulf, but he wasn’t. He handed over his reins, then made a quick reconnaissance to make sure no creature was hiding in obvious places. After that, he explored the houses. They had been deserted for many days. In one, a loom sat abandoned, a strip of blue cloth half finished but covered in dust. Another, left with the door open, had been ransacked by animals. A bowl had fallen from a table and lay upended on the packed earth floor. An animal had dug a hole trying to get into one of the chests, but the lock was fastened, and Ivar hadn’t the patience to try to pry it open.
The third house had been shuttered and closed up, although deep scratches marked the door, as if wolves had been trying to get in. He shoved open the door, which stuck twice before yielding. The smell hit hard. One bed built into a corner stank. A fetid mess had congealed and dried in the tumble of furs and blankets. He approached cautiously, a hand over his nose and mouth, and pulled back the topmost blanket.
The stench of rotting flesh boiled up at him. A half formed babe—not even as fully fleshed as a newborn—had been entombed in the blankets amid the leavings of birth: blood; feces; awful.
He gagged and turned away. Falling to his knees, he could not stop himself from heaving and retching onto the floor. When the worst had passed, he crawled away, then stumbled out, not even searching for foodstuffs. The stink was fastened into his nostrils. Every time he took a breath he sucked it in again, and he coughed and gasped and gagged, trying desperately not to heave again.
