Memoirs of a Fallen God

Chapter 11

With a nod to us, he started off towards the mansion at a jog.

“Well, ain't he chipper today,” Scratch said.

I nodded.That about covered it.

I held up my practice sword. “Feel like having your head knocked about a bit?”

His face scrunched up as he gave the question consideration. Then he shrugged. “Can’t say I do.”

I shrugged right back at him, dropped the wooden sword, and collapsed into the grass. In truth, I was exhausted. It had been a tiring day, and it was only now getting on to early evening. While it wasn’t quite as hot as it had been before, it was still hovering at a temperature that made being alive moderately unpleasant. The grass, at least, was cool beneath my head. It felt good.

With a sound like a small avalanche, Scratch followed my example and sprawled in a heap a few feet away. I had a sudden memory of earlier times, the two of us a few feet apart in the slave quarters, on our pallets amid the other field slaves. I smiled. It wasn’t a bad memory.

“If he can get himself back here within an hour I’ll be right surprised,” Scratch observed as he stared up at the sky from his patch of grass.

“I’ll be surprised if it’s not more than two. Tomorrow the Imperial Inspector comes to look over the new troop levies, or something like that. Briar’s likely to get an earful of do-this and don’t-do-that’s. Count will probably have all kinds of instructions for him. Really, he’ll be lucky if he gets away at all.”

“And we got to wait right here. Under orders, even.”

“Yep.”

He let loose a long, dramatic sigh. “I reckon it’s our duty to be well rested for when he wanders back.”

“Yep.”

“Nap.”

“Yep.”

My eyes were closed and I was already half asleep as I said it. The other half followed in short order.

“Well isn’t this quaint.”

My eyes shot open at the harsh, unexpected voice. It wasn’t a voice I recognized, but as I came awake, I recognized the speaker easily enough. Niroko stood ten feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile on his lips.

Instinctively I scampered away from him. Only after putting a little distance between us did I start breathing again. I bounded to my feet. He smiled even broader, obviously pleased by my startled reaction.

It was only then that it occurred to me that the middle of a clearing, well away from his domain, was a very strange place for the overseer to find us, or to be at all.

He made a strange sight. His yellow hair was streaked with dirt, and a few stray leaves were poking out at odd angles. Both his clothing and the skin of his arms were covered in a layer of dirt. All in all, he looked like a man who’d been working hard and moving through brush. My brow wrinkled in confusion. I didn’t believe the overseer had ever done a minute’s manual labor in his life; that’s what slaves were for. So why was the overseer so far from where he should be, looking every bit as dirty as any ditch digger?

Then my eyes widened as I caught a glimpse of something dark and red beneath his fingernails. That, I thought, looks very much like dried blood.

He noticed my examination, then, and the look of amusement on his face withered. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands neatly out of view.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my suspicions overriding caution.

“Well,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “looks to me like I’m tracking down a couple slaves who were trying to make a run for it.”