Memoirs of a Fallen God

Chapter 14

A single torch burning in a wall sconce cast its dim light across the room. There was a low window, shuddered and closed tight. I looked around, surprised. It was clean. Much cleaner than I’d imagined, and sparse besides. I’m not sure what I’d expected…opulence, perhaps. Or some overt sign of the inner evil I was so certain the man kept hidden. Blood covered walls and a small shrine to the Dead God would not have been at odds with what I saw in my mind’s eye.

But I found nothing of the sort; just a neat room, if large, and a few simple pieces of furniture, a few odds and ends strewn about. No sign of anything out of the ordinary, and no sign whatsoever of Scratch.

My mind raced. The unexpected sparseness caused a problem, no denying. I’d expected, at the very least, a large bed, something in the line of what Briar slept in, with plenty of room for a wiry slave boy to crawl underneath and hide. No such luck, though. The man kept a pallet on the floor not much larger than the one I slept in myself.

I cast around the room, searching for an alternate hiding spot. Have to be quick, I thought to myself, feeling the beginnings of desperation forming in the pit of my stomach. He could be back any second.

The bed was out. There were a few shelves, a small desk, but no closest, no conveniently placed nooks or crannies I might use to while away an hour or two, safe from prying eyes. Nothing at all that would provide sufficient cover. Then I spied a long, low wicker box, in the far corner of the room. A few dirty robes splayed down the sides. The overseer, it seemed, had been neglecting his laundry. I gave it a moment’s consideration. It would be a tight fit, but I should be able to squeeze inside. I wasted a few more seconds, roaming with my eyes, but no better shelter presented itself.

With a sprint and a jump, I was across the room, over the edge of the basket and inside, letting the dirty clothes settle overtop of me. It was, as I’d expected, a very tight fit. The sides poked into my skin and set me itching. The bottom was lumpy and cold.

The smell was repulsive. Dirt and mud and stale sweat and, beneath that…something else. I flared my nostrils, trying to place it. Much worse than sweat. Like rot, like decay, like…

My eyes went wide. I ran my hands along the bottom, hoping to feel soft touch of cloth, or the whisper of wicker beneath my fingertips…but no. Lumpy and cold.

I felt my gorge rising. I moved a few bits of clothing out of the way and forced myself to look down, not wanting to.

There was just enough light leaking over the lip of the basket to see the white of his eyes staring up at me.

I’d found Scratch. I was crouched atop his corpse.

Before I had a chance to react, before I could let loose the startled, horrified scream so near to tearing its way out of my throat, the door burst open. I swallowed the scream, swallowed the horror and somehow remained silent and still, though my whole body shook from the effort.

The overseer entered, mumbling curses and clearly annoyed.

He was not alone. Behind him came another pair of footsteps, softer and slapping barefoot against the stone floor. He mumbled something again, too low to make out. The other voice, responding, was likewise too low to be understood. But I made out enough to know it was a woman’s voice, and to hear the quaver of fear.

“Shut the door, I said!” the overseer barked.

The door thudded closed. The man’s mumbling continued amid the soft rustling of clothing being removed. Then the sound of two bodies collapsing onto the pallet, one heavy, one light.

Young as I was, I could hardly be called ignorant of the goings on between men and women. There was no room for privacy in the slave pens, after all. I’d been familiar with such things for as long as I could remember. But the grunting, the soft, fearful whimpering…how can one describe such a horrible moment? Trapped in a tiny box with the mangled body of your dead friend, the man who had killed him noisily copulating with a whimpering slave girl in the room beyond? I have not the words. If I did I’m not sure I’d have the stomach to utter them.