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.
Still, I had a purpose. A single guiding light through that dark chasm. Vengeance. It let me hold in the screams, the tears, the retching. And it was with calm detachment that I crouched there, the scent of Scratch’s corpse permeating every indrawn breath, the need for vengeance a palpable thing within me. The naked blade was in my hand; I did not remember drawing it. But it felt good. Proper.
I had ample time to consider my next move. The slave girl presented a problem: I didn’t particularly care if she recognized me, as I didn’t expect to live through the night in any case, but if she saw me, and screamed, I might not be able to finish the task at hand. That was completely unacceptable.
Anger makes monsters of us all. I learned something about myself there, in that dark, dark place. She was innocent. Undeniably. She was no part in my plan for vengeance. And yet she was an obstacle, and like any other obstacle, she must be worked around. If I had to kill her, I would. As simple as that.
Still, I had no desire to hurt her. As the minutes ticked by and Niroko settled in to sleep I began to silently scream at the girl, pleading, begging with her in my head. Leave. Please. He is sleeping. Stand up, open the door, and go.
Long minutes ticked by. I knew I should act, now, while I had the opportunity, but I could not make myself. The girl was not sleeping, I could see that through the broken weave in the basket, but she made no move to go.
I willed it as I have willed few things before or since. My head began to pound as the words echoed in my mind. Please.
To my everlasting relief, I watched through a crack in the basket as the girl sat up and looked around, confused. Then she quietly came to her feet, opened the door, and left.
The door clicked closed behind her. Niroko slept on, never so much as stirring.
And then I was alone, save for the man I hated most in the world and a very sharp knife.
A mood took me, then. Fey and terrible. My head still throbbed from the intensity of my silent pleading, but the pain was nothing to me, and I knew there was no more time to waste. The basket lid opened without a sound and out I crept, silent and deadly as smoke. I was vengeance. I was righteous deliverance. Here, in this place, at this time, I was the righter of wrongs.
It was dark but not too dark. The distance to my target vanished in a few steps and suddenly I was leaning over him. His grimy yellow hair hung in dirty strands around his head. His nose was running and his pillow was wet with drool. He did not look like the terrible specter of my nightmares. He did not look a man who would torture and kill an innocent slave child and bury his body in the woods. He looked weak and small.
Yet there was no pity in me for this small, weak man. My hand went to his mouth and covered the inevitable scream.
His eyes shot open. Yellow in the darkness. Confused, startled. Terrified.
Is this panic what Scratch felt, I wondered, in the moments of torture before this beast allowed him to die? Is this panicked look in the eyes what made men like Niroko turn to cruelty time and time again?
I did not know. I still don’t, and I don’t much care. I was not Niroko. I was a boy avenging a friend, nothing more.
My blade bit deep into his neck, the keen edge splitting thick veins and rubbery skin like fine cloth. Blood splattered in all directions and he struggled fiercely. I held him with every ounce of strength I possessed, and still he almost overcame me. I kept sawing with the blade. It did not take long for the struggles to lessen. Soon the man lay still beneath me, and I found myself hacking at dead meat. I continued for a few moments just to be sure. Then, and only then, did I withdraw the blade.
I looked down at the mangled corpse beneath me. There could be no doubt: Niroko was very, very dead. And now I was a murderer.
The calm that had carried me this far began to tatter around the edges and I could feel a sort of disgusted panic creep in. I fought it, set my stubborn tenacity against it head on. The job was far from finished. I could not afford to panic yet, not if I wanted a chance of living through the night.
With a whispered prayer to the Veiled god and a silent apology to my departed friend for what I must do next, I returned to my erstwhile hideaway and pulled Scratch’s corpse from the basket. It was a struggle, but I managed to drag his body to the bed. I set the knife beside to his remaining hand.
I stood back and studied my handywork. Now, I hoped, to whoever first found the macabre scene, it would appear that, in the midst of a session of light torture, the willful slave Scratch had gotten himself free and savaged the slave master with a knife, before succumbing to his own wounds. A more detailed examination would punch enough holes into that theory that it would sink like a rock; but it would, I hoped, buy me some time. Time enough to run. Scratch would understand, of that I was sure. He even might approve. Almost like the vengeance was his—as it should have been. Ah, Scratch. My eyes grew moist at the thought. I lost a moment to sorrow, then, thinking of my stoic, pragmatic friend. I knew then that I would miss him always, that even having avenged him as best I could the pain of his loss would never leave me.
I shook myself. There would be time enough for grief later—or no time at all.
The room was a sticky red mess. Blood was everywhere. I had no idea a single man held so much blood inside him. I was covered in the stuff and very much desired a bath. Instead I stripped and pulled on one of the robes resting on a peg near the door. It was far too big and likely looked ridiculous, but a slave in an overlarge robe was far less suspicious than a slave covered head to toe in gore.
I took a deep breath and opened the door into the hallway. The hour was very late and the halls were empty. I didn’t run but I came close. I encountered not a soul until I was safely back in my room, the door settling to a close behind me.
There I found Briar sitting on my bed, Scratch’s glove held gently in his hands. He looked up at me with sad eyes. “What have you done, my friend?”
I wilted like a fading flower and fell into a sobbing mess on the stone floor.