Ninefingers stood, naked still, lips pursed as he tunelessly whistled, twisted muscles knotting and flexing as he worked, eyes shining with happiness, skin dashed and spattered black from head to toe.
There was something hanging all around the cell, glistering rope in swags and festoons like decorations for some mad festival.
Guts, Bethod realised. Guts, unwound and nailed up.
'By the dead,' he whispered, putting one hand across his mouth at the stink.
'That's got it!' And Ninefingers buried the big knife in the table and held the head dangling by one ear, blood still trickling from the hacked-off neck and spattering the floor.
The head of Rattleneck's son. He grabbed the slack jaw with his other hand and moved it clumsily up and down while he spoke through his clenched teeth in a piping mockery of a voice.
'I want to go back to my daddy.' And Ninefingers laughed. 'Take me back to Daddy.' And he chuckled. 'I'm scared.'
And he sighed, and tossed the head away, and frowned at it as it rolled into the corner.
'Thought that'd be funnier.' And he looked around for something to wipe his hands on, blood-slick to the elbows, but couldn't find anything.
'You reckon Rattleneck'll still want him?
'What have you done?' whispered Bethod, staring at the thing on the table that hardly looked like it had ever been a man.
And Logen smiled that easy smile he used to have - the smile of a man who'd never entertained a dark purpose - and shrugged.
'Changed my mind.'
- Sharp Ends, Made A Monster