Spare parts

Spare parts

“What are you doing, Clyde, you fool?”

“Just dropping off flesh; same as always.”

“Imbecile!” Rathan snapped, looking up from his stitching. “Check the Butcher’s list. They want certain parts put aside for a project they’re working on.”

“We always do it this way: Flesh for the Undying Army, so that we might rise once more and wage war upon our enemies.”

Atticus said the same thing last cycle. Do you know what the Butcher did?”


“They ripped off Atticus’ ears and sewed on sousaphant ears instead so that he could ‘listen better.'”

Clyde whimpered and clapped his hands to the side of his head.

“What sort of monster is the Butcher?”

“They come from a world that knows nothing but war,” Rathan said, snipping off a thread. “Realm-shaking events happen on a regular basis, armies clashing, invasions arriving, even the very landscape being transformed. In times of alleged peace, many from the Butcher’s world still want nothing more than to slaughter each other. Some say … uh, let’s speak of this another time.”

Metal-soled boots clanked up the ramp. There was a wet sound as body parts were emptied from a leather bag.

“Those parts are in the wrong pile,” she growled. “I wrote up a list and everything.”

“A mistake,” Rathan said. “We were just correcting it when you came in.”

“Good,” Beli “The Butcher” Flinthammer nodded. “I’m going to need that body to put my friend’s soul inside, once I find it.”

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