The Butcher and the Butterfly (21 page)

‘Would it change
anything even if I did deny those murders, Jessie? Would it matter
if I told you that Samson still walks this earth, that he is the
true killer here?’

‘Nope.’

‘Thought not.’

Martin, his hands
still resting on his head, exhaled hard. ‘So gentlemen, what’s it
to be then? Am I to be taken back to Ritash and hung for my
crimes?’

Jessie smiled. It
was a dangerous smile; one that had been used time and time again
not only for intimidation but also for sexual conquest – by the
Maker how the women loved a dangerous smile.

‘Nope,’ Jessie
said raising his own weapon, ‘The King wanted it, but I can’t be
bothered with all that. We shall make up some fairy story of how
you wouldn’t come quietly. I can’t see him loosing much sleep. And
besides, I’ve waited years to get you back for what you did to me.
So I shall shoot yer down and then cut off yer head as a
trophy.’

3

‘You can put your
guns away, chaps.’ Jessie said, and the four Watchmen holstered
their ancient killing machines. Holstering his own gun, Jessie
opened Martins backpack and took out his gun – its surface, even
though dulled with age, glistened in the sunlight. From the look in
his eyes, it seemed to Martin as though the Watchman appreciated
his weapon.

‘Going to kill you
with yer own gun, Oath Bearer. Any last words?’

‘Fuck you,
cunt.’

‘Nope.’

Jessie pulled the
trigger and the gun shot echoed across the Wastelands like the last
scream of the Devil.

4

Martin braced his
body for the impact and took a step back. Many times he had faced
off against more men, but he had been armed, well positioned and
ready for the fight. Right now he had none of this and had no real
training to fall back on; as Eric had once said – if ya caught
outnumbered, with no weapon and yer cock swaying in the wind, then
you are a fool for being there and no training from this old
bastard can help ya.

It would be over
quick at least and as he heard the gunshot Martin instinctively
threw himself to the floor. He curled his body as he fell, trying
to make the target smaller, he also mentally scanned his body for
the pain the bullet was causing as it tore through his body. But
there wasn’t any. He then, in that single moment of awareness
braced himself for what would be the death blow.

But it didn’t
come.

Martin thought he
heard a scream, but put it down to his own internal voice and then
an odd silence enveloped him. It seemed to drown out all other
sounds and he was all too aware of his own breath; his boots
scraping on the dirt and the twang of old bits of metal as they
clanged together. He could hear his own heart pumping, and beneath
him, buried under the hardpan, he could hear the beating heart of a
scorpion. He raised his head, expecting to see Jessie either
pointing his smoking weapon at him or the boots of the Watchman as
he came in closer - like shooting fish in a barrel as he father
would have said.

But Jessie wasn’t
there. The Watchman was about twenty feet in the air, engulfed by a
giant winged creature as black as the night’s sky. Beneath the
winged beast, covered in their own gore, the other four Watchmen
lay dismembered – their guts now a banquet for the oncoming crows
and vultures.

There was another
muffled scream as the winged beast took hold of Jessie’s throat
with one bony and burnt hand and thrust the other through his
chest; bursting out the other side spraying more dark blood over
the dry hardpan of the Wastelands.

The winged beast
released his grip and tore away his arm from the massive hole in
Jessie’s chest and threw him to the floor; his body bouncing and
snapping as it hit the rocks.

Upon their dead
bodies the Angel of Death landed, crushing their bones with his
enormous weight and he looked upon them with his featureless face.
Martin could sense he was smiling for hadn’t he been smiling the
day he had come to the Marksman and told him of Samson’s plans?

5

Martin stood up
and brushed himself off. Scratching the back of his head he coughed
out some the dust that had settled in throat and watched; a grimace
upon his face, as the Angel of Death devoured the five Watchmen. He
tore at their clothes and their flesh, feasting first upon their
hearts and then whatever came within its terrible reach and its
terrible razor claws. Within ten minutes, enough time for Martin to
gather his backpack and his gun - which was located some distance
from Jessie’s body, the bodies of the five Watchmen had been
stripped bare of their flesh and only their blood stained skeletons
remained.

The Angel of Death
stepped away from his latest meal and joined the Marksman in the
shade of the hut.

Its stench was
incredible; like scorched flesh in a frying pan. It made the
Marksman’s gut twist and he swallowed hard, burping to make sure he
didn’t throw up all over the place. He still hadn’t really
contemplated what had happened. And why.

‘Looks like I owe
you again, Angel. You sure know how to make an entrance.’ Martin
looked over to the corpses just as two fat crows landed upon them
and begun pecking away.

‘You will learn in
time, Martin, that I do not do things by half. And yes, you do owe
me, that’s twice I have saved your life in one way or another.’

Martin chuckled.
‘I guess so. I guess so.’ His thoughts drifted off to when the
Angel had come to him, back in Ritash and told him – had shown him
– of Samson’s treachery. He had been given a choice then. To do
nothing and let the world fall or to act and to save the world, to
be a hero. He had chosen to be a hero. But sat here, in the middle
of butt fuck nowhere he didn’t feel like a hero.

‘Why?’ Martin
simply asked.

‘That’s the great
question, Marksman, always has been and always will be. I gave you
a choice, back there, when the world was a simpler place for you. I
offered you a hero’s journey or a coward’s journey. You chose the
heroes path and one day you will thank me for that. You can’t see
it now, like a fog; what has happened clouds your vision, but in
time you will thank me.

‘In the meantime
though, I have a favour to ask of ya.’

‘Seems fair.
Though I can’t imagine what I can do for you.’

‘That town you are
headed for holds within it something that I need. An orb, the one
called Varula. I need her more than anything. Get her for me and I
shall see to it that you shall meet the Sorcerer and you shall have
your revenge.’

‘And what if I
decline? What then? I am getting tired of all this, Angel. Seems I
am not equipped for such a journey.’

The Angel of Death
scooped up a handful of sand and crushed it together in his balled
fist. ‘You are like sand, Martin. Supple, moving with the winds of
change, relentless in its task for you will go on hunting Samson
until the sky breaks and the earth tears itself to pieces. I know
you care not for what Samson stands for, but the mere fact of his
betrayal and of his survival haunt your dreams and is your one
single thought.’ The Angel of Death opened his clenched fist and
the sand had become a rock. ‘I can make you into a rock, Martin.
Just do as I ask. Please.’

Martin could sense
an urgency about the Angel. He was agitated, twitchy and on edge.
He showed no emotion on its featureless face but in a way it didn’t
need to.

‘I’ve heard of
these orbs, Angel. They can be tricky to handle let alone
stifle.’

‘Don’t you worry
about that, Martin. She shall be well enough occupied. All you need
to do is stay true to your path, hunt the Sorcerer, till the world
falls away at your boots and you look out to eh wide expanse of the
Great Sea, but on the way locate me the orb so that I can have
it.’

‘Why do you want
it?’

The Angel shifted
quickly, its great hulk stepping out into the sunlight, the heat
from its body increasing. ‘That matters to you not a jot, Marksman,
now, do as I say or face the fact that you will never catch
Samson!’

With that the
Angel of Death soared into the azure blue sky and was gone. Martin
was alone, the dust whistling around his feet like tiny dogs
lapping against their masters boots. Silent, except for the crows
as they pecked at their banquet, Martin remembered that a few hours
ago he hadn’t been alone.

‘Albert!’

Where the fuck is
Albert?

6

He wasn’t in the
hut and so Martin walked around to the stable at the rear of the
building. There was a familiar stench coming from that stable –
stale beer, horse, blood and death. It was quite an intoxicating
stink, one that both repulsed and intrigued at the same time. He
walked into the shaded stable, his boots crushing the dry hay and
his eyes opening wide to see in the gloom.

Unsurprisingly,
though he fell to his knees; his body and mind finally giving in,
he found Albert laying on top of his old faithful horse – his chest
had been ripped open, his guts splayed out for all to see. Beneath
him, old Fanny’s head was twisted to the rafters in an angle that
should not exist. The flies had begun to swarm as the heat did its
work to decompose the bodies.

Fighting back the
retch, Marin struggled to his feet and noticing that Albert’s eyes
were still open, he walked over and gently closed them so that it
looked like the old loon was asleep.

It was then that
Martin noticed that Albert’s lungs had been torn clean out and were
laid out on the floor - neatly; like a well ironed pair of gore
trousers. He then noticed, gripped tightly in Albert’s left hand a
paper note. Gently removing it, though it took more to release it
than Martin had originally thought, the Marksman walked back out
into the sunlight and unfurled the parchment.

Martin,

I have saved him
from the cancer like I promised. He was cursed, Martin. Just check
the side of the hut. See you soon.

Your friend

Samson Little.

P.S Sorry for
killing Albert.

P.P.S Sorry for
killing Fanny.

P.P.P.S I’m not
sorry.

The Marksman
scrunched up the note and threw it to the floor. Death had been
right. He cared little for what Samson stood for. He didn’t give a
rat shit about whatever type of evil grew in parts of the world
unknown to him. He just wanted a single shot on even ground. Just
one shot.

7

Martin didn’t have
the strength to dig a grave for Albert, nor a spade for that
matter. He could have searched Albert’s years of junk collecting,
but Martin to be away. Back on his relentless task.

Before burning the
place to the ground, he had ransacked the hut for as much food and
fresh water as he could carry – ignoring the trinkets, glamour ware
and ancient pornographic images, and then walked around to the side
of the house where Albert had noted, and Samson for that matter,
laid the clue on the old loons age.

Albert had
mentioned he placed a single white line on the blackened wood
marking every time the bird had flown into the air and the storm
had come. He used the traditional way of noting – four single lines
then one slashed through at a diagonal for the fifth. The wooden
wall, which was perpetually in shade was less worn that the others
and there were so many white lines etched into its surface that
from a short distance you would have thought that the wall was
painted white. it looked as though Martin would count to a number
unknown to even the brightest mathematician, but eventually he
finished counting, the urge to stop and guess almost winning him
over except that something deep within him that screamed to honour
the old loon told him to go on and he shook his head in disbelief
and to try and turn that disbelief into reality it spoke the number
out loud.

‘Three thousand
and ninety six years old, Albert. No wonder you were a mad old
fuck!’

When nobody
responded he poured the gasoline around the bottom of the hut,
making sure to cover Albert and Fanny and lit a match. He did not
say a word of comfort, there was no one to hear it and Martin did
not wish Albert well on his journey for he knew that he wouldn’t be
on one. The Marksman simply threw the match into the stable and
stood back as the flames took hold and the old hut, the old loon
and his old knackered mule burnt to a crisp.

The Hanging Fairies

1

In the one room he
could not leave the rotten body of the Wretch King looked out of
the window; he gazed wondrously at the land below. His home, the
Castle Thraken Mur, was situated in the heart of the land known to
all as the Shiftings, so called as the ground, the mountains, even
the rivers seem to have a mind of their own and they move about
changing the face of the world and altering maps. He looked over
the vast grounds the castle held in its walls. The grass was dark
brown and sandy, the trees short and without leaves. The stream
that ran through the grounds was green, turning black as it entered
the castle through a small grated drain. The sky above was dark as
it always was and today a light mist was falling. In the far
distance the mountains sprang up - as sharp as teeth, their tips
coated in snow and their huge sides glistening purple and blue.
Beyond them was the vast plains and beyond that the world that
Barnabas wanted to control.

The Wretch King
was weak, his return to this world was not of his making and he was
desperate for the power he used to control. His eyes used to shine
the bluest of blues but now they were as black as the night’s sky.
His nose was long, his nostrils wide and his mouth was large with a
sea of sharp fangs. His body was thin, emaciated, and his fingers
long ending in sharp nails. His blood red cloak was as old as he,
its ends in tatters as it dragged along the floor when he
walked.