The Butcher and the Butterfly (22 page)

Six hundred years
ago he had been a strong, powerful man. A giant of a King. But in
this weakened state he feared for his own safety. He could defend
himself with some magic but only for a short while. After that any
man, woman, child for that matter, could fell him.

But not for long.
He coughed deep and spat out of the window. Soon the Orbs would be
his and then he would be all powerful again. But Grendle was the
key Orb. He needed her and he needed her quick. She could bring him
life, a full body and the power to summon his followers. Old Green
Grendle and then the one called The Boy would be all the magic he
needed for the time being. He had sent men to find the Green
Daughter and soon they would return for he had promised them gold;
lots of gold.

The other Orbs
could wait; but not too long. With their power he would be safe.
With their power he would be able to walk the lands again.

He walked slowly
over to his throne; his bare feet gripping the cold, black marbled
floor easily. He walked past effigies of his forebears and
strangely; effigies of the Kings that had come after him. It was an
odd feeling to see ones past kings, then oneself and then the faces
of the Kings that came after. How the people of the Shiftings
worshipped the old kings. They were true heroes. But the people
were no more. The Shifting's, like the old Magic, like their new
King, had grown old and rotten and lifeless.

Barnabas slumped
upon his throne made of black rock and reached for his cup of wine.
He raised it to his lips and smelt the sweet aroma of the fruity
fortified red wine. Drinking deeply he emptied the cup and lazily
he let his arm swing down the remaining few drops dripping onto the
black marble. He longed to step outside, to feel the cool air upon
his face. To start his work in earnest. He was growing tired of the
four walls which imprisoned him. He was growing tired of this place
and yearned to be free of it.

A knock on the
door to his right brought him out of his melancholy state.

‘Enter.’ The
Wretch King hissed.

The door opened
and a hideous thing walked into the throne room. It was tall, well
over ten foot, its legs massive as too were its arms. From its rear
end a long tail grew. The things head was long and thin but without
eyes and it had massive ears. In its arms it carried a plate full
of roasted meat.

‘I have brought
you your meal, my King.’ Its voice was deep and throaty.

The King nodded at
the man thing. ‘Place it upon the table, Seamus.’

The man walked
quickly over to the table and placed the plate of meat upon it. ‘Is
there anything else, your Majesty?’ Seamus asked bowing as he
did.

Barnabas waved his
hand at the man servant. ‘That will be all, Seamus. I do not wish
to be disturbed for the rest of today.’

‘As you command,
Lord.’ With that, Seamus quickly left the throne room and closed
the heavy wooden door behind him. The thud echoed around the room
and the King stared at the plate full of sweet roasted meat.

2

After a few
moments had passed and the King could wait no longer, he walked
over to the table, picked up the whole leg of lamb, which was big
enough to feed a family of four, and stretching open his mouth
wider than is humanly possible and revealing a huge mouth full of
razor sharp teeth he put the whole leg in and closed his mouth. The
juices ran down his chin. He crunched and chewed until the meat was
small enough to swallow. He did the same with all the meat on the
plate until there was nothing left.

Barnabas could
feel the meat feeding his weary body and he felt better for it. The
next few weeks were going to be tough; his body yearning for
something that could not be supplied until he had Grendle. He would
simply have to ‘put up or shut up’ as his old dead mother used to
say. But Barnabas was getting fed up with ‘putting up’. He was
‘putting up’ with this weak body. He was ‘putting up’ with being
imprisoned in this room. He was ‘putting up’ with that arse Samson
Little thinking he was the Kings right hand. He was ‘putting up’
with Stephen thinking he was doing what he was doing for his own
gain. Even the Angel of Death was seemingly released from the bonds
of his slavery. The world had turned sour and it was Barnabas’ job
to put it right again like he had tried before. Tried and
failed.

Coughing up a wad
of phlegm, Barnabas spat at the floor and walked back over to the
window. His mood had grown foul, his own thoughts provoking it. He
scratched at the stone windowsill his sharp nails cutting deep and
he ground his teeth together. If someone were to disturb the King
in this state then they would regret it for the rest of their short
lives. So, because of this, we shall leave the King to his own
thoughts, evil and bleak as they may be. We shall leave the land
called Shifting’s and not return for a short while. As you can see;
all is not what it seems in the worlds of Samson, Stephen and
Martin, their lives mere puppets of the Wretch King.

3

He trundled
through the dark forest, did the Black Sorcerer, his face full of
smiles, his laughter bursting forth sometimes like a prank playing
child getting one over on his school friends. The forest on the
edge of the Wastelands was lush, full of life, a stark opposite to
the desert which the Sorcerer had crossed, played his own games and
then left his first real mission for the One King complete.

Samson was a happy
man. Never been so happy. He had control over the Black Orb. He had
used Albert, maybe too much, after all, he could have taken the
soul of the old loon easily, but Samson couldn’t deny himself the
fun, and with Albert’s soul now Arda's, the Black bitch was
sustained for a few more days.

The thought of the
Marksman took the smile from Samson’s face. Martin Doyle; the thorn
in Samson’s foot, the itch that could not be scratched. Martin was
proving to be a hard man to turn and would continue to be so maybe
until the end. Using the Orb to see far distances, Samson had
watched the Angel of Death slay five men, five Watchmen, easily.
Samson would love the pleasure of killing the fuck that tried to
kill him but his One King wanted Martin. Wanted him as a prize, a
plaything and a General.

The smile returned
to the Sorcerers face for Samson knew he too was a hard man to
kill. He was powerful. His gun skills, whilst not as good as
Martins, were outstanding, but he now had Dark Magic at his command
and that was what set him apart. And Samson also knew that the One
King was scared of him. Scared that Samson might turn and destroy
the fragile King. But Samson did not want that. Not yet anyway. The
Orbs were all that mattered at the moment. He had Arda and was
happy with her for the time being. He had traded his own soul for
the power that he now commanded and it would need the souls of
others to keep her in tow.

Samson let out
another bark of laughter at how far he had come, unaware of the
madness that was seeping through.

He only needed now
to find the White Orb called Varula. He hadn’t been able to track
her down yet. Folk lore had led him to Arda but there were no
stories about the one nicknamed Satan’s Eyeball. It was
frustrating. He had only heard a wisp of a rumour that it might be
somewhere around the town of Christian Sands. But that was less
than hearsay. The weakest of the Orbs but yet one of the hardest to
find and of course, to find the Orb meant conquering the Orb and
that is always hard. They need souls, lots of them and Samson, to
get souls, needed bodies.

Samson Little
scurried a little faster now through the lush green forest his
black cloak skipping across the dead leaves; his boots covered in
mud. He had plans. Not very good ones, but anything was better than
no plan at all.

4

The next morning
Samson got up early, early enough to hear the birds sing their
morning chorus. He was at his happiest in the forest. Always had
been. Some of his fondest childhood memories involved the forest in
some way; hiding up trees away from his father, playing ‘hunt the
witch’ with his mother and playing ‘army’ with his friends from
school. So many secrets could be hidden in a forest, so many tricks
could be played, and Samson played his fair share of tricks on his
friends.

He walked for many
hours, the forest becoming clearer with each passing hour until by
three in the afternoon the forest gave way to the great rolling
plains of the west lands. The land was flat, green with a huge sky
above. In the bright sun it looked heavenly. Looking behind him,
Samson found it hard to believe that behind the vast forest there
lay a massive desert, deadly, harsh, and unforgiving in its nature
and now here he was; stood on wide open plains, full of water, full
of life.

The soft grass
felt good underfoot and Samson removed his hard boots and walked
barefoot for some time. The grass, green and yellow, tickled his
feet and swept across his ankles like a hundred cats walking past
brushing him with their tails. As he walked he hummed old songs
that he thought he had forgotten and watched the clouds sweep
across the sky, the birds flying in their odd circles and listened
to the crickets buzzing in the long grass.

The air grew sweet
the further from the forest he went and soon, on the horizon,
Samson could make out the vague outlines of hundreds of white
roofed bee hives were the people of Christian Sands bred bees for
honey. Samson kept on walking, forgetting for the moment who he was
and what he was doing. He was happy. A man that had committed many
wrongs and would continue to do so was, for the moment, a free man.
At the will of no tyrant King nor at the will of the bitch Arda.
From horizon to horizon in all directions there was nothing but
green grass and blue sky. The wind rushed through his cloak
bellowing it out revealing the slight frame of the Sorcerer and
wrapped around his waist the sack holding Arda.

By the time Samson
neared the fenced off area holding the many bee hives the sky was
darkening and dusk was approaching. In the air around him the
buzzing of bees could be heard but Samson could see none of the
little flying bugs; which he was thankful for. The wind blew
stronger and a voice was carried upon it. Samson looked to his
right, from where the voice came from but could see nobody. The
white fence stretched out for some distance left and right but
along both lengths Samson could see no one. But yet the voice,
which was singing a song the Sorcerer could not make out, carried
on.

Trying to ignore
the voice, which was distracting to say the least, Samson moved on
until he could go no further; the fence blocking his way. Upon the
fence, written on a rough block of wood in black paint and tied
around a fence post was a sign saying:

NO ENTRY

KEEP OUT

Samson sniggered
at the final comment:

BEES CAN KILL IF
PROVOKED!!!

The singing
stopped and from behind one of the bee hives a young woman stood
up, her straggly brown hair covered half of her pale face and her
blue shirt and black trousers were covered in white paint.

‘What’s being so
funny, mister?’

Samson looked at
the woman, his eyes wide with shock. He had been so deep in
memories, so far from the moment that he hadn’t seen the woman
painting the bee hives.

‘I have never
heard of bees killing a man before. That’s all.’ Samson moved a
little to his left so he could get to see the woman better. She was
tall, well over six feet. Her hands were massive, her face hard. He
knew she was well built underneath that clothing and her eyes had
the glazed look of a simpleton.

The woman stared
at the black cloaked man that had seemed to appear from nowhere.
For a moment she was concerned and that showed in her eyes and
then, like someone turning on an electric spark light, a thought
came to her.

‘My old ‘pa told
me that old man Paulie got stung once on the neck and he was dead
within hours, so mister, men can be dead’d by bees. If my pa says
it then it’s gotta be true.’ The woman wiped a drop of snot from
her nose and carried on looking plainly at the Sorcerer.

Samson nodded.
‘Aye, lady, your father is right, bees can kill. How far is it to
Christian Sands, can I be there by nightfall?’

The girl walked
from behind the last weather beaten bee house, the rest all fresh
white paintwork. She was tall, by the Maker, and her body, as the
wind swept tight her clothes, was muscular. In her right hand she
carried a well-used paint brush and in her left she held a large
paint tin covered in old dry white paint. The woman, pretty in an
odd way was too; covered in white paint. Her eyes, deep emerald
green shone like marbles in the sun and Samson felt a twitch in his
pants he hadn’t felt in a long time. A long time.

‘Abouts three
miles, mister. Be there by sun down nay problem,’ she dropped the
brush into the paint tin then wiped the sweat from her brow with
the back of her large hand which, on closer inspection, was missing
the third finger, ‘what’s yer name mister? Mine’s Dotty.’ She stood
there, rooted to the spot awaiting his reply.’

Samson looked at
the girl. How he could play tricks on this one. She was dumb and an
easy target and he could have her eating out of his hands. He could
sense Arda, a soft humming had begun in the back of his head and he
knew she was awaking and would soon need feeding again. But that
was days away. He would leave this young filly alone.

‘My name is
Samson. Please to meet you Dotty.’

Young Dotty
clapped her right hand against her thigh numerous times making
Samson wince. By the Maker she was stupid and he was regretting not
taking advantage of her.

‘Samson…Samson. I
have a new friend called Samson.’ She sniggered, turned and walked
back behind the last weathered bee hive singing as she went: