The Butcher and the Butterfly (3 page)

‘What else did the
Sorcerer say, Albert?’

Albert placed the
lid back onto the bottle and heaved a sigh. ‘You remind me of him,
Marksman. It’s the eyes. You have the same gaze, a killers gaze me
old pa would have said. But I can tell you already know that so to
end yer torment and to get ya off to bed I shall tell ya.’

‘He didn’t talk
much. It was odd, it was like he was here, but not here. Like he
had other things going on and was watching them as he talked to me.
Occasionally he would say something that I didn’t understand and
had nothing to do with what we were talking about, but I didn’t
make much of it. He had something too, Martin, something hidden
beneath his cloak. He didn’t show me it but I could feel her.’

‘We spent the
night like this, under the stars palavering about this and that.
About my life, about his life and about you. He talked about you
and when he did his eyes were fierce, boy oh boy he has some
business with you Martin. Anyways, he put his hand to my chest, he
pressed hard and told me of the cancer that grows there. He showed
me, Martin, images flashed in my head of how I would cough myself
to death. And it would be a hard long drawn out way to go. One I
don’t want. He could see I didn’t want this so he asked for a coin
and a favour.’

‘Sounds too good
to be true.’

Albert smiled and
his face looked younger and a lifetime of worries seemed to
evaporate. ‘It does doesn’t it? But I accepted anyway. He promised
that if I help you he will take my cancer away and I shall live out
the rest of my days here and my passing will be in my sleep. When
you have lived as long as I, Martin, it’s time to call it quits and
take an opportunity when it shows itself. Trust me, Marksman, when
Old Man Time takes a grip of ya, he sucks ya dry and as my old pa
used to say – when you get old and wrinkly never ever, whatever you
do, never trust a fart.’ With that the old loon hacked and laughed
and hacked and laughed and disappeared behind the hut to sleep with
old Fanny.

Above him Old
Mother and her Nine Daughters sparkled and Martin watched them
until he too stood, stretched and had himself a good night’s sleep
on a creaky old bed in a stinking old hut in the middle of butt
fuck nowhere.

For the first time
in ages Martins sleep was dreamless and when he awoke he instantly
regretted sleeping so deeply.

Stood over him,
with a wicked glint in his eye was a man he knew from Ritash. In
his hand he held an ancient gun and that gun was pointed right
between his eyes.

The Book of Stephen -
Just Follow Orders

1

The hunting party
had left Ritash numbering ten – many more than usual – in search of
the traitor Martin Doyle. Their hunt had taken them from the lush
green forests of home to the harsh nothing of the Wastelands. The
men had walked for hundreds of miles, their horses long since
carrion for the desert.

Sat around a
poorly made campfire situated on a small plateau of land jutting
from the Wastelands like a giant molehill, Stephen, Watchman for
the Eleventh King scanned the faces of the five other remaining
Watchmen. All he could see was fear and exhaustion. The reason for
their fear was twofold; the game they were playing wasn’t as
straight forward as they had originally thought and the Black
Sorcerer was alive.

The game.

It had no name and
because of their stupidity and disbelief, four Watchmen; Drake,
Lombard, Hughes and Davies had all died. They had forgotten…no
misunderstood, the rules and now their bodies graced the hot dead
earth of the Wastelands.

Stephen couldn’t
remember how long it had been since the Sorcerer had visited them,
days and weeks seemed to blend together like milk poured into a
steaming mug of coffee. He could remember what the Sorcerer had
said as his body curled and licked like the flames of the campfire
that were engulfing him.

Let us play a
game, Watchmen. The game has no name and only one rule. The aim of
the game is for no more than five of you to reach the Marksman,
because five is the key. This means that five of you must find
another path to walk along. The rule of the game is simple: play or
die. So it’s each man for himself.’

Stephens’s mind’s
eye flicked back to that night and saw the black garbed man
standing in the campfire, his image swaying and contorting and his
words spiralling through the air. At first the Watchmen thought it
a dream, a vision caused by the Wastelands fury but as the days
went on and their number decreased it became all the more apparent
that what they had seen in the fire was as real as their own names
and the threat the game posed could not be ignored. The Black
Sorcerer was alive and for some reason; tormenting their small
group. Cursing the hunt of the traitor. The mere thought of the
Black Sorcerer and what he brought with him should be enough to
scare the toughest of men but for Stephen the thought of the power
and the sheer strength of the Sorcerer and the Wretch King, for
whom he does his bidding, it brought total fascination.

The silence of the
group was pleasing to Stephen. Being a Watchman meant leading a
very singular life with rules and regulations to follow and only
one other person’s welfare to take care of, the King. You awoke
alone, dressed alone and went about your business alone. You have
no friends, no lovers only whores. If you work with another
Watchman then the task beset you will be tough and usually
requiring travel to far off lands. If like this mission you were
required to work in a group numbering ten then you could guarantee
whomever or whatever you were hunting required much bloodshed.
Usually a far lesser number would return. With four Watchmen
already dead and the Marksman almost within trapping distance,
Palaluka was certainly being kept busy.

2

A harsh nudge on
his shoulder brought Stephen out of his dreamless sleep and back
into the chilly night air. With a silent gesture the man that had
awoken him, Jessie, ushered Stephen to the lookout point situated
roughly thirty meters from the camp and to an area that over looked
the valley below them. With aching joints and a numbing headache
Stephen stood, took hold of an already lit piece of wood and some
kindling and slowly walked over to the cold dark rock which doubled
as a chair as well as a look out position. Stephen placed the
kindling onto the dead earth and then lit it with the piece of
flaming wood. Making two trips Stephen constructed himself his own
little fire and hearing Jessie slump down in his once recently
departed bed he too sat upon the rock like the three others before
him and awaited the rising of the sun which signalled the end of
his watch.

Stephen was a
gifted Watchman. Still young at twenty-four but with a wise head on
his shoulders. He could sense many things. See many things that no
normal man could see. Stephen was as close to a Marksman than a
Watchman could get and it irritated him that his tutor had not
allowed him to raise himself to that level. He was an excellent
tracker, as deadly with a gun as any Marksman and as ruthless as
the most bloodthirsty Watchman. Only out upon the mission and
during the hunt could Stephen let his true skills show.

He could smell the
sweet aroma of cooking meat. He guessed that Martin waited for them
to make their move and by the end of tomorrow either the Marksman
would live or he would die. It was in the hands of the Fates and in
their hands any outcome was possible. Stephen knew though, that his
fate would lead him elsewhere, that he would not see the Marksman,
Martin Doyle, ever again.

Stephen scanned
the stars as he thought of his own life and the parts of it he had
missed out on; a wife, lovers, friends, a true home. Above his
resting body the nine daughters flickered wildly; a reminder that
all things go on and that nothing is set in stone. He enjoyed his
life but always knew that he wanted more. He was in a way lost.
Looking for something he didn’t know existed; looking for something
he didn’t even know was owed to him. He yearned for a true calling,
a higher reason being. Answers to unasked and unknown
questions.

A shiver ran down
his back as a soft breeze wrapped itself around him. How the wind
on the Wastelands was like the breath of the dead scared Stephen.
He was not a superstitious man, no Watchman was, but this place
always seemed to bring with it death and sorrow. No story of the
Wastelands was complete without someone getting lost, getting
bitten or slashed or being swallowed up by some ancient demon.

Behind him,
somewhere far off, four bodies were rotting because they too had
fallen to the desert, all of them sucked down into its hot core and
then spat out like seeds from a melon.

Stephen could
still see the monster that had taken them; its massive body made up
of the hot, harsh sand span wildly like a storm. Its head was that
of a raging bull and its eyes seemed to be made up from the fires
of hell. The Watchman had ran, no guns had been drawn however it
engulfed four of them as they deviated from the path, thinking
their own way better than that of their betters. They paid for
their stupidity with their lives. The demon chewed on the skin and
sucked out the souls, blood and bone falling to the hardpan. Then,
without care, the demon beast had spat them back out upon the
Wastelands and as quickly as it had appeared it disappeared leaving
a harsh wind and the foul smell of death upon the air. Never before
had Stephen seen a demon and he lay awake for night after night,
terrified that the demon would return. His fears were still shared
by the remainder of the group for they all knew that sooner rather
than later there was going to be another death.

But Stephen was
about to find out that just because another Watchman had to find
another path that didn’t mean that one of them had to die.

3

The night rolled
on; the chill of the evening desert growing. Stephens’s eyes
focused on the sun rise two hours away and his mind was far from
his station.

‘A Watchman caught
off his guard. The King would be most disappointed.’

Stephen stood and
turned around. The voice had come from a black garbed figure, lost
in the shadows of the rocks and only visible when the light from
the flickering fires illuminated him.

As Stephen spoke
he lowered his right hand toward the gun at his side. ‘Who
dares..?’

The black garbed
man waved his left hand to silence Stephen, ‘No need for such
words, Stephen, Watchman of the King, we are well met on this
chilly night.’

Stephen leaned in
closer recognising the voice behind the shadow, ‘you again,
Sorcerer. Have you not had your fun?’

A hiss of a
chuckle emanated from inside the hood and slowly the Black Sorcerer
approached. ‘For the time, Stephen, call me Samson, for that is my
name after all.’ With that the Sorcerer lowered his hood and
revealed himself. His eyes were wide and white, his skin pale but
red in the fire light; his mouth full of sharpened teeth. ‘Now, let
us sit by the fire, Stephen, and talk of your future.’

The two men sat
around the fire, facing each other, the heat of the fire welcoming,
the glow of the flames glinting in their wide eyes.

‘So what do you
want with me, Samson. Word is you are a traitor and a seducer of
married women?’

The air grew
stale, putrid, as Samson stared at the Watchman.

‘No traitor sat
here, Stephen. No seducer. Do not forget that Martin Doyle killed
me, or tried to anyway. His views are the same as that useless
King. He doesn’t deserve the throne. He cares little for the
people, little for their futures. Our king, or should I say, your
King, is weak. My new King is strong and growing even stronger, he
just needs followers to fulfil his destiny. He wants to grow, he
wants what’s best for all and he shall deliver it. He has never
lied to me.’

Stephen shook his
head. ‘Larnder is a good King. He governs the lands well and the
people love him.’

Samson added a
little more kindling to the fire. ‘He is a murderer, Stephen. He
has killed those that stand in his way and when I say he has
killed, the truth of the matter is that he has gotten you to kill
them for him. And for what?’ Samson put his hand into his pouch and
pulled out three cold coins; a month’s wage for a Watchman. He held
them over the fire. ‘This is all you get Stephen. Coins of gold
that are as fragile as glass.’ The sorcerer closed his hand and
gripped the coins tight. ‘At the end of the day,’ Samson continued
opening his hand and revealing a palm full of dust, ‘gold is
nothing.’ Samson brushed the dust into the fire and wiped his hands
down his black cloak.

Stephen looked
Samson Little straight in the eye. ‘What does your King offer?’

‘Ha! Straight to
the point.

‘I like you,
Stephen. My king was right in choosing you. What does he offer?
Power. Succession. Glory. Those great wars that you dreamt of as a
child and that you yearn for today. I know what you want, I know
you want to be told of in tales. The great Watchman Stephen; his
mighty gun felling all those that stand against what is right. If
you serve him, do as he says when he says it, then you will have it
all Stephen. You will be remembered in tales for time immemorial.
You will be remembered in all the lands and in all the times under
the differing skies above us. There will be deaths, there always
are, but this time they will be for a something tangible, something
real. As the earth you know dies you will be reborn in a new,
brighter future filled with all the things that you want, you only
need to follow me.’

Stephen looked to
the fire.

‘Come now,
Stephen. Look at me. I was like you. But now I control the stars
themselves. Trust me Stephen, the world we are from is dead, it
means nothing. There is far more out there in the unknown lands,
far more. All I ask is that you have faith for your path is
troubled if you do otherwise.’