The Butcher and the Butterfly

by Ian Dyer

  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.

  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 ve
ry 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.