The Butcher and the Butterfly (33 page)

‘Leave him
alone.’

‘I can’t. I have
been hungry for too long. I must have him.’

Ted felt a strong
tug upon his body as white light filled his vision and forced the
screaming voice from his head. In an instant his mind was clear and
in the corner of the room, by the old chair, the orb was dull and
quiet.

25

‘Well if I can’t
have him then I shall have to have you Marksman. I don’t need some
foolish little cunt to do the work for me.’

Martin could once
again feel the sexual desires of the bitch orb scratching at his
skin. The thoughts filled his mind with visions only seen in the
darkest of whore houses and in the minds of deviants. Varula had
now taken form in his mind’s eye; tall with dark hair blowing in
the wind and eyes a deep radiant green.

‘Come on,
Marksman. How long has it been? Too long I’d wager. Far too long.
Let it go. Whatever it is you want it can wait. Just a little fuck,
that’s I all want. I promise I will be gentle.’

Martin could see
Ted looking at him with concerned, scared eyes. He was still afraid
for his daughter but there was no need to be. Not until the orb had
had her fill would she seek a woman’s touch. It was men she was
after.

‘Take your
daughter upstairs, Ted. Stay there until I have dealt with this
cunny bitch.’

‘That’s right,
Ted. Off you go.’ Varula was addressing the room now, her singular
obsession, her mind games all forgotten in desperation.

Ted seemed
oblivious to the order from the Marksman and he remained sat on the
floor holding his weeping daughter.

‘Ted!’ the
Marksman snapped, ‘Take your daughter and get the fuck upstairs.
Now!’

The farmer snapped
out of the temporary fugue he was in and slowly rose to his feet.
All the while he watched the orb. Not until he felt the strong grip
of his daughter upon his weary shoulders did he turn his attention
to Dotty. Struggling, he helped Dotty to her feet. As he turned to
leave there came a terrible thrumming noise from outside. It
sounded as if a thousand horses were stampeding across the fields.
It was getting loader and loader and Ted struggled to think let
alone hold onto his heavy set daughters whose cries where getting
just as loud.

Both men looked at
each other and had the same idea.

Flee!

An object smashed
through the front windows. The three of them barely had enough time
to cover their faces as shards of glass and fragments of wood
engulfed them. Bits of brick and mortar landed around them and the
floor creaked under a great pressure. The force of the impact threw
them back and onto their backsides; only Dotty remained on her feet
and the Marksman wondered what on this earth, except for a bullet
of course, would it take to fell this woman?

Shaking the glass
and wood from his hair the Marksman looked up to whatever it was
that had smashed through the window and was now taking an interest
in the lifeless body that lay on the floor. He wasn’t surprised to
see the Angel of Death, his charred body in all its glory hunched
slightly under the low ceiling, its wings tearing through chair
fabric and its stench all around him.

The angel turned
to face the Marksman caring little for the two others in the
room.

‘You have been
busy, Marksman and it looks as though you have found what others
have not been able to.’

‘More like it
found me.’ Martin stood and brushed himself of.

There was a loud
thud and small moan. ‘What the hell is going on!?’ Ted said from
the back of the room. Martin turned to find Dotty laying on the
floor; unconscious, whilst Ted stood over her staring at the
monster in front of him.

‘What the
hell…’

‘Enough.’ It was
Death who finished the sentence and with a wave of his hand Ted
fell and lay on the floor next to his daughter.

The room was
growing hot and sticky and rancid. It reminded Martin of the old
decaying Asylum back in Ritash; a hellish hole filled with the
lowest of the lows left to rot in their own filth and depravity.
Pointing to the orb he said,

‘I have fulfilled
my part of the deal, Death. Varula is all yours.’

‘No I’m not. I’m
nobodies, especially that stinking pile of bones and charred
flesh.’

‘Silence whore. We
have heard enough from you tonight and you have played enough
tricks.’

And so the orb
fell silent, though the ball pulsed with light.

‘And all was dark
and the Man God said ‘Let there be light’ and there was light.’
Remarked Ted without realising.

‘I thank you
Marksman. You have no idea what this means for me.’

Ted holstered his
gun and scanned the room. Two unconscious strangers, a dead boy and
somewhere back over the fields another man lay in the road covered
in his own piss and blood. ‘Your thanks mean nothing. If that is
all, I shall continue my search for the Sorcerer. Take the orb and
let no man gaze upon it until we are all but dust.’

Death turned his
featureless face toward the Marksman. This close and with no
background noise Ted could hear the charred skin crushing against
itself and under that noise the sound of bone against bone. It made
his skin crawl and his teeth grind.

‘Sadly, Marksman,
I need one more favour. Just a trifle one really. I would have been
able to use this boy but it has moved on from here.’

‘What do you mean?
I told you I don’t do riddles.’ Ted coughed, holding back his gag
reflex as the scent of Death bore deeper into his lungs.

‘I am tired of
this life. I want to be human again. That bitch over there, when
the world was young, saved me from a life best forgotten and never
retold, because I saved her. Now it’s time for her to give this
life to another so that I may be free to walk the earth as a man
again and in time; die as a man should die.’

Ted looked at the
body on the floor. ‘You were going to use the boy?’

‘Yes. But that
draw of yours, coupled with that temper, were far too quick for me.
I thought I had more time. Its soul has gone and is now nothing but
an empty sack of skin. As useless in death as he was in life.’

‘Then what is it
you want? Another? What do you want me to do? Walk into town and
offer it up as a prize?’

‘Always dramatic,
Marksman, always wanting to have the final word before you deal the
death blow.’ Death walked across the room caring not for the glass
beneath his feet nor the obstacles in his way.

‘It’s simple
really,’ Death continued and he pointed to the two unconscious
bodies on the floor, ‘He will do.’

Martin’s eyes grew
wide and he shook his head with disbelief.

‘What do you care,
Marksman?’

‘Only that you
expect me to kill that poor bastard and leave his retarded daughter
to fend for herself. That isn’t a favour, it’s a fucking
nightmare.’

The air in the
room became thicker, tense and still. The temperature started to
rise and the stench became almost unbearable causing the Marksman
to cover his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his travel worn
coat.

‘You know the
truth as well as me, Martin. You know that I cannot kill.’ Death
uncoiled his wings and stood upright stretching his arms out wide
engulfing the room in thick black smoke. ‘But I can make your life
a living fucking nightmare if you don’t do this for me!’

The Marksman
collapsed in a heap on the floor as the black smoke filled his
lungs. He struggled to breathe and could feel his vision start to
fade. The pain of the burnt uncovered skin hadn’t started to
register yet but it was only a matter of time.

‘I can keep this
up for an eternity, Martin.’ Death mocked.

It was like being
back in the Wastelands but a hundred times worse. Every minute here
was another minute that the cunt Samson was free to run. For the
sake of the rest he had to kill another innocent. Martin realised
that he had to kill, again and again and would keep on killing
until he found the Sorcerer and rid the world of him and whatever
foulness he was helping. The boy had been the first innocent but
not the last Martin realised all too quickly and that kill hadn’t
come with any second thoughts. Why should these one be any
different?

The thick black
smoke, the heat and the burnt skin disappeared within a heartbeat
as Martin reached down and drew the ancient weapon.

26

‘To the heart if
it does please ya, Marksman.’ Death requested.

‘Fuck you. We are
done. But what of the girl?’ Martin’s voice was cold and
distant.

‘Then end it. She
will be with her mother. She will be the butterfly as she has
always wanted to be.’

‘Fine.’

Two shots echoed
through the house and out into the valley.

Martin turned to
Death as he holstered his gun and spat out a wad of phlegm. ‘In the
long run we are all dead. Are we done?’

Death picked up
Varula and placed a charred hand upon the lifeless body of Ted.
‘Not all die when they are supposed to, Marksman, some live on
until the right man comes along and puts an end to their
immortality. For now though, we are done and this is something that
you don’t want to see.’

Without a passing
glance or a wave of a magic hand, Martin, once Marksman of the
Crescent Moon and Holder of the Sacred Oath lost consciousness and
slumped down into the soft embrace of Thatcham’s sofa.

Hanging by a Thread

1

Martin awoke to a
thumping headache, an aching back and a searing pain emanating from
the muscles in his arms. His wet, tired eyes blinked open and shut
as he tried to gain focus on where he was. The suns glare was all
about him making it harder to gain focus and he tried to rub them.
He was reminded of being at the beach as a child; the heat of the
sun on his skin and the soft waves washing against his feet. As a
child he used to stand in the water his arms outstretched trying to
grab hold of the horizon. But he never could.

Mirroring the
image of himself as a child he tried to move his arms. They moved a
few inches and then refused to go anywhere. He tried again and
still no joy. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of
metal clanging together. Trying to move his arms again he had a
sudden realisation; it wasn’t that he couldn’t move his own arms,
they were being kept in place by something other than tiredness.
Scrunching his eyes lids tight he took in a deep breath and slowly
reopened them.

The iron bars
stood to attention in front of him and the single bunk to his right
was all too familiar from his time spent on the road. But this time
it seemed as though he was on the other side of the bars. Looking
to his left and then to his right he could now see why he couldn’t
move his arms; they were each handcuffed individually to chains
hanging from the wooden ceiling. He was strung up like the Man God
himself.

Chuckling to
himself he kicked at the floor. How the hell did he get here? He
had vague memories of shooting old man Thatcham; running across
fields and rutted roads. Speaking to a man, though the name escaped
him now. He had a daughter though. But she was…

‘Dead.’ Said an
all too familiar voice hissing from an all too familiar mouth
attached to an all too familiar man stood on the other side of the
bars.

2

‘Dead as a
doornail, my dear fellow, and by your hand by all accounts.’ Samson
shook an unhappy finger in Martins direction. ‘Tut tut, Marksman.
You have been naughty.’

The images of the
boy, Dotty and Ted swamped Martin. He had killed them all. But now
he remembered why.

‘They were a means
to an end, traitor.’

Samson howled with
laughter and threw his head back. Beneath his cloak a dark red glow
oozed out, but the glow wasn’t alone.

‘Look at what you
have become my dear fellow. A Marksman killing innocents all in the
name of catching, and then no doubt, killing a traitor. What would
the King say?’

A harsh cry of a
circling raven blew in through the barred window of the prison and
when the room fell silent the two men locked eyes.

‘Enough of this.
Enough of these games and doing this for that and that for this.
Just one shot, traitor. Just one shot is all I need.’ Martin pulled
on the two chains holding him up but it was to no avail and he
kicked out at the ground again causing sand and dust to fly out
toward Samson.

The Sorcerer
chuckled and narrowed his eyes.

‘No gun and strung
up like the Man God himself, seems as though you are clear out of
luck, Martin.’ The Sorcerer scratched at his chin and when he spoke
there was an air of sarcasm mixed in. ‘But I am a fair fellow.
Here, let me help you.’

The sorcerer wave
what seemed like an uncaring hand at Martin and instantly the
handcuffs opened and the once Marksman fell to his knees. Martin
coughed as fresh dust flew up into his face and he grimaced as the
pain from his knees and arms coursed through his body. Blowing snot
from his nose he stood, stretched his back out and looked once
again at them man he hunted.

‘Still not an even
fight wizard. I am weapon-less, though the thought of beating the
piss out of you does fill me with a sense of glee.’

Samson stood back
and Martin watched as the Sorcerers eyes focused on the ground
between the Marksman’s dusty feet.

His gun was
miraculously there.

As he lifted the
weapon he could tell by the weight that it was loaded.

Samson
outstretched his arms and his mouth contorted into a fierce
smile.

‘Go ahead, oh
ancient killer. Strike me down.’

Martin cocked the
gun and pointed its barrel at the Sorcerer. Martin’s finger
scratched the trigger but he didn’t pull. He licked his lips and
swallowed hard; his throat now a tunnel of nails and sand.