The Butcher and the Butterfly

by Ian Dyer

  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.’

  ‘Troubled?’

  Samson waved his hand over the fire revealing the image of Stephen lying dead upon the desert floor. ‘You see, Stephen, to follow those maggots sat over there you will die. To follow me and serve the Wretch King will mean a future with endless possibilities.’

  4

  Stephens mind was a whirl of questions. Why should he follow this new King when all he wants is to rule over all? Why should he believe a known liar? What will happen if he chooses to follow the Wretch King? For if Stephens’s history is correct then the last time the Wretch King tried to rule the lands he was destroyed by the soldiers of Doscro over six hundred years ago. So why should he follow a defeated King and a traitor?

  But a life was in question. His own life and like any other, Stephen preferred to be alive than dead. He looked at the images still flickering in the fire light. A bullet had torn through his side; another had entered his right eye and exploded out through the back of his skull. Looking back out over the ridge and into the blackness he couldn’t see his own killing ground but knew it was there.

  The Black Sorcerer hadn’t lied so far and had nothing to gain in lying now. Stephen looked back on his own life and more important into his future and could see nothing there for him. If he defeated the Marksman then he would return home and to whatever whim the King required of him. If the Marksman laid him to waste then he would be walking the Green Path by lunch tomorrow.

  An hour ago Stephen had been a man loyal, honest and true, but seeing his death, seeing his future lay out in two simple paths had changed all that. This King, this Barnabas; could he be a man to trust? Could he be the one true King the prophets speak of? He could have the answers.

  ‘What am I to do?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Ha!’ The Sorcerer wheezed, ‘Ha! Shall I take it that you are with us?’

  ‘What am I to do?’ Stephen repeated his voice low.

  The Black Sorcerers eyes narrowed; the fire light glinting from his sharp teeth as he grinned.

  ‘Just follow orders, Stephen. Follow his words, and my own, and you will go far.’

  Stephen nodded. ‘What do you wish of me?’

  The Black Sorcerer stood and beckoned his new soldier to do likewise. The man garbed in shadow pointed to the north.

  ‘Rockfall, Stephen, to Rockfall you will walk and once there treasures await you.’

  ‘Speak plainly, Sorcerer, I care little for riddles.’

  Samson laughed and the wind blew fierce. ‘To go further, Stephen, to get what the king wants, you have to go to Rockfall. On the way you shall be told more but until then you must trust in his word.’

  Stephen looked back to the horizon following the finger of the Sorcerer. It would be a hard journey as Rockfall was situated on the far side of this hellish desert. Stephen knew though that, somehow he would get there. But what would arrive at Rockfall? Would it be the Watchman that he was now or would he turn into something like the Sorcerer?

  The Watchman turned to face Samson but there was no one there and in the distance the sun was beginning to rise.

  5

  The Watchman walked alone in a desert filled with death.

  The sun was high and hot, the air putrid. He had been walking for days and not heard a word from either the Sorcerer and it was troubling him.

  At high noon Stephen stopped and hid behind a large rock, the shade cooler if only by a few degrees. He threw his bag of wares to the floor and slumped down. He cared little for food but drank deeply; the water doing little, but helping none the less.

  To Stephens surprise a black figure approached from far off on the horizon. At first he thought it a mirage but as the thin stick figure walked closer it began to take form. What at first Stephen thought were long arms; wings now took shape. Its legs were long, bandy even and its feet looked hooved. Wrapped around this creature’s waist were two arms ending in sharply pointed talons. Its skin was black, burned as if it had been in a fire. The figure wore no clothes and its face was as long as a horses. It had no mouth, no eyes, no nose and it walked upon the hardpan leaving no trail.

  Stephen stood when the figure was twenty paces away.

  ‘Who are you, traveller? Are you a demon come to take me?’

  The creature stopped its featureless face merely pointing in his direction.

  ‘Again I ask, traveller, who are you and what do you want?’

  The black thing, who stood well over eight foot tall, with burnt skin stretched over brittle bones answered; its voice low, gruff; like the Wastelands found a voice and used this being as a tool with which to communicate.

  ‘You have dealt me out so many times, Stephen, follower of the new King; I find it hard to think that you cannot recognise me.’ The things wings flapped and folded behind its back.

  ‘As I have said time and time again, I care little for riddles. Now, traveller, tell me who you are and let me be.’

  ‘You would have met me in another place, Stephen, but that tricksom Sorcerer pushed you onto a different path. I thought I would pay you a visit just to remind you I am still here. I am still a shadow behind your own.’

  Stephen looked to the sky and exhaled in frustration. The figure in front of him laughed a high pitched laughed that whipped the air from Step
hens’s lungs.

  ‘I am Death, Watchman, and I have come to warn you.’

  Now it was Stephens turn to laugh and he did it without care. ‘Tell me of your warning, Death, and be-gone with you. Go trouble another traveller as I care little for your company.’

  The Watchman sat back down and looked up at the Angel of Death.

  Such a man as you Stephen is a rarity in these times. I have seen men like you, hard men, tough men but not for a long time now. Not in many a lifetime of men. You are a rarity on this Earth. So I shall be blunt. You would have died Stephen. You would have died back there, the Marksman’s gun felling you like a great tree. So you can walk on knowing you made the right choice.’

  ‘Well I am happy. Is that all?’

  Death knelt beside the Watchman, its head the same level as Stephens. It smelt of nothing. He had no weight of presence, like a ghost.

  ‘Your soul, Watchman, was one I was particularly looking forward to taking, so now I need a replacement. You see, I have quotas to fill and your soul is worth a thousand to me and to my masters.’

  ‘Well you have a lot to choose from. There are a few more Watchman back there you can help yourself to.’

  ‘Aye, Stephen, you’re right there. But they are nothing compared to you! For your replacement I need something pure, a soul without hate or anger and I want it to be something personal, Watchman. Something personal to you.’

  Stephen picked up a rock and threw it out into the nothing of the Wastelands. ‘I care little for my parents.’

  ‘Then a lover.’ Death looked to the sky. ‘Ahh, not a lover then, a lucky whore. Yes, a whore whom carries your child. She has a fine soul. Two soul’s in fact. Unless of course; you decide upon another path.’

  Stephen had promised to return, to marry the whore and look after the child. It would mean keeping it secret from the Watchman General, but Stephen was good at keeping secrets. But now, with the offer from Samson his feelings for the whore, Claire, were fading. Soon they would be nothing.

  Death saw an opening. ‘You humans are so fickle. You look at love like it is so hard to give but you give it out so freely. I cannot expect you to understand for you haven’t seen what I have seen.’

  ‘What is this other path you speak of, Death?’

  Death stood; his shadow massive on the desert floor. The wind picked up and the sky darkened. ‘Home, Watchman. To go home and care for the child that is carried in your lover’s belly. Not do the damage you are about to do. People will die that are not ready to take the Green Path. You are against the Fates and they are not ones to fuck with.’

  ‘I care not for home, Death, nor the fucking Fates for that matter. My home died when I was a boy. All that I knew and loved is gone. All that I care for now is getting to Rockfall and from there the Gods only know.’

  ‘So be it, Stephen. I only offer it once.’ With that the black figure unfurled its wings and flew into the air.

  Alone again, Stephen headed off toward Rockfall; another part of the man he was left behind to the uncaring winds of the desert.

  Rockfall

  1

  Let me now show you a town going to the dogs. Rockfall aint too big and it aint too small. Rough around the edges and rotten to the core; it is like any desert town on the rim of nowhere. To be born here is to be damned and to die here is a blessing. It has a population between one and five hundred; no one really knows or cares for that matter. As for livestock, they have some horses and some cows but nothing of any merit. Anything that seems of pure stock is sold for the coin; anything born that has the mutant strain is killed and burned.

  The desert wind wraps itself around Rockfall and it brings with it sand and heat, life and death. The buildings have been sandblasted by years of torment and even the dark tar that has been painted on the woodwork is pale, dead, all used up. The mixture of heat, sweat and the creosote gave Rockfall a strange odour; one that the Watchman would never forget. It was a harsh alternative to the smells that he had grown up with; thyme, rosemary, heather. Sadly even they had gone sour like the rest of the world.

  Stephen, now merely posing as a Watchman travels had been hard; tales to be told another day, and this hole would be the start of his new life.

  Walking the raised boards which outlined the main street he headed toward what looked like the only bar in town. The streets were empty; sand whipped through them and the sun shone through gaps in the stores and houses. The urge to scream out ‘hello’ was overwhelming. There was a pressure pushing him down in this place, squeezing him tight and constricting his breathing.

  As he neared the bar he heard two voices coming from inside a store to his direct right. The voices were muted and muffled through the glass and wood and he couldn’t make out what was being said. The store sold, from the objects in the dusty window, some sort of metal goods and ironmongery. The voices grew clear as the door to the store opened and a man stepped out.

  ‘No worries, Clive. I shall find the little pricks that branded yer mule and beat the piss outta them.’

  ‘Brand em too. Little fucktards!’ a voice from inside the store demanded.

  ‘Now, now, Clive…’ the man looked to Stephen and paused and closed the door. ‘Who are you?’

  Stephen outstretched his left hand. ‘Stephen La’ Point, Watchman of the West.’

  The man who had left the store took a step back and laughed. ‘Holy hell. You must be fucking lost to be this far into hell.’

  Stephen smirked but kept his hand outstretched awaiting the shake.

  The man, seemingly pulling himself together quickly placed his hand into the Watchman’s and both men shook hands in the dusty streets of Rockfall.

  As they shook hands Stephen said, ‘and your name, if it does please ya?’

  ‘Oh yeah, John. John Drive.’ The two men stopped shaking hands. ‘Deputy John Drive.’

  Stephen eyes widened. ‘A fellow lawman. My luck must be in.’

  John rubbed his fingers together and placed them by his sides. Stephen knew he wasn’t welcome here and had put this so called Deputy into a situation he had not expected. But he cared little for that.

  ‘Well, Deputy, I’m guessing that up ahead is the only bar in town?’

  John looked behind him and shielded his eyes from the glaring sun. ‘Yep. Travellers Last is probably the only bar in about two hundred miles in all directions.’ John looked back and Stephen could see fear in those baby blue eyes. John continued ‘I take it then that you aint lost and am here on business?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Stephen shrugged, ‘but that conversation is for another time. Right now I need a crap, a bath and a beer.’

  The Deputy smiled, but it was an uncomfortable one. ‘Well, follow me, Watchman of the West, the owner of the Travellers is a personal friend of mine and I shall see that she takes of ya.’

  2

  The two men walked through the batwing doors and into the Travellers Last. It was big inside, larger than Stephen had expected. It wasn’t well adorned and was typical for this area. Dusty with the familiar scent of stale beer and sick. Sawdust crunched under his boots as he headed to the main bar.

  ‘Carry on with the glasses now Susie, it looks like we have a couple of early patrons to deal with.’ The woman’s voice was insanely common, but underneath that common tongue Stephen noted a touch of his own country. An undertone that didn’t shout Hey! I was brought up with a silver spoon up my arse but instead mumbled of tones of a childhood spent bossing slaves about.

  Stephen looked at Cathy, the owner of the bar and noted her lack of attention on him. When her gaze did eventually reach him he was surprised to see that she even managed a smile for him.

  ‘Well, what would it be for ya then, young sires? A drop of the old hot stuff before lunch?’ Cathy pointed to a large bottle placed in front of other large bottles behind her; each with its own branding and oddly coloured liquid inside. Some seemed fresh whilst others were covered by the dusts of time.

  The Deputy scr
atched at his ever growing bald spot and ushered with his eyes at Stephen toward the bar owner. ‘This is Cathy. She runs the local which is also the best place to dine and to sleep. Cathy this is Stephen.’ The two nodded at one another. That was the extent of their greeting.

  Stephen noted the Deputy winking at the blushing owner. The redness of her cheeks opened up the possibility that Cathy had once been a beauty. Her hair, now thin and dark brown had once been long and golden. Her skin, now slightly pale and hanging would have been fresh with the life of the young. Her features were slight, a not too crooked nose and slender mouth brought attention to her big brown eyes that seemed to water for no reason. She wasn’t fat yet but on the same token she wasn’t thin either. Her chest heaved as she spoke and it looked to Stephen, having seen women do this many a many, she forced up her large breast to either lure men or frighten them off. She was still attractive but time was certainly taking its toll. If offered her services, Stephen would have no trouble in accepting them and it looked as though the Deputy; his eyes almost transfixed upon her, was getting some of it already.

  The Deputy continued. ‘She will find you a room for your time here with us and supply you with all ya feeding, drinking and singing. Which I might add; are all excellent.’

  Another early patron some ways to the back of the Travellers snorted with his amusement and Cathy went on tip toes and tilted her head to one side as she went about her daily routine. ‘Shut up, Morrie and fuck off home to your wife. We aint open for another hour yet!’

  Stephens’s eyebrow rose up and a grimace appeared on his face.

  ‘Get used to that my friend. She has wicked looks and an even wickeder tongue, you mark my words.’

  Cathy gave the two men a sarcastic grin and then looked behind her to a doorway leading behind the main bar. ‘For fucks sake Susie, hurry up and get your pert little ass over here behind the bar and get cleaning these fucking glasses, we open in an hour and I aint done half of what I am supposed to do.’