by Ian Dyer
‘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.
‘Come on Marksman. Take the shot. I am here; an open target. I killed that slut of a Queen and pissed on her corpse! Or do you prefer the old days? Would you that I kneel before ya?’ With that the Sorcerer knelt down and placed his hands upon the floor.
Martin’s gun followed the motion but still he didn’t shoot. It didn’t seem right.
‘Lost your nerve, Martin,’ Samson mocked, ‘shame you weren’t so keen to save the life of poor little Dotty.’
Martin pulled the trigger.
3
At first Martin couldn’t understand what had just happened. The weapon had fired right and his aim was true but yet somehow Samson was still there. He fired three more times and this time he could see what was happening; the Sorcerer was somehow palming away the bullets with his right hand. Martin screamed and let fly the final two bullets but still Samson was able to flick them away. Martin continued to pull on the trigger even though he had run out of bullets. He stopped firing as Samson stood and couldn’t believe it when he saw the Sorcerer playing with one of the bullets. Toying with it like a fascinated child holding a gold coin.
Martin was speechless. He silently holstered his gun and sat upon the floor; his hands covering his face the realization and misery of what he had done breaking the dam and drowning him.
Samson effortlessly walked through the iron bars his black cloak unfurling in an unfelt wind. He knelt down in front of the Marksman and placed both hands upon Martins shoulders. His fingers were bony and cold. It was like bei
ng touched by death.
‘You are meant for far greater deeds than you have ever done, Oath Bearer. You but only need to hunt me. That is all I ask.’
The Sorcerer leaned in close and kissed the head of the Marksman.
Martin lunged forward reaching out for the Sorcerers throat. He made contact with something soft and fleshy and then everything went numb and black.
4
Deep underground, deeper than the miners have ever gone, deeper than the old machines had ever dug and in searing heat, Ted, or as we now should address him; the Angel of Death, tried in vain to rip the wings from his charred body. Every time the wing came away from his flesh another grew. Every time he threw himself into the fiery abyss he would simply burn but never die. He was slowly realising that Death had already come for him and now it would never take him back.
The Angel of Death, giving up trying to end his immortal life, looked into the fires and cried. There were no tears running down his blackened face but he wept like he had wept the day his wife had died and would continue to do so until he found the cunt that had put him here.
5
Samson stared blankly at the body of the Marksman. He had brought him here, to the outskirts of Christian Sands, surrounded by meter high rows of corn and watched as he slept a deep dreamless sleep. Even though he had tried to kill him with six bullets and failed miserably, the Marksman; in sheer desperation, hadn’t given up on the effort. He had gotten through Samson’s defences and caught hold of his throat, but Samson smirked as he remembered how powerful he was now.
He patted his would be killer on the shoulder, but the Marksman did not wake. ‘Not today my good man. Not today and maybe you never will. Our King has plans for us and I intend on fulfilling them with you by my side.’
Samson stood and by clicking his fingers he made a small satchel appear by the feet of the Marksman. On top of the satchel was a poorly written note.
Samson spoke to Martin softly, ‘It seems that I am always taking care of you, brother. Always saving you from something or someone, many someone’s from time to time. From when we were knee high to grasshoppers to fearless killing machines I have watched over you. Made sure you were still alive to do another days killing. I have mended broken bones and staunched bleeding wounds and you have done the same. I was given opportunities and have taken them as you will in time. Our journey has had to take this course. You are much stronger than me, thicker skinned. I need you, like that time in that damned village…’
But that tale would have to wait as he remembered his current task and the new Orb under his cloak. Samson chuckled as he ran his fingers around the two orbs hidden beneath his black cloak and within the blink of an eye he vanished into thin air leaving the corn stalks blowing in the breeze and the Marksman sleeping in their protective shadow.
6
Martin had come around a few hours after Samson had left him. The wind blew the corn rows and the brightest of stars twinkled in the early evening dark. After some minutes to regain a semi form of consciousness he had found the letter.
Oath Bearer,
We have come such a long way together; from the old halls to these fields of corn and forever on. Our paths have been as one through the years, sometimes going in opposing directions, sometimes conjoined but always we have yearned for the same destination. It was I that found that destination first and now I hasten you to join me.
You may think we are different Martin, but I can assure you; we are not.
Brothers to the end. Is that not what we say during the Oath? You are my brother Martin and will continue to be so. You may scoff, I know that you are right now as you read these words, but have we not both killed to fulfil our own goals? Think about that. My hands are bloodied for the same reasons yours are; in defence of that what we think is right.
I could go on, but I know that you are going to be a tough nut to crack. It didn’t have to be that way, the wave that pulled me under wasn’t strong enough to take you, but in time I hope that you will see that the world you have come from was fake, full of lies, twisted politicians and an unseen rot.
If you don’t, I can honestly say; you will die. Our new kingdom will not suffer traitors.
I have travelled North, Oath Bearer, to the lands that care not, or know little of what you are or once were. I hope we can shake hands like we once did.
Your friend
Samson Little
Two miles from Christian Sands and heading north, following the Strain, Martin looked to the heavens and thought for a moment about what he should do. He had no home to go to, no friends that would take him in and deny all knowledge of his whereabouts. He had two simple options: carry on north and continue the hunt or simply continue north and find a new home and make some kind of life for him and live out the rest of his days in whatever role the fates saw fit to give him.
It didn’t cross his mind to align himself with Samson. His old lord or a new one still meant being controlled and whatever Martin had done in the past he didn’t want to repeat. Maybe it was time to wash his hands of it, time to let it go and release himself to the whims of the world. He was young but the rot was starting to set in and continuing the hunt would allow the rot to spread and the blood of more innocent people to flow.
As he trundled on, Martin came across an old willow tree overhanging the river and he thought it a good place to rest for the night. Though he had been knocked out what seemed like a hundred times in the last few days he needed to rest; to gather himself for the next part of his journey; whatever that was. North to hunt or north to settle. He drank swiftly from the Strain not liking the muddy taste but drank all the same. As he drank deeper an odd song popped into his head, one about growing up and not wanting too. Some of the words meant nothing to him, they spoke of things called ‘televisions’ and ‘five o-clock news’ but all through the song the words spoke of the fear the boy had of growing up and seeing the dirt of the world. One line kept repeating on him
I’d rather stay here in my room, nothing out there but sad and gloom, I don’t want to live in a big old Tomb. I don’t wanna grow up
The song stayed with him for the rest of the night and when he awoke to the sound of the birds singing in the trees he had made up his mind; he set about cleaning his ancient weapon in preparation for the hunt.
7
Grendle
I am found. Was lost for so long in a dark place I don’t want to remember. But I am found. Free to do what I want again. Free to have someone look after me and give me what I want.
Whoever found me I have taken them all. Nice to eat again but am hungry now. Soon there will be others. I can wait a little while. If they don’t come I will call for them and then they will come running like they used to.
I may be little but I can shout loud. Louder than the thunder in the sky and the demons in Void.
Nothing/Sleep
Two coming to get me. Didn’t need to shout they have come early. One I feel seems tasty, the other feels sour so he can be the one to take me to whoever wants me.
Closer…
Closer……
The tasty one I have taken and I feel much stronger now. The sour one I cannot get even if I wanted to. He has shield around him.
No fair.
I am being lifted up now. I am awake but there is nothing to eat. No one to take, no one to eat up and spit out. I cannot speak to this thing that has me. I keep on trying but he is not of this world.
I am moving fast from where I was left. Not lost. I was left there by my previous master. Left there because I was jealous of what I gave him.
Nothing/Sleep
I have been in one place for a while now. The thing left me somewhere and I was given people to eat but now I am full and I want to have a master so that I can feel loved again. Been so long since I was loved, since a person cared for me and I could care for them.
Wait, I can feel someone. Two. Three. Four people. One of them is the thing. He has bought me more food but I d
on’t want it.
The three are left in the place I was in and now I am being taken somewhere else.
I can feel the soul of someone. He is a big man. Stronger than me but he needs me like I need him.
He seems nervous of me. Not scared like all the others. I shall tell him. I shall speak to him so that he knows I means him no harm. I am full of food; I want to help now because help is what I do. I help so that I am loved. I am Grendle the Green and Grendle the Green needs a master. Be my master I asks him, be my master and you can have whatever it is that you want……………
8
‘You can be my master. You can have what you want. I am full, master and I need no more food until I am loved and can give you what you want. Grendle the Green is yours and you are my master and I love ya for it.’
Barnabas sat in his massive thrown with the green orb known as Grendle in his right hand. Even though the ball was featureless he knew that inside the cloudy green was a young woman waiting to be loved. He could feel her looking at him even though she couldn’t see. Grendle was the youngest of the sisters tricked inside the Orbs thousands of years ago and she has remained that young, that innocent for all that time.
For hundreds of years she has been dormant, locked away in a room where no man dared go. But his men had dared and they had found the Orb with no effort. Souls had been lost but Barnabas cared little for them or little for how many others may be lost in the coming months. He had Grendle and even though Samson had Arda and the witch had Petra he was getting closer all the time to his goal.
‘I will give you all you need to feel love, Grendle, for I will love you for all time. If you give me what I want then you shall always be loved.’
The ball of green pulsed in acceptance and anticipation. His hand holding the Orb stroked the glass and he knew she was starting to feel happier. He could feel it. Somewhere at the back of his rotten mind he could feel her squeezing her way in.
‘Can you still contact your sisters, Grendle?’ Barnabas whispered.
