The Butcher and the Butterfly

By Ian Dyer

Martin Doyle, Marksman of the Crescent Moon and Holder of the Sacred Oath, hunts a man that is already dead; a man that was killed by Martins own archaic weapon. This dead man is known by either of two names: Samson Little or The Black Sorcerer and he is the crooked right hand of the evil that grows, that is spreading, in the distant North. On Martins tail is Stephen and he his deadly, arrogant and hungry for power; Willing to do anything if it suits what he wants, what he needs and he will stop at nothing to get those things.They leave a land that is dying, eroding away through the ravages of time and enter a world both ancient and modern and familiar to us even if it has become twisted, broken - cruel. The travellers will meet Demons, Angels and Witches and shall be tempted into the depraved orbs that seek out lost and weary men. So, come along, turn a page if you will and step into a world not too far from your own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Dyer
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311124371

Ian Dyer

What to write here..... Well I am English, I am in my thirties, a child of the eighties, though I really grew up in the nineties. An inhaler of books from an early age, though my eyes were blinkered so that I only saw the main stream books and not the off piste works that I have come to love. European authors offer so much more, I quickly learned that books don't have to have starts and middles and ends and plots and twists and smoking guns and all that jazz. A good story, well written, is all a book needs. So that's what I try and do. I write what I enjoy, I do not conform to what the people want, what's the point in that? I have learnt that this world in which we live in, this authors world, is hard, unforgiving, and full of negativity. It is full of people telling you to change this and change that, to make it fit into this genre, or to that genre, and to write this type of book for these types of people. If, in the past, writers had undergone that type of scrutiny, then we wouldn't have the likes of Selby, Burroughs, Asimov, Palanuik, Steinbeck and many more. Anyway, that's my bio. Either read my stuff or don't. To me the joy comes from writing, not from reading peoples blinkered approach to what they think writing should be.

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The Butcher and the Butterfly

Ian Dyer

Copy write 2015 Ian Dyer

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. If you enjoyed this e-book then please encourage others to download their own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors work. ©

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are all from the authors mind. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

All that I do, I do for my two everythings: Cheryl and Isabella. Love ya to the moon and back.

Table of Contents

Prologue - Running Into Trouble

The Book of Stephen - Just Follow Orders

Rockfall

Thirsty Birdies

Tiny Clouds For Scurrying Rats

For All Your Sins I love…

The Ones Needing Luck

Your Lives Are Coming To An End

Mashed Up Blackberries

Mid-Point

The Book of Martin - Plans and Propositions

The Hanging Fairies

Nightmares

Play Time

The Butcher and the Butterfly

Hanging By A Thread

Epilogue

Back to Top

Prologue - Running Into Trouble

1

A weary traveller makes his way across the vast hardpan of the Wastelands. Martin is alone, save for the memories of those he loved and lost that he carries under his hat. For two months he has been walking across the Wastelands, for two months he has been on the run – running from trouble but unaware that he was now running into trouble.

On his tail were his hunters; and they were close. Getting closer with each passing hour. Martin had started his journey on horseback, but within a week that horse was dried out and dead to the bones; its body now decorated the bleak rock strewn hardpan being pecked clean by giant vultures. Since then Martin had been on foot, walking through the night, resting during the hottest part of the day. He slept for a few hours, his dreams consisting of one single image – the face of the man he had killed. It would smile back at him, blood dripping from his mouth the eyes full of fire.

During the nights he headed off; following the Great Star to ensure he headed north, stumbling across the desert taking care not to trip, taking care not to die. Recently though, now that the Wastelands were close to claiming another soul, Martin walked during the day and slept during the night. It went against all his training and he knew his old tutor would turn in his grave if he ever found out.

The days were long, starting as the sun heaved itself over the horizon like some giant all seeing eye. It would get hot quick and his skin would burn and his throat would dry. Sips of water weren’t enough but they were all he had. The sun would beat down on him all day, shade was hard to come by but when a group of rocks or the carcass of a tree crossed his path he would take advantage of it. But all the time he was aware that he was being hunted.

Most nights, Martin would set a small fire to keep out the chill and to boil himself some sour coffee. He would face south, watching the dark horizon lit by the high moon for a glimpse, a sign, of the men that stalked him and tonight, when we join him, is no different – except for one thing – he wasn’t alone anymore for on the horizon was the glow of a small fire, much like his own, surrounding it was a huddle of shadows.

2

Martin spat a wad of dusty phlegm onto the dry ground as he watched the shadows on the horizon. He knew who they were and he knew that they would be relentless, they always were and for a trick he understood why – after all, hadn’t he killed one of the greatest men Ritash had ever known?

His hunter’s didn’t know the truth though. If they did they would be on the same journey Martin was undertaking, they too would be heading to the unknown lands of the north, hunting the evil that grows there. An evil that was thought long dead.

Sipping his hot sour coffee he stretched his legs out and leant back against the cool rock he had set his camp to. The ground was hard on his backside, pebbles digging into the soft flesh but he cared little. In a strange way, he liked it; it was a reminder to him that he was still alive. But for how long? He was reaching the end of his time in this hellish place but he feared he wouldn’t make it to the other side. He was tired, his feet ached and throbbed a deep beat. There were blisters upon blisters, hard, dead skin rubbed against soft new skin irritating him with every step. His backpack, emptying with every passing day was becoming heavier on his back, eventually he would strip it from his body leaving it for his hunters to gather up. The worst thing though, his most troubling concern was that tonight’s coffee signalled the last of his water. Before drinking the last drop of sour liquid, Martin raised his wonky tin mug to the sky and tipped it to the fates that played their wicked game.

Martin didn’t sleep that night.

3

He stood as the sun began to rise. He took his water on the dying embers of the fire, zipped the fly to his worn jeans and headed back out. The sky was red this morning, it turned his dirty white shirt a bleak shade of pink, whilst his dusty coat, three quarter length made from bull-leather remained brown and non-descript. The wind non-existent today, much like it always was, the heat growing, much like it always did. Another hot, dry day and Martin took a deep breath as he carved his way across the never ending hardpan. His feet barely left the dirt as he walked, his arms were slumped and his head low shadowing his face and chest. The sweat ran down from his hair, over his eyes and into his mouth. It was salty and his lips narrowed as it soaked into the cuts caused by vitamin deficiencies.

One hour into his day he turned and looked behind him. His hard face, covered in stubble shaded by his old hat, his wide blue eyes scanning the horizon. Unsurprisingly he couldn’t see anything but white washed sky and desert. But what had be expected? His hunters were miles behind and were following the same pattern – sleep in the night, walk during the day. Facing north, off he went again.

The desert was changing. The barren rock strewn hardpan was showing signs of life – long grass and razor grass popped up through the dirt and the occasional cacti stood to attention; their wonky arms pointing in all directions, their spines a deadly hazard. Odd looking lizards would scurry from hole to rock then back again. Scorpions would poke their heads out as they felt the earth shake but would quickly retreat when the sensed the man the footfalls belonged too. On the breeze he could smell life; it belonged to the forest that bordered the Wastelands. Even the horizon was altering, becoming darker as the forest came into view, higher as the hills revealed themselves and fluffy white clouds darted from east to west following the high winds.

Two days was all he needed. Two more days, that’s all he needed to make it out and for a couple of hours he walked a little faster.

But then he fell. Hard. His right boot had scuffed on the ground for the millionth time but this time an errant rock had decided to get in his way and over he went. Dust and pebbles flew and the silence was lifted with a guttural ooof when he hit the floor. His hands broke the fall but their heroics caused cuts and grazes on their hard fragile skin. Martins left leg twisted violently but would be okay. It was his pride that hurt the most and making the most of a crappy situation, Martin decided to stay there a while, lying upon the hardpan, using it as a masochistic mattress.

That was a mistake; he fell asleep.

4

Martin awoke suddenly. Harshly dragged from his sleep. He was still lying on his front and for a moment he was unsure of where he was but the grit tearing at his face and the dust he inhaled with every breath was good enough to remind him of his situation. He coughed, turned his head and tried to breath without taking in any of the Wastelands dirt. When he did he noticed a change in the air. Someone was near, he could smell them – sweat and grease with an undercurrent of alcohol. It was a sickening smell. Martin tried to lift himself up, his aching muscles straining with every movement. He made it halfway up, started to feel better about the situation and then buckled, his arse hitting the hardpan.

‘Fuck it.’ He wheezed, his own voice unfamiliar to him.

He tried once more, looking about him as the smell intensified, but it was no good. Drawing his gun but leaving it concealed he twisted and faced north. He looked across the horizon slowly. It must be midday as the sun was high and the horizon a miasma of heat haze. There was something new out there and it was heading his way; it flickered and danced like a flame refusing to take a form. Mixed with the smell came the clip-clop of hooves and the whine of metal against metal. Martin coughed, reached for his water skin and then sighed as he remembered his water situation. He tried to lick his lips but that was pointless.

Squinting his eyes he continued to try and make out what the hell was coming toward him. What felt like hours went by but it was but mere minutes as Martins mind raced and concerned itself with thoughts of how he would defend himself. He couldn’t stand, he could barely see and to top it off – he couldn’t lift his own gun.

‘What the hell?’ Martin said as the heat haze lifted and the unknown revealed itself.

5

A manky old horse, limping hard on one side, dragged a rickety cart; its wheels whining and its wooden hulk creaking – teasing its passenger with threats of collapse at any point. Its driver was a dishevelled old man who wheezed with every breath as he sucked on a destroyed cigarette. His skin was dirty, tanned like burnt hide and wrinkled almost to the point of ridiculous. He wore a long black coat, beneath that, for all Martin knew, he could be as naked as the day he was born. It was the horse that stunk and as it moved alongside Martin he shifted away. At this height he could make out the ulcers and abscesses that were strewn across the horses body; the occasional maggot popping out to say hello. How this horse wasn’t dead was a miracle to science. The driver twisted the reign slightly and brought the cart – which was full of all kinds of metallic and wooden crap – to a halt.

The driver removed the cigarette from his mouth, coughed up a wad and spat it out upon his broken boot. Placing the cigarette back into his crooked mouth he turned to Martin and looked down; an odd look of amusement upon his face.

His voice was deep, covered in phlegm. ‘Having a spot of trouble there, stranger?’

‘You guessed it.’

‘Looks like ya had a fall.’

Martin smiled and looked at the horse. Of all the people to have met out here in the middle of butt fuck nowhere he had to meet a mad old loon. He didn’t grace him with a response.

The old man coughed and blew out a greenish brown puff of smoke. ‘Where ya headed? Give a lift for a charge.’

‘Headed north, to the forest and then on. How far can ya take me?’

The old loon laughed. ‘Depends on how deep ya pockets are fella,’ he looked Martin up and down, ‘Not that deep, I’d wager.’

Martin considered informing him that you shouldn’t judge a book and all that but didn’t bother. ‘How’s about five copper coins and a pouch of rolling tobacco.’

The loon licked his lips, took a swig of water, which Martin watched intensely, then patted the seat next to him. ‘Come on up, stranger. I can take you to my old place and then fill yer up with enough for at least a month on the road. Best be quick about it though, old Fanny here aint far from turning to glue.’

It was a struggle, but Martin managed to heave himself up using the cart as a leaver. He clambered aboard and tried to ignore the smell of decay. The cart turned and the two men headed off with old Fanny leading the way.

6

It was a bumpy ride, taking up most of the day. The old loon tried in vain to stay away from the rocks and tufts of long grass but it was to no avail. Martin bounced and bumped his arse pummelled by the hard wooden plank. In the back of the cart the metal clanged together like a mad drum and the wood cracked and groaned much like the cart that held it did.

Fanny did well though. She was old, threadbare and underfed but she kept on going. Over steep inclines and down slippery slopes she didn’t stop. It was on one of these steep inclines that the loon pointed to as they reached the top and looked over to the border in the far distance – tress and hills were clearly visible now.

‘There’s the border, lad. A couple of days on foot but nothing compared to what you have been through I’d wager.’

Martin had noticed how cool it had gotten, he was still uncomfortable but he couldn’t deny that the air was better here. There was water near, a lot of it and the smell of decay was sweeter with its inclusion.

‘That there is my place.’ The loon pointed to a small hut below them in the shallow valley. It fitted the man perfectly, twisted and gnarled and as ancient as the gun at his side. Surrounding the hut were piles upon piles of rubbish – metal shards poked out, wooden beams loomed large whilst household furniture and rubbish littered the ground.

‘What is it that you do?’ Martin asked not really wanting to know the answer.

‘This and that. Used to clear out old houses and make money selling on what I got. Guess I stopped selling it.’ He cackled at the sight the detritus surrounding his home. ‘That’s where I got my name from.’

The cart continued on, down the slope and then weaving in and out of the piles of clutter that adorned this part of the desert. Martin was waiting, expecting the old loon to tell him his name. But then he remembered – this old loon wasn’t so straightforward.

‘And what name is that, may I ask?’

‘Rag and Bone Man. They would shout it as I came through town, especially over there beyond the forest in ‘Sands. That was my main hunting ground.’ Rag and Bone Man veered the cart around the side of the hut and brought it to a sudden halt under the overhanging roof. On the side of the building written in decaying white painted letters was Rag and Bone Man – the O of Bone being a skull and crossbones. Behind the hut, Martin could make out the makings of an old stable – it was as gnarled as the hut and full of what once could have been called straw.

‘Well, thank you, Rag and Bone Man, you can call me Martin.’ He held out his hand and the old loon took it and squeezed hard. His grip was impressive for such an old timer. As the grip was released the old loon coughed, it was deep cough that echoed of disease ready to pounce.

When he had finished coughing he said, ‘Please Martin, call me Albert. Bit easier on the old tongue.’ He let go of the reigns and eased himself down from the wagon, Martin followed suit and the two men untied Fanny from her cart and led her into the stables. She drank deep from her water bucket and then slumped to the floor. Albert stroked her twisted mane and she leant into his hand. It was a sweet sight.

‘That’s her for the day. Don’t never go that far out into the desert. Bless her old maggoty self.’

‘She’s a good horse, Albert,’ and then a thought came to Martin, ‘What made you venture out?’

Albert turned to Martin, concern etched upon his face and his hands trembling. ‘A man came to me, months past now, told me that one day, this day in fact - when the sun rose and turned the sky a blood red – that I should venture out. That I would come across a traveller, sat on his arse – exhaustion etched upon his face and I should help that traveller.’

Martin swallowed hard, his spit dragging down his throat which had turned into a cavern of nails and glass. ‘Who was it, Albert?’

Albert screamed with laughter and then moved away from him. Somewhere far off there was the distant sound of thunder. ‘It was the man you killed, Martin. It was the Sorcerer himself.’

7

‘So you know what I am, Albert?’

The two men walked away from the stable and to the front of the hut. ‘Aye. I know what you are, but it makes no odds to me. I just did what I was told and took the coin.’

Martin reached down to his gun as Albert opened the old creaking door. ‘What were you told to do?’

Albert raised his hands above his head which seemed to take some effort. The gun in Martins hands waivered, the muscles twitching hard. ‘What were you told to do?’

The old loon hacked and hacked until he was red in the face but he didn’t move. He waved his hand to gesture for more time as Martin leaned in with the gun.

Finally, when the coughing had stopped Rag and Bone Man said, ‘To bring you here. To bring you here, fatten you up and then to send you off on yer ways.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Aye, that’s it.’

‘If this is a trap, Albert, I will blow your fucking head clean off! Now speak the truth, this is your last chance.’

The old loon laughed and pointed to the hut and then to the piles of old junk that surrounded them. ‘How could old ‘Bert build a trap? Honestly, that was all I was asked to do.’

The old man lowered his hands as Martin lowered, then holstered his gun.

‘I may be a sneak thief from time-t-time, but never a liar. And anyways, I would never lie to a Marksman such as yerself.’

Albert went into this home and flicked a switch. From somewhere behind the hut an old generator kicked in and spark lights came to life lighting up the one room. Cautiously, Martin walked in, slightly knocked back by the scent of whiskey but comfortable in the knowledge that there was no trap. No Sorcerer waiting for him. Martin closed the door behind him, now that the cool night air was beginning to wrap around his feet, and slid his back pack from his body, letting it slump to the floor. He could feel his legs buckling but made sure he remained standing.

‘What else did he say?’

‘Nothing much but I will tell ya, you can be sure of that. Just sit down and relax a whiles whilst I make us a brew. Coffee?’

‘Aye. Black and sour, please.’

Albert shuffled over to the one burner stove and fiddled with it until the flames licked at the dented pan. He grabbed two mugs from a pile of books, blew in them and then cleaned them out with the bottom part of his coat. Martin regretted his decision but he was thirsty. He would ask for water but seeing the state of the place he knew that boiled water was the way forward. Martin slumped in one of the old wooden chairs and breathed out letting his body calm and muscles rest.

The coffee took but a few minutes and Martin didn’t wait for it to cool before drinking it. It was sour, too sour, but he didn’t care. The hut was run down, barely standing, and it stunk, a mirror image of the man that had helped him, but he didn’t care. He asked for another mug, drank that just as quick and gave his thanks.

As he stretched out his legs and untied his boots he looked at the floor and wandered where the hell he was going to rest for the night. He was about to ask when Albert, busying himself by the stove said, ‘You can have the bunk behind me, Marksman. I sleep in with old Fanny. Nights get cold and I aint as pert as I used to be. Need the warmth of that old cunny I do!’ he cackled and it made Martin squirm. He didn’t want to think about it but was grateful for the bed.

‘Coffee, a soft bed and company. Seems like I haven’t had those things for a long, long time.’

Albert wiped his hands on the front of his coat and placed a frying pan on the one ring. ‘Not much company for me, either, except old Fanny and she aint much of a conversationalist. Mostly I stumble about the wares I have collected. I might pop into town to get some bits but I don’t talk to anyone except the butcher. My travelling days are long since gone.’

The meat in the pan started to sizzle and released its aroma. Martins gut rumbled and he began to salivate. He had been eating on his travels but jerky and stone bread weren’t exactly the best travel companions.

‘Smells good.’

‘Always does. But don’t ask what it is. Only know that it smells good and doesn’t taste like fried arsehole.’

8

The two men ate in silence, something both had become used to. Martin considered his future – he had been on the run, fleeing from a murder he had thought was righteous but turned into something darker. But now, with the knowledge that the man – or whatever Samson is now – is still alive his self-absorbed mission isn’t over. Martin would have to carry on, hunting down the Sorcerer – he was too dangerous to be left alive especially if the Wretch King was reborn. Fleeing Martin had believed that in time he would find peace, solace and a place to end his days, but now the hunt continues and he can think of nothing else.

Once finished Albert took the two plates and threw them into the bucket which stood for the sink. He didn’t wash them and Martin guessed that they would never be washed, only reused time and time again until that cancerous cough got the better of him and he hacked up his last breath.

Albert grabbed a bottle that was hidden behind an odd looking metallic machine and two dull glasses that were close by. ‘Saving this bottle for a special occasion. Fancy a swig or four?’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Martin couldn’t remember the last time liquor had passed his lips. Months? Who knew?

‘Grab those old cushions, Martin, we shall drink this like the old desert folk do; under the stars getting pissed as they twinkle at us.’

Martin gathered together some wood and kindling using the light of the moon to guide him. Occasionally he would pick up what he thought were twigs but turned out to be sharp copper wires – some protruding from heavy metal, others twisted around like mad spiders fighting. When he had enough for a good sized fire he knelt next to Albert and began to build.

He built the kindling up like a chimney until it was two hands high. Martin then gathered some razor grass, taking care not to cut himself, and shoved it into the centre of the construct. Fiddling in his pockets he removed some matches and went to light. Albert grabbed his arm and leant in, his free hand holding an odd pencil shaped object.

‘Allow me, Martin.’ Albert flicked a small button on the pencil thing and a small flame instantly sparked from the metallic tip. There was no flint, no sour smell nor did the flame burn a pale orange. It was truly a marvel. Albert smiled, his crooked teeth glinting in the glow of the flame. He touched the flame to the razor grass and the dry weed smoked for a while and then with a familiar popping sound it took to the flame. Within a minute the small chimney construct was aflame and both Martin and Albert added to it.

Albert sat back a bit and grabbed his tobacco pouch from his pocket. ‘Ya smoke, Martin?’

‘Nah, didn’t take to it. Though at times I do regret it.’

Albert hacked and laughed spitting some vile phlegm into the fire. It hissed with anger. He placed the tobacco back into his pocket and produced instead a freshly rolled cigarette which he didn’t light it but placed it into his mouth – this would be the way in which Martin would always remember him. ‘Been doing it since I turned the man’s age. Back then though the weed was different.’

Martin had heard the term man’s age before and knew it to be from day’s long, long past. It wasn’t a term used anymore and represented the dark days; when the earth was becoming new again. It was rude, but Martin had to ask, ‘How old are you, Albert?’

The old loon opened the bottle, the cap resisting for a while until finally giving up with a satisfying crunch and poured some of the reddish brown liquid into the two glasses. It smelt sweet, hot and old.

‘How old!’ Albert croaked, ‘Fuck the days, I have no idea.’ He scratched his ancient chin and downed the drink in one, his mouth narrowing and his nostrils flaring. As he swallowed he cracked his teeth together and sucked in some air, he then gestured to the Marksman to follow suit and Martin did as he was told. The drink was as it had smelt but by far more intense. As he composed himself, letting the heat from the drink lessen in his gut Albert continued.

‘It doesn’t rain out here much. Something stops the clouds as soon as they reach the forest over yonder. But there