The Butcher and the Butterfly Read Free

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